Book XII, Epigram 56 (Ker)

You are ill in a single year ten times, or oftener, Petilian domain whose ground floor looks down on the hill tops, and where you have country in the town, and a Roman for your vine-dresser — not on Falernian hills is there a greater crop — and within your boundary a broad drive for your curricle, and unfathomed depths of ' slumber, and a stillness broken by no tongues, and no daylight unless you let it in. As for me, the laughter of the passing throng wakes me, and Rome is at my bed's head. Whenever, worn out with worry, I wish to sleep, I go to my villa.