Book XIV, 1 (Ker)

While the knight and My Lord the Senator rejoice in dinner-dress, while wearing freedom's cap beseems our Jove, and the home-bred slave, as he shakes the dice-box, does not fear to look the Aedile in the face, when he sees the cold tanks so near, receive these lots, gifts of rich and poor alternate; let everyone give his own guest his proper prize. "They are worthless and gira-cracks, or anything still meanei", if possible." Who does not know it? Or who denies what is so plain? But what else am I to do, Saturn, on the unsober days your son himself gave you in exchange for Heaven? Do you wish me to write of Thebes, or Troy, or guilty Mycenae? "Play with nuts," you say. I don't want to lose my nuts.