Book I, Epigram 41 (Ker)

A wit, Caecilius, you fancy yourself. You are none, believe me. What then? A buffoon. You are just like the tramping hawker from beyond the Tiber who exchanges pale sulphur matches for broken glass; like him, who sells to the idle ring warm pease-pudding; like the keeper and owner of vipers; like the cheap slaves of the saltsellers; like the pieman, who bawls as he carries round in his warm pans smoking sausages; like a second-rate street poet; like the lewd dance-master from Gades; like the chaps of an old foul-mouthed debauchee. Wherefore cease to fancy yourself to be what you alone, Caecilius, fancy yourself, one who could surpass in wit Gabba, and even Tettius Caballus himself. Not to everyone is given a critic's nose. He who jests with a pointless impudence, is no Tettius, but a dull hack.