Book IV, Epigram 19 (Ker)

This shaggy nursling of a weaver on the Seine, a barbarian garb that has a Spartan name, a thing uncouth, but not to be despised in cold December — we send you as a gift, a foreign endromis, whether you rub the sticky ointment, or catch oft the warming hand-ball, or snatch the scrimmage-ball amid the dust, or bandy to and fro the feather weight of the flaccid bladder-ball, or strive to outrun in the race the light-footed Athas; that searching cold may not pass into your moist limbs, or Iris overwhelm you with a sudden shower. You will laugh at winds and rains, clad in this gift. In Tyrian muslin you will not be so secure.