XCII
Lesbia always speaks ill of me, and is always talking of me. May I perish if Lesbia does not love me. By what token? because it is just the same with me. I am perpetually crying out upon her, but may I perish if I do not love her.
XCIII
I have no very great desire to make myself agreeable to you, Caesar, nor to know whether your complexion is light or dark.
XCV
My friend Cinna's Smyrna, published at last nine harvest-tides and nine winters after it was begun, whilst Hortensius [has brought out] five hundred thousand [verses] in one [year]
- * * *
Smyrna will travel as far away as the deep-5 channeled streams of Satrachus. But the Annals of Volusius will die by the river Padua where they were born, and will often furnish a loose wrapper for mackerels. Let the modest memorials of my friend be dear to me, and let the vulgar rejoice in their10 windy Antimachus.
XCVI
If the silent grave can receive any pleasure, or sweetness at all from our grief, Calvus, the grief and regret with which we renew our old loves, and weep for long lost friendships, surely Ouintilia feels5 less sorrow for her too early death, than pleasure from your love.
18—2
