Egnatius, who has shiny, white teeth, grins forever everywhere. If he is in court, when counsel excites tears, he grins. If he be at funeral pyre where one mourns a son devoted, where a bereft mother's tears stream for her only son, he grins. Whatever it may be, wherever he is, whatever may happen, he grins. Such an ill habit has he—neither in good taste, I suppose, nor refined. Therefore take note from me, my good Egnatius. Whether you are from the city or Sabine or Tiburtine, or a thrifty Umbrian or a fat Etruscan, or a dark, toothy Lanuvian, or Transpadine (to touch upon my own folk also), or whoever of those who cleanly wash their teeth, still I wish you wouldn't grin forever everywhere; for nothing is more senseless than senseless giggling. Now you're a Celtiberian: and in the Celtiberian land early in the morning they piss and scrub their teeth and pinky gums with it, so that the higher the polish on your teeth, the more it proclaims that you have drunk your piss.