O, Homestead of ours, whether Sabine or Tiburtine (for people in whose heart it is not to wound Catullus declare you Tiburtine, but those in whose heart it is, will wager anything you're Sabine) but whether Sabine or more truly Tiburtine, I was glad to be within your rural country-home, and to cast off an ill cough from my chest, which—not unearned—my belly granted me, for grasping after luxurious meals. For, while I want to be Sestius' guest, I read his defence against the plaintiff Antius, crammed with venom and pestilence. Hence a chill heavy rheum and fitful cough shook me continually until I fled to your asylum, and brought me back to health with rest and nettle-broth. Therefore, refreshed, I give you utmost thanks, that you have not avenged my fault. Nor do I pray now for anything but that, if I should retake Sestius' abominable script, its chill may bring a cold and cough to Sestius himself; and he invites me [to dinner] whenever I read one of his bad books.