Now spring brings back mild breezes without cold, now heaven's equinoctial fury falls silent at Zephyr's pleasant breezes. Let the Phrygian meadows be left behind, Catullus, and the teeming fields of sun-scorched Nicaea: let us fly to the glorious cities of Asia. Now my palpitating soul longs to wander, now happy in their zeal my feet grow strong. O sweet band of comrades, fare you well, whom various roads in different directions carry back all at once setting out far from home.

Porcius and Socration, the two left hands of Piso, scurf and hunger of the world, has that verpus Priapus placed you before my Veraniolus and Fabullus? Do you spend the day luxuriously in expensive feasts? Do my comrades seek out dinner invitations the cross-roads?