O you who are the little flower of Juventian race, not only of these now living, but of those that were before and also of those that will be in the coming years, I'd rather that you had given the wealth of Midas to that man who owns neither a slave nor coffer, than that you should suffer yourself to be loved by him. "What?" you ask. "Isn't he a fine looking man?" He is; but this fine looking man has neither a slave nor coffer. Slight and make light of this as you please: nevertheless, he has neither a slave nor coffer.

Thallus you sodomite, softer than rabbit's fur, or goose's marrow, or an ear lobe, or an old man's drooping penis, and the cobwebs there; again Thallus greedier than the driving storm, when †the ram shows them off their guard†, give me back my mantle which you have swooped down upon, and the Saetaban napkin and Thynian tablets which, idiot, you openly parade as though they were heirlooms. Now unglue these from your nails and return them, lest the stinging scourge shamefully score your downy little butt and delicate little hands, and you unaccustomedly heave and toss like a tiny boat surprised on the vast sea by a raging storm.