Paper, I would like you say to that sweet poet, my comrade, Caecilius, that he come to Verona, quitting New Comum's city-walls and Larius' shore; for I want him to receive certain thoughts from a friend of his and mine. Therefore, if he is wise, he'll devour the way, although a bright-hued girl a thousand times calls him back when he goes, and flinging both arms around his neck asks him to delay—she who now, if truth is reported to me, is undone with immoderate love of him. For, since the time she read the beginning of his , flames have been devouring the innermost marrow of the poor little girl. I forgive you, girl, more learned than the Sapphic muse: for charmingly has the Great Mother been begun by Caecilius.