It is ill, Cornificius, with your Catullus, it is ill, by Hercules, and most unbearably; and greater, greater ill, each day and hour! And you, what solace do you give, even the tiniest, the lightest, by your words? I'm angry with you. Is my love worth this? Yet one little message would cheer me, though more full of sadness than the tears of Simonides.

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.

What ill-set mind, poor little Ravidus, thrusts you headlong at my iambics? What god, none advocate of good for you, stirs you to a senseless quarrel? That you may be in the people's mouth? What do you want? Do you want to be famous, no matter in what way? You will be, but by our long-drawn vengeance, since you wanted to love my lover.

Ameana, a love-worn girl, asks me for a whole ten thousand, that girl with an ugly little nose, wench of the bankrupt Formian. You near of kin in whose care the girl is, summon both friends and doctors: for the girl is not sane, and is not accustomed to ask her mirror how she looks.