Once you used to say you knew only Catullus, Lesbia, that you would not hold Jove before me. I loved you then, not only as a fellow his mistress, but as a father loves his own sons and sons-in-law. Now I do know you: so if I burn at greater cost, you are nevertheless to me far viler and of lighter thought. How can this be? you ask. Because such wrongs drive a lover to love the more, but less to respect.

Cease to wish you well deserve anything from anyone, or to think anyone can become pious. All things are unpleasant, it is of no avail to have done deeds of kindness, but rather it wearies me, wearies me and proves the greater ill: so with me, whom no one oppresses more heavily nor more bitterly than he who a little while ago held me his one and only friend.

Gellius had heard that his uncle used to scold anyone who spoke of or practised the delights of love. That this should not happen to him, he kneaded deeply his uncle's wife herself, and turned his uncle into a Harpocrates. He did whatever he wanted; for now, even if he boned his uncle, the uncle wouldn't say a word.

Now is my mind brought down to this point, my Lesbia, by your fault, and has so lost itself by its devotion, that now it cannot wish you well, were you to become most perfect, nor can it cease to love you, whatever you do.