Not treasured wealth, nor the consul's lictor, can dispel the mind's bitter conflicts and the cares that flit, like bats, about your fretted roofs.
Let your poem be kept nine years.
The snow has at last melted, the fields regain their herbage, and the trees their leaves.
Naked I seek the camp of those who desire nothing.
There are words and accents by which this grief can be assuaged, and the disease in a great measure removed.
The ear of the bridled horse is in the mouth.