An thou become its guest, warm will be thy gratitude towards him that built this bath and set it by the side of this long dusty road.
XIII. (LXXIX.)
To a gouty Critic.
Canst thou talk of feet? Dost blame my verses and criticize my lines, thou whose own feet are so weak? This couplet, you say, will scarcely stand: the scansion is shaky. Dear friend, a gouty man thinks nothing at all can stand.
XIV. (LXXXII.)
To thank Maximus for a Gift of Honey.
Thou dost ever send me sweet gifts, Maximus; ’tis honey whatsoever thou sendest, methinks.
XV. (LXXXIX.)
The Poor Lover.
Biting poverty and cruel Cupid are my foes. Hunger I can endure; love I cannot.