Now soft cloaks are thrown away,
Every one clasps on his breastplate,
And binds his greaves around his legs,
No one for snow-white slippers cares;
Now you may see the cottabus staff
Thrown carelessly among the chaff;
The manes hears no falling drops;
And you the πλάστιγξ sad may see
Thrown on the dunghill at the garden door.
And Achæus, in his Linus, speaking of the Satyrs, says—