At last the natal odious morn draws nigh,
When to your cold, cold villa I must go;
There, far, too far from my Cerinthus sigh:
Oh why, Messala! will you plague me so?

Let studious mortals prize the silvan scene;
And ancient maidens hide them in the shade;
Green trees perpetually give me the spleen;
For crowds, for joy, for Rome, Sulpicia's made;

Your too officious kindness gives me pain.
How fall the hailstones! hark! how howls the wind!
Then know, to grace your birth-day should I deign,
My soul, my all, I leave at Rome behind.