§8.1Rogare longo putidam te saeculo, §8.2viris quid enervet meas, §8.3cum sit tibi dens ater et rugis vetus §8.4frontem senectus exaret §8.5hietque turpis inter aridas natis §8.6podex velut crudae bovis.
That you, rotten from a long lifetime, should ask what it is that unnerves my strength, when you have a black tooth, and old age with wrinkles plows up your forehead, and a hideous anus gapes between your withered buttocks like that of a sick cow!
§8.7sed incitat me pectus et mammae putres §8.8equina quales ubera §8.9venterque mollis et femur tumentibus §8.10exile suris additum.
But what excites me (with disgust) is your breast, and your rotten tits like horse's udders, and your flabby belly, and your skinny thigh attached to swollen calves.
§8.11esto beata, funus atque imagines §8.12ducant triumphales tuom §8.13nec sit marita, quae rotundioribus §8.14onusta bacis ambulet.
Be rich, if you will; let triumphal images lead your funeral procession, and let there be no married woman who walks about laden with rounder pearls.
What of the fact that Stoic booklets love to lie among silken cushions?
Does an unlettered muscle stiffen any less, or does the member languish any less because of that?