1It is now three days since I heard Sentius Augurinus giving a reading, with the greatest pleasure on my part, indeed even with admiration. 1He calls them 'little poems'. 1Much is fine-spun, much lofty, much graceful, much tender, much sweet, much full of bile. 2For several years, I think, nothing of the same kind has been written more perfectly, unless perhaps I am misled either by my affection for him or by the fact that he has extolled me myself with praises. 3For he took as his theme the fact that I sometimes amuse myself with verse. 3Indeed I shall make you the judge of my judgement, if the second line of this very piece comes back to me; 3for I have the rest and have already recalled them.
4'I sing songs in little verses, those in which once my Catullus sang, and Calvus, and the poets of old. 4But what is that to me? 4Pliny alone is all my forerunners to me: leaving the forum, he prefers little verses, and seeks something to love, and thinks himself loved. 4Oh, that Pliny, that man worth how many Catos! 4Go now, whoever you are who love, and refuse to love.' 4You see how sharp it all is, how apt, how well expressed. 5To match this taste I promise you the whole book, which I shall present to you as soon as he has published it. 5Meanwhile, love the young man and congratulate our times on such a talent, which he adorns with his character.
5He lives with Spurinna, he lives with Antoninus, being related to the one by marriage and a close companion of both. 6You can infer from this how faultless a young man he is, who is loved like this by most serious old men. 6For this saying is very true: 'knowing that a man is like those whose company he enjoys.' 6Farewell.