Qui legis Oedipoden caligantemque Thyesten,

Colchidas et Scyllas, quid nisi monstra legis?

Quid tibi raptus Hylas, quid Parthenopaeus et Attis,

Quid tibi dormitor proderit Endymion?

Exutusve puer pinnis labentibus? aut qui

Odit amatrices Hermaphroditus aquas?

Quid te vana iuvant miserae ludibria chartae?

Hoc lege, quod possit dicere vita ‘Meum est.’

Non hic Centauros, non Gorgonas Harpyiasque

Invenies: hominem pagina nostra sapit.

Sed non vis, Mamurra, tuos cognoscere mores

Nec te scire: legas Aetia Callimachi.

You who read about Oedipus and Thyestes in the dark and the women of Colchis and Scyllas, what do you read except monstrosities? What good will ravished Hylas be to you, or Parthenopaeus and Attis, or Endymion, he who sleeps? Or the boy stripped of his wings that drop, or Hermaphroditus who hates the amorous waters? Why do the empty pretences of a wretched page please you? Read this, about which life is able to say ‘It's mine.’ Here you will not find Centaurs or Gorgons or Harpies: my page knows people. But, Mamurra, you do not want to know yourself or your own behaviour: you should read Callimachus'