Portavi lacrimis madidus te, nostra catella,
quod feci lustris laetior ante tribus.
ergo mihi, Patrice, iam non dabis oscula mille
nec poteris collo grata cubare meo.
tristis marmorea posui te sede merentem
et iunxi semper Manibus ipse meis,
moribus argutis hominem simulare paratam;
perdidimus quales, hei mihi, delicias!
tu dulcis, Patrice, nostras attingere mensas
consueras, gremio poscere blanda cibos,
lambere tu calicem lingua rapiente solebas
quem tibi saepe meae sustinuere manus,
accipere et lassum cauda gaudente frequenter . . .
Bedewed with tears I have carried you, our little dog, as in happier circumstances I did fifteen years ago. So now, Patrice, you will no longer give me a thousand kisses, nor will you be able to lie affectionately round my neck. You were a good dog, and in sorrow I have placed you in a marble tomb, and I have united you forever to myself when I die. You readily matched a human with your clever ways; alas, what a pet we have lost! You, sweet Patrice, were in the habit of joining us at table and fawningly asking for food in our lap, you were accustomed to lick with your gready tongue the cup which my hands often held for you and regularly to welcome your tired master with wagging tail . . . (tr. Edward Courtney)