Vere rosa, autumno pomis, aestate frequentor
spicis; una mihi est horrida pestis hiemps.
Nam frigus metuo et vereor, ne ligneus ignem
hic deus ignavis praebeat agricolis.
Roses in spring in the autumn fruits and in summer they bring me
Wheat-ears, while to my mind winter is horrible pest;
For that the cold I dread lest I being god made of timber
End me as fuel for fire chopped by those ignorant boors.
In spring I am worshipped with roses, in autumn with apples, in summer with corn-wreaths, but winter is one horrid pestilence for me. For I fear the cold, and am apprehensive lest I, a wooden god, should in that season afford a fire for ignorant yokels.