(Written around the same time, in response to another letter that is now lost.)
(Written about the same time, in reply to another letter now lost.)
I don't enjoy being mocked about Tiberina, its mud, and its winters, my friend—you who are so free from mud, who walk on tiptoe and trample the plains. You have wings, are carried aloft, and fly like the arrows of Abaris, so that even though you are a Cappadocian, you may escape from Cappadocia. Have we wronged you simply because while you are pale, breathing heavily, and measuring the sun, we are well-fed, comfortable, and not cramped for space? Yet that is your situation. You live in luxury and wealth, and go to the marketplace. I don't approve of this. So either stop criticizing us for our mud (since you didn't build your city any more than we created our winter), or in exchange for our mud we will bring up against you your street vendors and all the other annoying problems that plague cities.
I do not like being joked about Tiberina and its mud and its winters, O my friend, who are so free from mud, and who walk on tiptoe, and trample on the plains. You who have wings and are borne aloft, and fly like the arrows of Abaris, in order that, Cappadocian though you are, you may flee from Cappadocia. Have we done you an injury, because while you are pale and breathing hard and measuring the sun, we are sleek and well fed and not pressed for room? Yet this is your condition. You are luxurious and rich, and go to market. I do not approve of this. Either then cease to reproach us with our mud (for you did not build your city, nor we make our winter), or else for our mud we will bring against you your hucksters, and the rest of the crop of nuisances which infest cities.