Last Saturnalia, friend, I think
You must have passed along
To me each little gift you got
Yourself; now am I wrong?
Twelve tablets, seven toothpicks came;
Sponge, napkin, cup not far
Behind, a half pack of beans,
Some olives, a black jar
Of cheap new wine, some withered prunes,
Some figlets (not too big),
And a monstrous heavy urn, filled up
With the other kind of fig.
I'd say these gifts, in all, were worth
30 sesterces or less,
But eight huge Syrian slaves were needed
To carry the whole mess.

I have a better plan: next year
When you're sending gifts to me
You'll find one boy could tote five pounds
Of silver easily!
(Martial VII, 53, translated by Dorothea Wender)