Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK THREE
XLIV
TO LIGURINUS
AT your approach the neighbours flee,
What is the cause that makes them flout you,
And that wherever you may be
A desert seems to spread about you?
A tigress of her whelps bereft
May fill the bravest heart with terror;
Untouched the basking snake is left
And handling scorpions is an error;
But you provide a peril worse'Tis this, you overact the poet;
When you persist in reading verse,
Could any patience undergo it?
For though I run or stand or sit
With verse my ears are still blockaded;
Aye, at the baths I must submit,
My privy chambers are invaded,
You stop me on my way to dine,
Then wearied by your droning numbers
My seat at table I resignI fall asleep-you break my slumbers.
Observe the evil that you do.
Though good, men hold you as pernicious;
And thus an upright bore like you
Makes even virtue look suspicious.
XLV
TO THE SAME
DID Phoebus flee Thyestes' feast?
No faithful record still endures.
But I, his bard, must be released
From yours.
You keep a splendid table-true,
To tempt the jaded appetite,
Yet is the feast in vain-for you
Recite.
Away with fine and dainty fish,
Away be all the mushrooms flung,
You spoil my palate with a dish
Of tongue.
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