Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK FOUR

XXXII
ON A BEE IN AMBER
THE bee, as though enshrined in honey clear,
Is seen imprisoned in an amber tear
Of Phaethusa or Lampetie;
A just reward hast thou, O toiler bee;
Methinks that gladly thou hast met thy doom,
Content to lie within a golden tomb.
XXXIII
POSTHUMOUS PUBLICATION
PACKED in your desk your finished verses lurk,
Or so you say. Pray, let us read your work.
'My heirs,' you say, 'shall give the world that boon.'
Oh, give those heirs the chance to publish soon
* XXXIV
TO ATTALUS
YOUR rags are grimy, but they've worn so thin
To call them 'snow-flakes ' were no mortal sin.
* XXXV
A STRANGE SPECTACLE
WE have seen gentle deer charging on head to head,
And meeting together, together fall dead,
While the hounds stood amazed at this new sort of strife,
And the huntsman found nothing to do for his knife.
What frenzy to weaklings such fire could supply?
In this fashion bulls fight, in this fashion men die.
XXXVI
THE CONTRAST
YOUR locks are raven black, your beard is grey.
Well, wigs are easier to dye they say.
II7