Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

INTRODUCTION

end of 92, while the next three books came out at yearly
intervals. The death of Domitian decided Martial to
leave Rome for good, and after sending the Emperor
Nerva a selection from Books X and XI he finally returned
to Bilbilis in 98. A Spanish lady, Marcella, gave him an
estate, and there he ended his days, his last volume,
Book XII, being mostly written in Spain, and published
late in A.D. IOI. The date of his death can be approximately fixed by a letter of Pliny the younger, written
104, which is so characteristic of that very superior
person that it is worth quoting in full:
"I was very grieved," Pliny writes to his friend,
Cornelius Priscus, " to hear of Martial's death. He was
a talented fellow, of shrewd and vigorous understanding,
his writings well seasoned with wit and sarcasm, and yet
good-humoured withal. I did him the compliment of
providing his travelling money when he left Rome:
that I owed both to our friendship and to some trifles of
verse which he wrote about me. It was an ancient
custom to honour and reward those writers who sang the
praises of individuals or states; but in our times this,
like many other excellent habits, has gone completely
out of use. Since we have ceased to do praiseworthy
deeds, we think that praise itself is silly. You ask what
are the verses for which I thus repaid him. I would
refer you to his book, but as a matter of fact I remember
some of them: if you like these, you may look up the
others later. He is addressing his Muse and tells her to
seek my house on the Esquiline, and to knock respectfully.
'But do not with strong liquor flown
Knock at a time that's not your own.
His days to study he must give
Composing speeches, that shall live
With Tully's best, to please the ears
And win a verdict from the Peers.
More safe 'twill be to go a-calling
If lamps are lit and night is falling.
That is your hour, when reigns the rose,
When brows are wet, and Bacchus flows;
For when the Wine God wildly rages
Stern Catos well may read my pages.'
"As he wrote thus about me was I not right then
to speed him on his way, and am I not right now to mourn
for a true friend's death? He gave me what he could;
he would have given more if he had been able. And yet
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