Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS
* LXXXVIII
QUID PRO QUO
SATURN'S feast is past and gone,
And of gifts from you not one;
Not an ounce of silver-plate,
Nor a napkin, brought of late
By a disappointed friend,
For my present;did you send.
Not a jar with fish-sauce red,
Into which a tunny bled;
No dry olives in a pottle,
From Picenum, nor a bottle
Of small Syrian figs to be
Sign that you remembered me.
Other people you may cheat,
Smiling at them when you meet;
But you won't gull me again,
For your trickery is plain.
LXXXIX
FINIS
HOLD, little book, enough, enough!
Here is the end of the scroll and thee;
Stay thy course ere the path grow rough,
Keep thy bounds for thou art not free,
Many thy sheets, though one should be
Ample space for thy sorry stuff.
Hold, little book, enough, enough!
Here is the end of the scroll and thee.
Wearied readers are harsh and gruff,
Now are they tired of thee and me;
Soon thou shalt meet a rude rebuff,
List to the worn-out scrivener's plea;
'Hold, little book, enough, enough! '

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