Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS
Beneath what chief was Rome so fair to see?
Under what prince enjoyed such liberty?
One fault there is and grievous, though but one;
A poor man gets no thanks for service done.
Who gives his wealth to old and loyal friends?
Who, when you've made him knight, his escort lends?
At Saturn's feast to give some silver spoons
Or yellow toga worth a few half-crowns
Our millionaires to-day most generous think,
And never let us hear the sovereigns chink.
Be thou, great sire, my friend and take their place:
No virtue more thy majesty could grace.
Methinks you smile and say with wrinkled nose' For his own profit he advice bestows.'
XX
TO JULIUS MARTIALIS
IF I might spend
My hours with you, dear friend,
Care-free, at ease
To do what I should please,
And could dispose
My leisure as I chose,
The pomp and state
Of mansions of the great
Should we disown,
And law-courts' dreary drone,
All wordy strife,
And pride and show of life.
To drive or walk,
To bathe, enjoy a talk,
Toy with a book
Within some shady nook
Or portico
Where purling waters flow,
These should comprise
Our tasks if we were wise.
To you and me
Life is not full; we see
The good days fly
And, ah, how grievously
Their sum doth mount,
Set all to our account;
Why dally we
Who know what life should be?
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