Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK FIVE

* LXI
TO MARIANUS
WHO is the young fopling, who is he, I say,
Whom we see with your wife at her side all the day.
Who whispers soft nothings into her warm ear
And presses his elbow so dangerously near,
While on every finger a light ring he shows
And never a hair on his smooth legs allows.
Can't you give me an answer? What's that?-' For my
wife
He's agent,'-A trusted one too, on my life.
He looks well the part of an agent, does he:
Aufidius the rake would not more earnest be.
My dear Marianus, we'll see you both soon
On the stage: he'll be clown and you old pantaloon.
'Your wife's business man '-A young fopling like that!
It's your business, my friend, not your wife's, that he's at.
LXII
AN INVITATION
A WELCOME to my garden, if you care
To sit upon the ground, for seats are lacking;
Or bring, good guest, a table and a chair;
These have resigned, they stand awry and cracking;
There is not e'en a cushion-cover there,
The couch has broken ties and rotten sacking.
I bought the gardens-you can beautify them
'Twill cost you less than what I paid to buy them.
LXIII
TO PONTICUS
YOU'RE always saying, ' Marcus, as a friend,
Tell me about my books and how they strike you';
'Quite wonderful, unique-I dare contend
That Regulus has written nothing like you.'
' Kind friend,' you say, ' May Jove and Caesar too
Treat you as you deserve ' 'The same to you.'
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