Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS

LXXI
A SUMMER HOLIDAY
To Trebula thy footsteps turn,
For here be valleys cool and deep;
Hot though the stars of Cancer burn
Her pleasant fields their verdure keep;
And Aeolus right well doth know
My little farm and country cot,
He sends his gentle breeze to blow
That ardent Leo parch them not.
Come, for the uplands call: with me
Pass the long days of harvest heat;
Compared with these, cool Tivoli
Shall seem a winter's warm retreat.
* LXXII
TO RUFUS
'THE mother of Bacchus was Jove '-it were rather
More proper to say-' Semele was his father.'
LXXIII
RETURN FA VOURS
WHY don't I send my book to you
Although you often urge me to?
The reason's good, for if I did
You'd send me yours-which God forbid!
LXXIV
ON THE DEATH OF POMPEY' AND HIS SONS
ASIA has Sextus', Europe Gnaeus' grave,
Their sire doth lie beneath the Libyan wave,
Or haply on her strand, we wot not where:
What marvel every continent should share
Their sundered ashes? One could not embrace
The mighty ruin of that mighty race.
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