Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS
* LXIV
TO AN ENVIOUS DETRACTOR.
A HEXAM.ETER POEM1
You are not of the Fabian sort,
Nor such a one as Curius' lady,
When she her ploughman's luncheon brought,
Gave birth to 'neath an oak-tree shady.
Your mother's trade I will not name,
Your father shaves before a glass,
And though you have a wife, the dame
Addresses you as-' Pretty lass.'
But yet you dare to criticise
My books, and slate them without pity,
Though they find favour in the eyes
Of men of rank in court and city.
Great Silius deems them worth a place,
Upon his bookshelves you will meet them,
And Regulus admires their graceIn rounded tones will oft repeat them.
Dear Sura too who lives close by
Diana on the Aventine,
And thence the Circus can espy,
Admires them, just because they're mine.
And most of all, our mighty Chief,
On whom the weight of Empire falls,
In these light trifles finds relief
And often for a volume calls.
Yet you forsooth have keener wit
Than in these great ones we shall find.
Your taste-Minerva sharpened it,
And subtle Athens formed your mind.
Why, damn it all, the offal meat
Is far less rank than your behaviour,
Which butchers hawk from street to street
And vex our noses with its savour.
You dare at me to aim that stuff
Which spoils the paper where 'tis written:
Well, if you stir my bile enough
You'll find yourself severely bitten.
My teeth in you will set a mark
That barber's tricks will ne'er erase.
So curb your disagreeable bark
And don't attempt a bear to face.
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