Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK SEVEN

* VIII
ON THE SA ME
Now, now, ye Muses, sport; for 'tis the time
Our victor god returns from northern clime.
Thou first, December, bade the folk rejoice;
Soon we may cry-' He comes '-with lifted voice.
Happy thy lot! We could not let thee go
If January's joys thou didst bestow.
Soon shall wreathed soldiers fling their jests afar,
Walking attendant on thy laurelled car;
For Triumph loves the merry song and joke,
And even Caesar then will banter brook.
IX
A PROMISING YOUTH
AT sixty years of age is he
A man of promise still:
Methinks he needs eternity
That promise to fulfil!
X
THE BUSYBODY
EROS and Linus are debauched, you say.
Their private life is no concern to you;
If Matho's mistress costs him thousands, pray,
Does that expense deplete your revenue?
And, seeing you can snore the whole night through,
What matter though Sertorius drink till day?
Is Lupus deep in debt? If you refuse
To give or lend to him you will not lose.
Your own concerns that need attending to
You carefully ignore and thrust awayYour clothes unpaid for still, tho' far from new,
That no one now will trust you for a day;
Item, your lady is a trifle gay;
Item, your daughter's dower is overdue;
So with a dozen points; but I agree
That your affairs are no concern to me.
I99