Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK SEVEN

LII
TO A UCTUS
FRIEND, it is pleasant that you read
My verse to Celer-if indeed
He cares to hear;
But since he ruled my native shore
Where none was feared and trusted more,
I shrink in fear;
No common auditor is he,
And such a critic well may be
A judge severe.
* LIII
TO UMBER
ALL the presents this year that at Christmas you got
You have sent on to me-and they are a choice lot I
Seven toothpicks, twelve tablets, a napkin, a mug,
A half-peck of beans, and a sponge, and a jug
Of Laletan wine, some dried prunes, and a casket
Of Picenian olives, and figs in a basket.
I think that in all they were worth half a crown;
Yet it took eight big footmen to carry them down.
You'ld have found it less trouble one page-boy to send
With five pounds of plate as your present, my friend.
LIV
OMENS
EACH morn you tell some evil dream you've had
About me, till you drive me nearly mad;
To charms I have resorted to divine
The omen; that has used up all my wine,
My salted meal, whole mounds of frankincense,
And half my flocks and herds-a vain expense.
Pigs, fowls, and eggs are gone; for mercy's sake
Do dream about yourself-or stay awake.
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