Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS

So little like the common female kind,
Your books in her a critic sure will find;
For e'en Pantaenis cannot her outshine
Though she be ranked with the Pierian nine.
It was a lover praised fair Sappho's art,
Your maid's as skilled and has a purer heart.
LXX
IPSARUM tribadum tribas, Philaeni,
Recte, quam futuis, uocas amicam.
* LXXI
AN UN FORTUNATE FA 1IILY
THE wife and the husband both suffer from piles,
And so does their daughter, her husband, and boy.
The ulcer their steward and bailiff defiles,
And every farm-hand who is in their employ;
There are piles on them all, both on young and on old:
But piles of farm produce you'll nowhere behold.
* LXXII
TO PAULUS
I HOPE this December will bring you good store:
Not trumpery tablets or napkins galore,
Nor half pounds of incense-and short weight at that;
But may some rich client or millionaire fat
Weigh in with some plate from his family treasure;
Or what will, I know, give you even more pleasure,
May you beat all the experts you tackle at chess,
And when you play ball in your light athlete's dress
May you win the applause of the well-oiled bystanders,
And beat even Polybus with his left-handers.
Then if some low fellow should put down to me
A lampoon all reeking of base jealousy,
Come quick to my aid and protest-' This is spiteSuch rubbish as that Martial never could write.'
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