Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK SEVEN

* LXXX
TO FA USTINUS
SINCE now our Roman peace the North refrains,
And war's grim trumpets cease their dreadful strains,
This little book to Marcellinus send,
For now to verse his leisure he can lend.
And if you wish the petty gift to increase
Send too a page to serve his hours of peace.
Not such a one as nursed by Getic cattle
On ice-bound rivers makes his hoopstick rattle,
But some young Lesbian boy whose cheeks glow warm,
Or Spartan yet unscourged by mother's arm.
He'll send to you instead from Hister's dales
A serf to feed your sheep in Tibur's vales.
LXXXI
PROPORTIONS
You'vE read my poems and condemn
Some thirty, so you say, of them:
The book's a good one I submit,
If there are thirty good in it.
* LXXXII
THE PRUDE
MENOPHIL wore for all to see
A ' ceinturon de chastete,'
Big enough for the company.
I thought he wished his voice to spare
And so this trusty guard did wear
To keep him from temptation clear.
But I was wrong: the other night,
When he was dancing full in sight,
It fell-he knows the game all right.
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