Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK SEVEN

That spite doth mar the very fields I till;
Save when he dwells thereby, no worth have they,
Spare me, nor let thy greed our friendship sever,
So may thy wondrous bridge endure for ever.
* XCIV
ON PAPILUS
SOME unguent rare was kept with care
In a small onyx dish.
Papilus came and smelt the sameAnd now it's putrid fish!
XCV
THE WINTER KISS
IN December's frost and sleet
Still your chilly kisses greet
Every friend you chance to meet!
What a trick!
Such a vengeance to pursue
Were a cruel thing to do,
Though they all had beaten you
With a stick.
If my wife or little maid
To embrace me had essayed,
I had started quite afraid
In such weather,
And if you suppose your kiss
Is a yet sublimer bliss,
That idea you may dismiss
Altogether.
From your snout ('tis like a dog's)
Hangs the rime of frozen fogs,
And the beard it fairly clogs
Round your throat,
Where the shaggy mass coheres
Till it actually appears
Like the mass a shepherd shears
From a goat.
Though a greasy Gaul's caress
Might disgust me, I confess,
Would it cause such wretchedness
As you bring?
225 P