Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK EIGHT

No Babylonian robe could match with this
Though it were broidered by Semiramis,
Nor should I more the golden fleece admire
If Phryxus gave it me for my attire.
Oh how absurd my poor old cloak has grown,
Which I must wear with this palatial gown.
XXIX
SHORT AND LONG
WHO writes a distich hopes to please
By brevity, the soul of wit;
But if he fill a tome with these,
I pray you where's the benefit?
* XXX
3IUCIUS IN THE CIRCUS
WHAT in our circus we count sport
Was glory once of noblest sort.
See in the blaze he thrusts his hand
And does the faltering fire command,
Spectator of the sacrifice,
Where his right arm may scarce suffice;
For if the torture were not stayed
His left too in the fire were laid.
His crime I do not want to know,
To see that hand's for me enow.
XXXI
FA THER'S RIGHT
IT throws a somewhat lurid light
Upon your private life
That you should crave the ' father's right '
When you have got a wife.
You tease the sovereign as a boon
To call you ' Sire of three';
Go home, my friend, 'tis none too soon,
And cease your urgent plea.
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