Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS

* XLIX
ON HIS PARTHENIAN GOWN
THIS is the gown which my fond readers know,
For oft I've sung its praises. Long ago
It was a poet's gift, Parthenian hight,
And in it clothed I walked a splendid knight.
Then it was new and worthy of its giver,
Its glossy wool as shining as a river.
To-day the meanest pauper would decline,
To wear it, 'tis indeed so ' snow-flake fine.'
What will not time and length of days destroy?
Your once grand gown is now like you, my boy.
L
1MINIA TURES
MY puny epigrams befit,
So you declare, my puny wit;
I am too stupid I admit
To wade like you in blood
Through twelve long books-my genius sets
T'wards finished marble statuettes,
The while your lofty soul begets
A giant built of mud.
* LI
ON THE DEATH OF LUCAXNUS
THAT which in his despite you sought from heaven,
To die before your brother, has been given.
But Tullus grudges you the Stygian shade
And in his elder's grave would fain be laid.
You dwell at peace in the Elysian zone,
Now first rejoicing that you are alone;
And if for Pollux Castor comes again,
You'll say ---' Seek not high heaven to regain.'
278