Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS

* LXIV
TO POLLA, WIFE OF LUCAN
DEAR lady, if you read this little book,
Do not with frowns upon my jesting look.
He, your own bard, our Muse's chiefest glory,
When on Pierian trump he sang war's story,
Was not ashamed to write in playful strain' If I'm no Ganymede, why here remain? '
LXV
TO CHARMENION
You are from Corinth-loathly den
And I a Spanish citizen
From Tagus' land, I wonder then
That you should call me ' brother ';
While you are decked with tresses fair
And smooth your limbs with daily care,
I have the Spaniard's shaggy hair;
Are we like one another?
You lisp and squeak, I far prefer
My baby's tone as manlier;
Are pigeons like to eagles, Sir?
Pray cease my ears to blister
With such endearments; it is plain
Kids cannot wear the lion's mane;
Just call me ' brother' once again,
And I will call you ' sister '.
* LXVI
TO THE PAGE, THEOPOMPUS
WHO pray could be so harsh, so proud of look
As to declare that you should be a cook?
Could any man endure your face to shame
With soot, or mar your hair with greasy flame?
Who in your place will hold the crystal glass,
Or with more grace the old Falernian pass?
If fates like this you angel boys attend,
Ganymede too will in the kitchen end.
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