Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK ELEVEN

Half wine, half water; that's the rule, my slave;
So fill the generous cup; then mingle more
Than erst Pythagoras to Nero gave;
Sober I'm naught, but if good wine you pour
A tenfold spirit shall my song inspire:
And add the kisses that Catullus knew,
Then should I sing with all Verona's fire
And even match the ' sparrow song' for you.
* VII
TO PAULA
NEVER more will you say to your poor silly dolt
Of a husband-before to your lover you bolt'The Emperor bade me this morning to go
To Circeii or Alba '-That trick's useless now.
Under Nerva you might a Penelope be,
If from your old itch you could only get free.
But how will you manage? Suppose you pretend
You are going to see a poor sick lady-friendYour husband will trot at your heels all the way
And insist on your people a visit to pay.
Other wantons perhaps to cool their inner fire
Might say that a spitz-bath is what they require:
But to tell the plain truth is much better by far,
And to cry-' There's my lover. I'm off. Tra-la-la'.
* VIII
KISSES
BREATH of balm from foreign trees,
Scent of saffron on the breeze,
Fields abloom in leafy spring,
Winter apples ripening,
Silken robes worn by a queen,
Amber in maids' hands that's been,
Dark Falernian from a jar
When 'tis shattered-but afar,
Hyblan bees o'er garden beds,
Chaplets from rich feasters' heads,
Altars, where the incense burns,
Cosmus' alabaster urns339