Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK ELEVEN
* XII
TO ZOIL US
TAKE, if yOU will, a 'father's right ' for seven,
You who've no father nor yet mother even.
XIII
ON THE TOMB OF THE ACTOR PARIS
STAY, traveller, and pass not by
This noble monument unread,
The city's darling here doth lie,
Wit, art, and grace with him are fled
And Rome doth mourn uncomforted.
Lost is her dear delight and prize,
For love and all desire are dead,
Hid in the grave where Paris lies.
* XIV
ON A DWARF'S TOMB
HOB is too small to have a mound raised o'er him:
One clod of earth would be too heavy for him.
* XV
THE FESTIVE SEASON
SOME books of mine old Cato's bride
And sober Sabine dames might read;
This one throws gravity aside
And is a very naughty screed.
It's wet with wine and feels no shame
With Cosmian perfumes to be sprayed,
It tells of Cupid's wanton game
And boldly calls a spade a spade.
But so did Numa long ago;
And these loose verses, pray remember,
Do not my life and manners show,
They're meant to suit with gay December.
34I