Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK ELEVEN
Seems it a paltry thing to lose to-day
What Romans read and strangers far away?
To knights and senators my lines appeal,
These lawyers love and poets often steal;
And now much work has died still-born-'tis true
I swear, my worthy friend,-and all through you;
Is this endurable, that to increase
Your crowd of clients, half my work must cease?
Thus of my book a single page is done,
Although it is a month since 'twas begun;
Such is the penalty of bards at RomeThey only do their work who dine at home.
XXV
ILLA salax nimium nec paucis nota puellis
Stare Lino desit mentula. Lingua, caue.
* XXVI
LOVE'S FRUITION
MY pleasant solace, my delightful care,
Than whom no heart has ever been more dear,
O give me first a kiss with wine-stained lip
Before I take the cup wherefrom you sip;
And then if you will love's true joys bestow,
Not Jove himself surpasses me, I trow.
XXVII
TO FLA CCUS
A MAN of adamant you surely are
To love a dame who loves stale vinegar,
A dame whose palate whelks and tripe enchant,
Who thinks bananas too extravagant,
Whose maid brings in (rare trove!) a common pot
Of spoiled sardines to eat before they rot;
Grown lowish now and not afraid to shock
She begs for flannelette to make a frock;
My dame will ask for attar, precious stuff,
'Worth ' for her frocks is hardly good enough;
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