Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK TWELVE

Bellona's frenzied minions howl and rant,
A bandaged sailor begs, a Jewish child,
Taught by his mother, whines his lying cant,
Blear-eyed match pedlars shout and drive me wild.
But who may count the noises of the Town
That murder sleep? Nay, you could count as soon
The clashing cymbal-strokes that try to drown
The Colchian incantation to the moon.
But, Sparsus, you can never know such ills,
Softly you lie and lapped in rustic peace,
Your lowest room is far above our hills,
Long ere they reach you noise and clamour cease.
A country house within the city bounds
Your labourers can live within the wallWith vineyards rich and drives and spacious grounds,
All these are yours and quiet sleep withal.
At will the glaring sunlight you exclude,
Rome throngs about my bed, I start from sleep
To tramping footsteps and to laughter rude,
Till, wearied, to my country cot I creep.
LVIII.4 PRETTY PAIR
SAYS your wife with a sneer, ' You're the lady-maid's dear',
And she mocks at your conduct as shady;
But well-matched you must be; 'tis notorious that she
Is the gentleman's gentleman's lady!
LIX
GREETINGS
THREE lustres passed and when, at last, you came again to
Rome,
You hoped she might omit the rite of welcoming you home;
But by the town you're hunted down, and needs must undergo
it;
More kisses there you get than e'er sweet Lesbia gave her
poet;
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