Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS

Near is the vast Colossus decked with rays
Wherewith the Rhodian marvel may not vie;
Yet hasten on and tarry not to gaze,
And pass the shrine of gay Lyaeus by:
Hard by the fane of Cybele, aglow
With Corybants, in colours all ablaze
Stands the fair house and lofty portico.
Go near thereto,'tis never barred with pride,
But Phoebus and the muse it holdeth dear;
To these its door is ever opened wide.
But, if 'tis asked why Martial is not here,
Say ' He doth weave thy praises into song
And may not spare an hour to aught beside,
For, had he come, his verse had suffered wrong.'
LXXI
THE TOAST
A SEVEN-FOLD draught to toast Justina pour,
For Laevia six, and five must Lycas claim,
To Ida three are due, to Lyde four,
One draught for every letter of a name;
That spell should draw them, but, if vain it be,
I drink to sleep-he's sure to come to me.
LXXII
TO FIDENTINUS
Do you design that verse of mine
Should bring repute to you,
Or did you deem by such a scheme
To be a poet too?
Well, I suppose, the pearly rows
'Twixt Aegle's lips that glow,
Though purchased bone, she calls her own,
And thinks them truly so.
Lycoris, too, of mulberry hue
Believes delusion fondThe powder puff is quite enough
To make a lovely blonde.
Must we regard you as a bard?
Why, then I will admit
Your head has shocks of lovely locks
Without a hair on it.
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