Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS
Tell of a certain man we know
Who loves sad clothes and makes a show
Of Baetic wool and garments grey,
But holds that red is far too gay;
While amethyst will never do
For men-' 'Tis but a woman's hue,'Though robes undyed may win his praise,
Or neutral tones, or simple greys.
But though with garish tints he quarrels,
Yet what about his lurid morals?
'Who is the man? ' you ask. Somehow
The name has slipped from me, just now.
XCVII
THE FRAUD
You only speak amid a chattering crowd,
Yet claim with eloquence to be endowed,
A claim that anyone can make, no doubt.
Hark, there's a lull-Now, Naevolus, speak out.
XCVIII
GOUT IN THE HAND
HE'S gouty in the feet, you say,
This litigant who will not pay
His counsel's just demand.
The crippling poison, I conclude
From this close-fisted attitude,
Has now attacked his hand.
* XCIX
THE MISER
WHEN you had but one thousand you then did appear
So profuse that we asked God to give
You a fortune to spend; and within half a year
Four legacies raised it to five.
But you, as though nothing were left you at all,
So miserly now have become
That but once in a year your companions you call
To a dinner with you at your home.
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