Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK ONE
We are seven good men, each an old trusty friend,
But the choicest repast that you offer
Costs you but a few shillings and on us you spend
The most doubtful coins in your coffer.
What boon shall we beg for you, generous sir?
You've got five, so we'll ask God for fifty.
And if in reply He should fifty confer,
You will soon starve to death, Master Thrifty.
C
TO AFRA
'PAPA,' ' Mamma,' in childish wise,
How prettily you call!
Yet you appear to others' eyes
The grandmamma of all.
CI
TO HIS DEAD SECRETARY
THY hand has shared my labours many a time,
Demetrius, and courts have known thy skill;
Ah, for the youth that faded in its prime,
The hand that ere thy twentieth year lay still!
I saw thee parched by fever's fiery breath,
And could not brook that thou shouldst die a slave;
I gave thee freedom's right before thy deathWould that my boon had freed thee from the grave!
'Patron' you sighed and owned the gift from me,
Then fared to Lethe's waters, glad and free.
CII
I ENUS AND.IINERI'A
BY giving Venus such an ugly face
Your artist thought to win Minerva's grace.

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