Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS

CXIII
THE ENTERPRISING PUBLISHER
READ, if you have good hours to waste
And leisure moments cloy,
The triflings of my callow taste
While yet I was a boy.
Though long I have forgotten it,
The nonsense you can buy;
For Pollius will not permit
Its feebleness to die.
CXIV
TO FA USTINUS
FAENIUS doth own the meadows there
Beside the watered plain,
The little plot and garden fair
That border your domain,
And here his daughter's ashes lie
Beneath a hallowed stone,
Her name thereon: Ah, fain were he
That there were writ his own.
'Twere juster if an aged sire
Had crossed the Stygian wave.
Since fate denied him his desire,
He lives to tend her grave.
CXV
TO PROCILLUS
THERE'S a maid who pines for me,
(Doth your envy stir?)
Fairer than a swan is she,
Naught can rival her.
Silver, lilies, privet, snow,
All must yield their pride.
(Now your jealous thoughts, I know,
Tend to suicide.)
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