Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK TWO

Cease, madam, pray, your hair to tire
And fill your girls with terror.
A razor is what you require
To make you like your mirror.
Why should they your caprice obey,
And to your fancies pander.
Cut all those cruel locks away,
Or touch a salamander.
* LXVII
TO POSTUMUS
WHENEVER I meet you, wherever I go,
Ten times in one hour it is-' How do you do? '
That ' How do you do? ' is your first word each day:
It is plain that there is not much doing your way.
* LXVIII
TO OLUS
CALL it not pride, no longer I
Can greet you as your thrall.
I've won the cap of liberty,
Although it cost mine all.
The man whose mean desires accord
With all that masters crave
Must cringe; but he shall need no lord
Who doth not need a slave.
LXIX
TO CLASSICUS
ALL dinner invitations grieve you?
I'm sorry, sir, I can't believe you.
The famous epicures of Rome
Were always pleased to dine from home.
Why, if it bores you, should you go?
'I must,' you say-Ah yes, we know
All parasites that plea advance.
But if you're serious, now's your chance:
Friend Melior bids you dine to-day,
So play the man and say him nay.
65 E