Know, I can relish praise with genuine zest; Not mine the torpid, mine the unfeeling breast. But that I merely toil for this acclaim, And make these eulogies my end and aim, I must not, cannot grant. For--sift them all, Mark well their value, and on what they fall-- Are they not showered (to pass these trifles o’er) On Labeo’s Iliad, drunk with hellebore, On princely love-lays driveled without thought, And the crude trash on citron couches wrought? You spread the table, ’tis a master-stroke, And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak; Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates At the glad vest and the delicious cates, “Tell me,” you cry, “for truth is my delight, What says the town of me, and what I write?” He cannot; he has neither ears nor eyes. But shall I tell you who your bribes despise? Bald trifler! cease at once your thriftless trade; That mountain paunch for verse was never made. --_Satires._ In Martial we find a humorist after our own heart. As Homer was the father of poetry and Herodotus the father of prose, so to Martial must be ascribed the paternity of the epigram. Epigrams, so-called, had been made before, but in Martial’s work they rose to a new height, took on a new meaning. Before Martial, epigram meant merely inscription,--any short poem that might conveniently be cut on stone. Martial’s epigrams have keen wit and sharp point, such as appeal to the mind and appreciation of the reader. Fourteen hundred and fifty is his legacy of epigrams to us, and most of them properly short, as an epigram should be. _TO SABIDIUS_ I love thee not, Sabidius. But why? I love thee not--that’s all I can reply. _PLAY’S THE THING_ Aper pierced his wife’s heart with an arrow: While playing, friends say. The wife was exceedingly wealthy: He knows how to play. _TO CATULLUS_ My name’s in your will as your heir, So you’ve said. I’ll continue to doubt till the day-- When it’s read. _BETWEEN THE LINES_ The man who sends you presents, Gaurus,-- You so rich and gray-- Remarks, if you’ve got sense and insight, “Kindly pass away.” _TO AULUS_ Though my readers sincerely admire me, A poet finds fault with my books. What’s the odds? When I’m giving a dinner I’d rather please guests than the cooks. _TO POSTUMUS_ When you kiss me you use only half of your mouth. I approve. Half that half, though, will do. Will you grant me a greater, ineffable boon? Keep the rest of that latter half, too. _ROUNDED WITH A SLEEP_