Though he bathed with us yesterday, dined with us, too, And was quite in the pink of condition, Ancus died this A.M.--of a dream that he’d asked Hermocrates to be his physician. _VENDETTA_ Though it’s true, Theodorus, you frequently pray For my book in a flattering tone, No wonder I’m slow; I’ve good cause for delay In my fear you’d then send me your own. _A MERE SUGGESTION_ You read us your verse with your throat wrapped in wool. The reason we’re anxious to know, For to us it appears That some wool in our ears Would really be more apropos. _WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN_ I hear that Lycoris has buried Every friend that she’s had in her life. I sincerely regret, Fabianus, She’s not introduced to my wife. _A TOTAL ABSTAINER_ Though you serve richest wines, Paulus, Rumor opines That they poisoned your four wives, I think. It’s of course all a lie; None believes less than I-- No, I really don’t care for a drink. _MUTE MILLIONS_ In the verse Cinna writes I am slandered, it’s said. But the man doesn’t write Whose verses aren’t read. _MAN AND SUPERMAN_ “Quintus loves Thais.” What Thais is that? “Why, Thais the one-eyed, who--” Who? Well, I was aware She’d lost one of her pair, But I didn’t know he had lost two. _TO LINUS_ You ask what I grow on my Sabine estate. A reliable answer is due. I grow on that soil-- Far from urban turmoil-- Very happy at not seeing you. _CREDE EXPERTO_ Diaulus left his doctoring To practise undertaking. His training as a medic, though, Has really been his making. _NUMBERS SWEET_ Two of your teeth were blown out by a cough, And a subsequent cough blew out two. You can now cough away, Delia, all night and day-- There’s nothing a third cough can do. _MILLIONS IN IT_ Just _give_ Linus half what he asks as a loan; Then console Yourself with the thought that you’d rather lose half Than the whole. _TO MAMERCUS_ Though you never have read us a line of your verse, You insist on our thinking you write. Yes, yes, be a poet; be anything else-- If you’ll only forbear to recite. About the last of the great Latin Satirists is Juvenal, a contemporary of Martial. His lines in translation, have a modern ring, but that may be merely because the fundamental sources and themes of wit are universal. JUVENAL _COSMETIC DISGUISE_