“They tell me, Cotilus, that you’re a beau: What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know. ‘A beau is one who, with the nicest care, In parted locks divides his curling hair; One who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet, Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat; Whose naked arms are smoothed with pumice-stone, And tossed about with graces all his own. A beau is one who takes his constant seat, From morn to evening, where the ladies meet; And ever, on some sofa hovering near, Whispers soft nothings in some fair one’s ear; Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day; Still reads and scribbles, reads and sends away. A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly pressed By the coarse garment of a neighbor guest; Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found At each good table in successive round. A beau is one—none better knows than he A race-horse and his noble pedigree.’— Indeed? Why, Cotilus, if this be so, What teasing trifling thing is called a beau!” “With but one eye Philœnis weeps. How done If you inquire, know she hath got but one.” =Statius= (61-96 A.D.), a contemporary and rival of Martial, was the author of the epic “Theba’is,” based on the strife of the sons of Œdipus (see p. 200). Despite the fact that the poet gave a year’s work to each of its twelve books, this epic has little to recommend it. Statius began another poem on the life of Achilles, which he did not live to finish. His forte lay not in the line of epics, but in the improvising of short pointed pieces, thirty-two of which are preserved in the collection called “Silvæ.” Juvenal bears witness to his popularity. Statius was patronized by the emperor Domitian, but is said to have been stabbed by the latter with a stylus, in a fit of anger. The following tender lines are from a poem addressed to his wife Claudia. STATIUS TO HIS WIFE. “Whither could ocean’s waves my bark convey, Nor thou be fond companion of my way? Yes—did I seek to fix my mansion drear Where polar ice congeals the inclement year; Where the seas darken round far Thule’s isle, Or unapproached recedes the head of Nile; Thy voice would cheer me on. May that kind Power, Who joined our hands when in thy beauty’s flower, Still, when the blooming years of life decline, Prolong the blessing, and preserve thee mine! To thee, whose charms gave first the enamoring wound, And my wild youth in marriage fetters bound; To thee submissive, I received the rein, Nor sigh for change, but hug the pleasing chain.