Stella has given him some tiles to roof his house; he would like a cloak as well: cum pluvias madidumque Iovem perferre negaret et rudis hibernis villa nataret aquis, plurima, quae posset subitos effundere nimbos, muneribus venit tegula missa tuis. horridus ecce sonat Boreae stridore December: Stella, tegis villam, non tegis agricolam (vii. 36).[677] When my crased house heaven's showers could not sustain, But flooded with vast deluges of rain, Thou shingles, Stella, seasonably didst send, Which from the impetuous storms did me defend: Now fierce loud-sounding Boreas rocks doth cleave, Dost clothe the farm, and farmer naked leave? ANON., 1695. This is not the way a gentleman thanks a friend, nor can modern taste appreciate at its antique value abuse such as-- primum est ut praestes, si quid te, Cinna, rogabo; illud deinde sequens ut cito, Cinna, neges. diligo praestantem; non odi, Cinna, negantem: sed tu nec praestas nec cito, Cinna, negas (vii. 43). The kindest thing of all is to comply: The next kind thing is quickly to deny. I love performance nor denial hate: Your 'Shall I, shall I?' is the cursed state. The poet's poverty is no real excuse for this petulant mendicancy.[678] He had refused to adopt a profession,[679] though professional employment would assuredly have left him time for writing, and no one would have complained if his output had been somewhat smaller. Instead, he chose a life which involved moving in society, and was necessarily expensive. We can hardly attribute his choice merely to the love of his art. If he must beg, he might have done so with better taste and some show of finer feeling. Macaulay's criticism is just: 'I can make large allowance for the difference of manners; but it can never have been _comme il faut_ in any age or nation for a man of note--an accomplished man--a man living with the great--to be constantly asking for money, clothes, and dainties, and to pursue with volleys of abuse those who would give him nothing.' In spite, however, of the obscenity, meanness, and exaggerated triviality of much of his work, there have been few poets who could turn a prettier compliment, make a neater jest, or enshrine the trivial in a more exquisite setting. Take the beautifully finished poem to Flaccus in the eighth book (56), wherein Martial complains that times have altered since Vergil's day. 'Now there are no patrons and consequently no poets'-- ergo ego Vergilius, si munera Maecenatis des mihi? Vergilius non ero, Marsus ero. Shall I then be a Vergil, if you give me such gifts as Maecenas gave? No, I shall not be a Vergil, but a Marsus.