University of Virginia Library

Lib. 7.

De reditu Domitiani, Epig. 7.

Now sport, if ere, ye Muses with my vein,
From the north world the god returnes again.
December first brings forth the peoples vote,
Tis just we cry, He comes, with open throat.
Blest in thy chance, from Janus share the day
Since what he'd give, thou givest to us, our joy.
Let the crownd Souldier play his solemn sport,
While he attends the bayes invested Court
Tis right (great Cæsar) our light jokes to heare,
Since that thy Tryumph them doth love and beare.

De Casselio, Epig. 8.

When sixty years Casselius has liv'd meet,
He's witty: when will he be cald discreet?

Ad Faustinum, Epig. 11.

(Faustinus) to let Cæsar read my booke
With that same face he on my spots doth look.
As my Page hurts no one it justly hates,
I like no glory gain'd at blushrng rates.
What does it profit me? if others whet
Their spleen in my stile? and Jambiques sweat?
And in my name their viprous poyson vent?
Which cannot brook the day? or orient?
We blameless sport. Thou know'st it well, I swear
By Helicon, and every Genius there;
And by thy ears as dieties to mee,
Reader, I'me from inhumane envy free.

Ad Regulum, Epig. 15.

I have no money (Regulus) at home,
Only thy gifts to sell, wilt thou buy some?

In Gallum, Epig. 17.

When th'hast a face of which no woman may
And body without blur, have ought to say,
Why suitors thee so seldom doe repeat
And seek, dost wonder Galla? the fault's great,
As oft as thou and I in the worke joynd,
Thy lips were silent, but thou prat'st behinde.
Heavens grant that thou wouldst speak, but bridle that,
I'me angry with thy tatling Twit com Twat.
I'de rather hear thee fart: for Symmachus
Says that's a means of laughter unto us.
But who can smile to hear the foolish smack
Of thy loose Toul? and when it gives a crack
Whose minde and mettle will not fall? at least
Speak somthing that may usher in a jest
Of thy C---'s noise: but if thou art so mute,
Articulately learn thence to dispute.

De natali Lucani, ad Pollam, Epig. 20

This is the day known by its mighty birth
Which Lucane gave to thee, and to the Earth
O cruel Prince! more cursd in no decree,
This at least was not lawfull unto thee.

In Malum Poetam. Epig. 24.

When thou dost write sweet Epigrams alway,
Which look more smooth than painted features may,
Without one grane of salt, or dropp of gall,
O mad man wouldst thou have them read at al?
Meat does not please without it's vinegar,
Nor faces which in mirth nere wrinckled are,
Give luscious Figs and Pomes to Boyes: but mine
That please, are Figs that rellish Salt and Wine.

In Cæliam, Epig. 29.

To Parthians, Germans, Dacians thou art spread,
In Cappidocians and Cilicians bed.
From Memphis comes a whipster unto thee,
And a Black Indian from the red Sea;
Nor dost thou fly the circumcised Jew,
Nor can the Muscovite once passe by you;
Why being a Roman lasse dost do thus? tell,
Is't cause no Roman-knack can please so well?

De Cælio, Epig. 38.

When various walks, and dayes in wandring on,
And pride, and great mens salutation,
Cælius could not endure, and bear about,
He feign'd himself tormented with the gout,
Which while he strove to personate too much,
In a laborious gate upon his crutch,
Binding, and 'noynting his sound feet: O see
How much the care and curiositie,
And Art of feigned grief, did work and please!
Cælius has left dissembling his disease.

Ad Licinium Suram, Epig. 46.

Licinius! thou crown of learned men!
Whose tongue brought back our Grand-fathers agen,
Thou art restored, but with how great a fate?
Returnd almost from the eternal gate,
Our wishes now had loss'd their fear: secure
Our tears did weep thy losse as pass'd all cure.
But yet the King of death could not sustain
Our grief, and sent the fates their threds again.
Thou knowst what moan thy false death moved for thee,
Enjoy thy self in thy posteritie.
Live as thine own surviver, hug thy joy:
A life returnd will never loose a day.

De Annio, Epig. 47.

Annius two hundred Tables has I think,
And for those Tables Boyes to fill him drink.
The platters fly,
And charges run about most fluently.
Rich men take to your selves these Feasts and stir,
I care not for your walking supper Sir.

In umbrem, Epig. 52.

The five dayes presents which were given to thee
In the Saturnal Feasts thou sendst to mee.
Twelve threefoot Tables, and seven tooth pickers,
A Sponge, a Napkin, and a Cup with ears,
Two Pecks of Beans, of Olives one smal twig,
A bottle of course Spanish Wine to swig.
Smal Syrian Figs with musty damsins came,
And a huge cask of Lybian figs o'th same:
Thy gifts were worth scarce five shillings in all,
Which to me saild on thy eight Syrians tall.
With how much ease mightst thou have sent in short
Me five pounds by thy Boy and nere sweat fort.

De Cæcilianum, Epig. 58.

Without a Bore Cæcilan neere doth feast,
(Titus) Cæcilan has a pretty guest.

In Cinnamum, Epig. 63.

Thou wast a Barber through the Citty known,
Though by thy Mistris raised to the gown,
Of Knight-hood (Cinnamus) when thou shalt fly
The judgment of the Court to Sicily,
What Art shall then sustain thy uselesse age?
How will thy Fugitive rest foot the stage?
Thou canst not be Grammarian, Rhetorician,
Fencer, nor Cinick on any condition,
Nor yet a Stoick, nor canst sell thy tongue
Or thy applause in the Sicilian throng:
What then (my Cinnamus) doth yet remain?
Why thou must e'en turn shaver once again.

In Gargilanum, Epig. 64.

Full twenty years (Gargilian) thou hast lost
In one suit in three Courts to thy great cost.
O mad and wretched! that in strifes dost run
Through twenty years, and mayst be overcome?

De Labieno, Epig. 65.

Fabius left Labian heir to all his store:
Yet Labian sayes that he deserved more.

Ad Maximum, Epig. 72.

Thou hast a house on the Aventine hill,
Another where Dianan's worshipped still,
In the Patrician street more of them stand,
Hence thou beholdst within thine eyes command
The widdowed Cybells, thence Vesta with all,
There either Jove earth'd in the Capitall.
Where shall I meet thee? tell, where wilt appear.
‘He dwels just no where, that dwels every where.

In anum deformem, Epig. 74.

Wouldst thou be wimbled gratis when thou art
A wrinkled wretch deformd in every part?
O tis a thing more than ridiculous:
To take a man's full sum, and not pay Use?

Ad Philomusum, 75. Epig.

Cause great ones carry thee themselves to please
To Feasts, to Galleries, and Spectacles,
And Coach thee up and down, and bathe with thee
As oft as thou jump'st in their company:
Nere hug thy self for this, or look proud for't,
Th'art not beloved, but onely makest them sport.

In Tuccam, Epig. 76.

Tucca most earnestly doth look,
I should present him with my Book:
But that I will not: For I smell
My Book he will not read, but sell.

Ad Lausam, Epig. 80.

(Lausus) just thirty Epigrams in all,
My volume thou most truly bad mayst call:
But if beside so many good there be,
The Book is good enough then credit me.

De Eutrapelo, Epig. 82.

While that the Barber went to trim
And shave Lupercus chops and chin,
He was so tedious on the face
Another beard grew in the place.

Ad Sabellum, Epig. 84.

Cause thou dost pen Tetrasticks clean and sweet
And some few pretty disticks with smooth feet,
I praise but not admire:
Tis easie to acquire
Short modest Epigrams that pretty look,
But it is hard and tough to write a book.

In Sextum, Epig. 85.

Sextus was wont me to his feasts to call,
When I was scarce made known to him at all
What have I done so late? so sudenly?
That I his old companion am pass'd by?
After so many pledges, many years?
But I perceive the cause: no gift appears
Of beaten silver from me, no light coat,
No cloak, fee, or negotiating groat.
Sextus invites his gifts, but not his friends.
Then cryes his servants bones shall make amends.

Epitaphium Urbici Pueri, Epig. 95.

My Parents grief I here lye in this Tombe,
Who had my birth and name from mighty Rome:
Six months I wanted of three years to mee,
When my life's thred was cut by destinie.
What favour shall age, tongue, or beauty have?
Thou that readst this shed some teares on my grave.
So he that thou wouldst have thy self survive,
Shall longer then decre pit Nestor live.

De Milone, Epig. 101.

Milo is not at home, but travell'd out,
His fields ly barren, but his wife doth sprout:
But why's his land so bare? his wife so full?
His land has none, his wife has many a pull.