Classic Poem

54. To Zoilus

You snatched that half-burned incense from the fire,
Stole cinnamon and nard from bier and pyre,
Your myrrh and cassia have tainted breath.
Restore, polluted knave, your spoils to Death;
Small wonder that your hands have learned to cheat;
Slave, runaway, they learned it from your feet.EnglishMartialShort Poems