You always promise happiness
And still your faith betray;
If " yes" means " no" and " no" means " yes,"
Say " no" to me I pray.

If law your innocence abuse,
I'll don the gown defendants use,
And paler far my cheek shall be
Than though the danger threatened me;
If driven from our Motherland
With you I'll seek an alien strand,
For shoals and rocks are naught to dare
With you an exile's lot to share. Martial:
Well, fate has granted wealth to you. Candidus:
'Twas meant for one and not for two. Martial:
But would you give the half of it? Candidus:
That's much to ask you must admit. Martial:
Will you give anything to me?
What? You refuse? It's plain to see

I WILL not give his name, although you press me,
Let " Postumus" suffice you in my verse.
He's well avenged when e'er he doth caress me;
Dare I provoke and make his vengeance worse?

Oh , Phoebus and ye sisters nine,
Why plague your bard? What sin is mine?
What have I done amiss
That Postumus, who distantly
Has heretofore saluted me,
Now greets me with a kiss?

Some you embrace. Some by the hand you shake:
Which would I choose? Your hand, for mercy's sake.

Paul reads as his own all the poems he buys.
Well, all that he pays for is his, I surmise.

To think that I would fawn on you
For dinner — such a dinner too
As yours, ah, what a fate!
He that could face your daintiest fare,
Good Zoilus, had better share
With Lazarus at the gate.

I COURT your dinners, truth to tell,
'Tis mean as I'm aware;
But you're a parasite as well —
And so we are a pair.

I come to call, and hear that you
Have gone to call elsewhere;
You cringe before a patron too —
And so we are a pair.

In town I join your escort's van
And walk before you there;
But you escort some other man —
And so we are a pair.

If serve I must, a master free
Shall be the boon I crave;
Though ill that fate, 'tis worse to be
The servant of a slave.

A LADY barber there doth dwell
Just where Suburra's vale emerges
To join the place where Argus fell,
Where hang the lictors' bloody scourges.
She sits among the cobblers' booths
That take up half the street or block it;
No chin this barber ever smooths!
What is it that she trims? — Your pocket.

Now Zoilus is ill, 'tis said;
But rumour's a deceiver.
'Tis only that his scarlet bed
Has given him scarlet fever.

He longed to make a fool's display
(Good health alone prevented)
Of downy cushions, hangings gay
With Tyrian dyes and scented.

Not Aesculapius' art divine
Is needed, I assure him;
If he would change his bed for mine
I know that it would cure him.