Over Witchs Knee (The Lesbia Chronicles Book 1)

He curbs the enterprise of the pushing tradesmen who encroach upon the highway with their stalls; he settles scales of fees, and regulates theatre accommodation; he offers handsome prizes at the literary and musical competitions which take place in his Alban villa; he employs a young and deserving architect to build for him a palace which shall be worthy of the world's capital city; he keeps a strict watch over the morals of the community, passes laws to protect young children from vicious degradation, endeavours to preserve the sanctity of marriage and family life, and discourages all licentiousness in literature, being himself so strict in his regard for propriety that our poet has to be far more careful than is his wont when he is writing for the imperial ear.

These are some of the impressions of Domitian's character that we get from a perusal of the Epigrams, and although Martial is commonly accused of shameless flattery and sycophantic adulation, it is well, for the sake of truth, that we have in him some corrective to the venom of Tacitus' pen.

Domitian had his faults, but for the historian his unforgivable sin was that, being himself something of a realist, he refused to acquiesce any longer in the legal fiction that made the senate ostensibly a co-partner in empire. Immediately below the Emperor comes the imperial entourage: Crispinus, the commander of the bodyguard; Regulus, the great orator, Domitian's most trusted counsellor; the freedmen, Parthenius, imperial chamberlain, Sextus, librarian, and Entellus, confidential secretary; the architect Rabirius, the butler Euphemus, the cup-bearer Earinos, and the actors Paris and Latinus.

On all of these, high and low alike, Martial lavishes his most ingenious flattery, receiving in return such small rewards as the gift of a toga from Parthenius, described with a wealth of hyperbole in Book VIII, xxviii. Next we have the leading lights of Roman society, ix. Among the high officials, generals, administrators, and governors of provinces are Licinius Sura, Domitius Tullus, and his brother Lucanus, the Etrusci father and son, Macer, Avitus, Paulus, Vestinus, and Antonius Primus, the most brilliant commander of the Flavian armies, whose capture of Cremona is described in Tacitus' Histories.

The literary aristocrats include the younger Pliny, Silius Italicus, author of the Punica, the poet Stella and his wife Ianthis, the poetess Sulpicia and her husband Calenus, Frontinus the great authority on aqueducts, and Polla, widow of Lucan. Of contemporary writers Quintilian and Juvenal receive complimentary verses; Statius alone is never mentioned. Then follows a less distinguished gathering, men and women of Martial's own station in life, for whom he shows in many poems a very real and sincere affection.

His dearest friend perhaps is his namesake, Julius Martialis, on whose suburban villa he writes one of his most charming pieces; but he has many other intimates, Quintus Ovidius, his neighbour at Nomentum, the centurion Pudens and his British wife Claudia, Canius Rufus of Gades, husband of the learned Theophila, his fellow poets, Castricus and Cerialis, Faustinus and Flaccus, his compatriots Decianus, Priscus, Licinianus, and Maternus. To all of these he writes with genuine warmth, and for many of them he obviously felt the same tender regard as inspires the three beautiful epigrams on the death of the little slave girl Erotion V, xxxiv, xxxvii, X, lxi , poems which show that even if Martial was a bachelor and no great respecter of women, he was a true lover of children.

And then we are introduced to the more sordid side of life in the capital, to an anonymous world for whom Martial invents fictitious names-Zoilus, Caecilianus, Postumus, Galla, Lesbia, Gellia-a world consisting chiefly of needy clients and upstart parvenus, of old ladies of excessive temperament and young ladies of easy virtue. There is the captator, the adventurer who tries by flattery and small services to win the good graces of a childless millionaire, and to secure a legacy in his will: Every aspect of Rome Martial presents to us.

With him we pass through the crowded streets and the long muddy stairways up the hill-sides, along which the white-robed client in the early morning has to trudge his way in order to be present at his patron's levee. We see the law courts beset by a crowd of litigants and hear the applause and cheers that greet some brilliant effort of eloquence by a great advocate.

We visit the baths, public and private, each with its own regular clientele, and watch the masseurs anointing and rubbing down their customers, while sly thieves look for their opportunity to filch some bather's gown. We sit among the audience in the theatre and smile as Leitus or Oceanus, the two chief ushers, touch some upstart on the shoulder and eject him from the rows of seats reserved for senators and knights.

We smell the odour of the circus mingled of the blood of slain animals, the scent of liquid saffron and cinnamon, and the press of the great crowd. And finally we hear all the gossip of the town: There is hardly any incident however trivial which will not serve Martial as the subject for an epigram, and he always treats his theme with the lightest wit and the most dexterous skill.

He is a realist, and one of the most extreme of that school: But the blame for them, if blame must be allotted-in this volume they are mostly left in their original Latin-does not rest solely with Martial: As regards bulk of poems, variety of subject, general interest, and posthumous fame, he easily surpasses all his Greek rivals, while among his own countrymen there is no one who in this particular field can be even compared with him.

He is certainly indebted in some degree-and handsomely acknowledges his debtto Catullus and Ovid for his style; but if it is possible to improve upon the dainty lightness of the one and the glittering polish of the other, Martial accomplishes that miraculous feat. He is the epigrammatist, and it is largely owing to his predominance that the word 'epigram ' in English bears a somewhat different meaning from that which it has in Greek.

Originally an inscription, whether in verse or in prose, such as might be placed on a tomb, a statue, or a temple offering, it came to mean for the Greeks a short poem having, as Mr Mackail says, " the compression and conciseness of a real inscription, highly finished, evenly balanced, simple, lucid.

It is of Martial that the Oxford Dictionary is thinking when it says: Though Martial lived most of his days in Rome, he was in a very genuine sense a lover of the country, of the simple life, and of his own native land. When he is treating of these three subjects and writing rather to please himself than his Roman audience, he is apt to escape from the confined limits of the epigram, and to employ the 'limping iambic' as his metre.

The bizarre effect obtained by the unexpected xii. His model, of course, is the ' Sirmio' of Catullus, and in several pieces he, at least, equals his predecessor. There is the beautiful description III, lviii of Faustinus' farm, and of the suburban retreat of Julius Martialis IV, lxiv , the outburst on the glories of Spain IV, lv , and the ecstatic picture of the seaside at Formiae X, xxx ; best known of all perhaps the poem on the death of little Erotion V, xxxvii , with whom compared, 'inamabilis sciurus et frequens phoenix.

While the best and longest of the iambic pieces treat of the picturesque, the most striking of the hendecasyllabics are concerned with personal emotions. Here again Martial follows Catullus in the 'Passer' poems, but for him the place of Lesbia is taken by male friends, above all by his dear Julius Martialis. To him the three most charming of the series are addressed, the invitation to holiday, with its reminder of the hours-' qui nobis pereunt et imputantur' V, xx ; the description of the happy life and all that it needs X, xlvii ; and the final poem of farewell written in sorrow from Spain-' nulli te facias nimis sodalem '.

It would be possible to collect from Martial a small anthology, in which each piece was of high poetical quality, and most of these pieces would be either in iambics or in hendecasyllabics. But this was not the sort of thing that really pleased Martial's public; what they wanted was humorous realism, and if the humour was somewhat gross, that was rather a recommendation than a fault.

Consequently the large majority of the Epigrams are of the humorous type, and are written in the elegiac metre. Pieces more than twelve lines in length are comparatively rare, and a very large number are either in four lines or in two. Generally speaking, the shorter the epigram is, the stronger is the effect that it produces, and the device whereby the sting of the sarcasm is kept for the very last word is often used with wonderful effect. To take one simple example, no better and no worse than a score of similar cases- Bk.

Acerra this morning was still drinking deep, While you were asleep. In his epigram the vital points are the position of hesterno and fallitur, and the sound of the syllable-er-six times repeated in the two lines; and these must almost inevitably disappear. Still the joke remains, and although slight, it is a good one, as chance once proved to me many years ago when I was a master at a certain public school on the south coast.

I had been spending the night at the club and was returning home about 3 A. To ask him to take my form to-morrow and to be assured of his willingness was the work of a moment, and I went on to sleep the sleep of the just. About half-past nine, however, my landlady ushered the school porter into my bedroom" There's no one with your lads, sir, and they're making a bit of a noise ". Jumping up in haste I ran across and reproached my friend with his breach of trust.

I was forced to apologize, and since then I have always regarded this epigram with especial respect. For myself I would seek reputation at a lower price than that, and the last thing for which I desire to be commended is mere smartness. May the malicious commentator abstain from meddling with the plain meaning of my jokes, and frotm writing my epigrams anew; for he is dishonourable 'who misapplies ingenuity upon another's book. I wozild make no apologyfor immodest unreserve in word-that is, for the language of epigram-were I the first to use it, but thiis s the manner in which Catullus w'rites, and Marsus, Pedo, Gaetllicus, and every other author whose works are read all through; yet if there be any mnan so ostentatiously prim, that one may not, even on a single page, speak plain Latin to him, he can be content to go no further than this preface-or rather no further than the title.

One that a single hand can hold Is best of all, and 'twere a pity Should you forget where such are sold And wander vaguely through the city. Near Pallas' forum you shall see The shrine of Peace, and close behind them Secundus' shop-a freedman he Of Lucca's sage-there you shall find them. Mistress Rome is a blasee dame, All her children will gibe and jeer: Even her babies can sniff and sneer, Young and old, they are all the same, Poor little book, but you're safer here, Why seek Booksellers' Row-and Fame?

They whose applause may seem sincere Soon will toss you aside to shame. Think you my pen is too austere?

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Go then fly erc it harm and maim, Poor little book-but you're safer here. A God of power supreme each marvel wroughtIs Jove's or Caesar's greater in thy thought? Aye, lesser is thy singer's vaunted lay As is the sparrow lesser than the dove. A churchyard cough that promises to end thee. I wot that even Fortune shrank aghast From crime so foul, lest hate should be her meed.

Now is that ruin gain: We wondered how the captured prey escaped the lions wild Till we were told that they were yours-and so of course were mild. Nay, with both hands, we needs must grasp delight And hold her to our heart while yet we may: Yet even thus she oft doth mock our might And from the fond embrace doth glide away. True wisdom saith not ' Life shall soon be bright '; To-morrow is too late-Live thou to-day. What wrong has the good liquor done, what benefit the other? Your guests perhaps deserve to die: But 'tis a shame that all must blame to slay a vintage rare. Your guests look on amazed and rueful: You bade them come to dine with you, And now you gobble every truffle!

What sort of dainty ought to fill That monstrous maw, you greedy sinner? You'd eat if I could have my will The truffles served for Claudius' dinner. While Mucius endured his hand to maim The monarch dared not to behold the deed; And thus that hand has earned the greater fame, A truer blow had won a lesser meed. Thblt petty draught would he disdain. I never yet with him have dined. My naked charms do not, I find, Excite his admiration. Nay, doth it irk you that reward is nigh?

Why bar out fame who standeth at the gate? Give birth to what must live, before you die, For honour paid to ashes comes too late. Ten full cups I don't deny you, But if more you wish to drain, Then a pot-house should supply you With the dregs of Laletane. You thought the invitation meant, Though wine obscured my wit I And-O most parlous precedentYou made a note of it! Friend, if you'll credit them to me I'll send you all my poems free; But if as yours you'd have them known, Buy them, and they'll become your own.

Ere down shall mar his cheek, claim thy reward, While flowing curls the milk-white neck adorn; Long may thy boons endure to slave and lord; Let manhood wait, but let him soon be shorn. The reason why I cannot tell. But this at least I know full well. I do not love you, Dr Fell. True mourners would not have their sorrows known, For grief of heart will choose to weep alone. Nay, those who see your wantonness Delight you more than those who share it, No pleasure pleases you unless To all the world you can declare it. You think my censure harsh? Not so, For if you follow my direction I would not ask you to forgo Your lovers, but to shun detection.

Would you say 'Write me a wedding-song, but pray Be grave as in a funeral dirge '? At Flora's feast would any urge These merry songs, to win success, Need just a touch of wantonness; A dullard would Priapus be If made a priest of Cybele. Yours is the kind that every gutter hatches, Across the Tiber it is bred in batches And trades in broken glass and peddles matches. If you would find your peers, the street supplies them, The sellers of boiled peas, the lout that buys them, The cheating quacks with snakes to advertize them.

The salt meat vendor's hireling is your fellow, To yours the street-musician's tones are mellow, The reeking sausage-seller thus does bellow. Slave-dealing Spaniards, refuse of the nation, The debauchee whose drivelling iteration Is proof of babbling age and dissipation.

These are your equals. It does not beseem you To count yourself what no one else will deem you, No Tettius Caballus we esteem you. Let not the meaning of his name misguide you. The taste and wit that nature has denied you No vulgar dullard's horse-play can provide you. No Autumn grapes of flavour rare, No apple honey-sweet was there, Nor any ripe and luscious pear, Hung late upon the bough.

No rosy peaches graced the board, Your baskets still their cheeses hoard, No olive jar its bounty poured To cheer our drooping mind. In lonely state that pigling lay, So small that 'twere an easy prey For any brat unarmed to slay; Yet there was worse behind! We never got a single bit, But only sat and looked at it, So in the Arena one might sit, And feast his eyes while starving. You stingy host, for such a feat I will not wish you boar to eat, But only hope, when next you meet, The boar may do the carving.

It's only when you bid me wait That I dash from the starting-gate. If you are in such haste to go You'd better tell me to be slow. She was never more safe in the loneliest fen, Never more sure of life in the depths of her den. If you wish, wanton hare, from the greyhound to liy, Then the jaws of the lion will refuge supply. Caius the ancient with his locks of snow, The shattered crags of Vadavevo's peak, And soft Boterdus' valley shalt thou know, Whose pleasant groves Pomona loves to seek.

How sweet in genial Congedus to swim, Or breast the waters of the nymphs' calm pool, In Salo's brook to brace each weary limb Where steel is hardened by his waters cool. Voberca's self-no further need'st thou strayShall bring thee game, and thou shalt hunt at ease, And cloudless summer's heat canst thou allay By golden Tagus' bank beneath the trees. Dercenna shall thy parching thirst assuage, And Nutha colder than the frozen snow, But ere the wrath of hoarse December rage Seek the calm shores of sunny Tarraco.

Thy Laletania shall thy refuge be, And there shalt thou the boar or hind ensnare, The while thy verdurer tracks the stag for thee, Thy sturdy steed may tire the cunning hare. There unkempt urchins seek the genial glow Thy forest-girdled hearthstone doth afford, Where rustic guests a generous welcome know And many a hungry hunter shares thy board.

The sandal, crescent-decked, the robe of state, The cloak of purple dye thou shalt not need, Nor fear the hoarse Liburnian at thy gate; No clients grumble there, no widows plead; No pale defendant breaks into thy sleep; Nay, if thou wilt, turn mornings into nights: The world's applause let others seek and keep, Yet feel some pity for those hapless wights.

And while friend Sura goes in quest of praise, Seek true delight henceforth and pride forswear, Justly the joys of life demand our days, For fame already hath her ample share. For ' T'other ' as a name is just as nice. The sturdiest foe alone provokes his might, And will he turn from lordly bulls to thee; Or stoop to crush a neck he scarce can see? Ah, puny hare, that hope must thou forgo, Thou shalt not fall to such a noble foe. Should he oppress it or enslave, Defend it and convict the knave; And if he claim its lord to be, Say it was mine but now is free. Three times and four the truth proclaim And put the kidnapper to shame.

Thus of the rest your theft doth stand revealed. When to swan-haunted streams a crow is nigh The carrion bird hath yet a fouler taint, When thrills the grove to nightingales, the pie Mars with her evil shriek the Attic plaint. No surer proof, no advocate, I need Your page stands forth to prove your felon deed. For if one vacant place there be I pray you give that place to me. A love untried may yet be true, For all old friends have once been new. Make proof of mine, since, if 'tis fit, The years can only strengthen it. Why should I always trudge the stony street And go each morn some haughty lord to greet, When all the country's spoils are mine to get Caught in the meshes of a hunting-net?

When I with line could snare the leaping trout And from the hive press golden honey out, While Joan my humble board with eggs supplies Boiled on a fire whose logs she never buys? May he not love this life who loves not me, And still in Rome a pale-faced client be! Vintner, whatever be your will, You cannot sell neat wine. My friend, I hate a forward jade But loathe a prude as well. I love the mean: I smiled-' No, not to-day. Ah, give me Lupus' dingy den; 'Tis little consolation To bathe in luxury-and then To perish of starvation.

Where is your back, and where those shoulders round, Wherein the bullock feels the deep-struck wound? Why tease in empty sport the forest lord? He picks the beast that shall his meal afford. To Nile that waters Egypt's rainless coast Apollodorus hath his lustre lent. Two Senecas are proud Cordova's boast With Lucan peerless and pre-eminent. Cadiz the gay delights in Canius' name Augusta doth with Decian's glory shine; So too our Bilbilis shall tell your fame One day, my friend, and haply whisper mine. Alas, to bathe she loved to go And thus was she undone, 'For Tunbridge Wells enhanced the woe That Cheltenham had begun.

So 'twas Penelope that came, But Helen went away. Nay that ensures The consequence that you would make them yours. Your sort and mine, as now I see Do differ-fundamentally: So yours shall be, ' Ficos. Seek an unpublished work, verse yet unknown, Whose virgin page its owner guards within Close locked and sealed and scanned by him alone, Unsmeared as yet by any studious chin. For books once known can hardly be suborned To change their lord; find an unpolished scroll With boss and parchment cover unadornedSome such I have and would not tell a soulRemember, if for stolen fame you look, To buy the author's silence, not his book.

When writing to salute his Sire, His mind from her he could not sever, But ended with a lover's fire ' My only life, my light for ever. Hard by the fane of Cybele, aglow With Corybants, in colours all ablaze Stands the fair house and lofty portico. Go near thereto,'tis never barred with pride, But Phoebus and the muse it holdeth dear; To these its door is ever opened wide.

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But, if 'tis asked why Martial is not here, Say ' He doth weave thy praises into song And may not spare an hour to aught beside, For, had he come, his verse had suffered wrong. Well, I suppose, the pearly rows 'Twixt Aegle's lips that glow, Though purchased bone, she calls her own, And thinks them truly so. Lycoris, too, of mulberry hue Believes delusion fondThe powder puff is quite enough To make a lovely blonde. Must we regard you as a bard? Why, then I will admit Your head has shocks of lovely locks Without a hair on it. You have learnt wisdom now: What from Apollo will you get?

Let Pallas be your friend, A maid of sense without pretence, and lots of cash to lend.

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What can the Bacchic ivy give? But the Palladian tree Still useful grows with bending boughs in grey-green harmony. On Helicon you naught will find-a lyre perhaps or rose, Or a bright gleam of babbling stream, and noise of vain ' bravos. Richer by far and nearer are the markets of our Rome. There you will hear the chink of coin: As business man or counsellor your ardour never cools, You're busy driving bargains or as busy driving mules. Beneath the arch its master lay, The ponderous roof-tree overhead, And thence he scarce was borne away Ere fell the mass in ruin dread.

Whilst he was there, each mouldering wall, Each straining stone, the weight endured; Ah Regulus, it dared not fall Until thy safety was assured. Now as we shrink in fear to see How nigh the dreadful peril came, We know the Gods have care of thee And kept the ruin free from blame. But what says the proverb-' A dog and his vomit'? Mere fancy that it is not healthy; He's lost slaves, cattle, crops-and well, You know the whims that move the wealthy.

The truth is he's as far away As is my other friend Who rules Syene's land to-day Where Nile's blue waters end. I never meet him at a meal, Nor find his door ajar, There's not a soul in Rome, I feel, So near and yet so far. Well, either I or he must move Away from here, that's plain.

Over Witch's Knee

When we're not neighbours, it may prove That we shall meet again. It may whiten your teeth; but it does not avail To cover the reek of the far-wafted gale That comes from your nethermost caverns: Have done with such tricks then: We know you're a toper: No tottering pile of marble here shall stand, That, well I know, Vain toil should raise for Time's relentless hand To overthrow. Nay, rather shading pine and shapely yew Is planted here And meadow flowers besprinkled with the dew Of many a tear. And take, beloved, for memorial This song from me, A monument that shall not waste nor fall While time shall be.

I pray when Lachesis has spun mine hours To their last thread, Thus may I lie with simple trees and flowers Above my head. XC QUOD numquam maribus iunctam te, Bassa, uidebam Quodque tibi moechum fabula nulla dabat, Omne sed officium circa te semper obibat Turba tui sexus, non adeunte uiro, Esse uidebaris, fateor, Lucretia nobis: At tu, pro facinus, Bassa, fututor eras. Inter se geminos audes committere cunnos Mentiturque uirum prodigiosa Venus.

Commenta es dignum Thebano aenigmate monstrum, Hic, ubi uir non est, ut sit adulterium. Non opus est digito: Sed si nec focus est nec nudi sponda grabati Nec curtus Chiones Antiopesue calix, Cerea si pendet lumbis et scripta lacerna Dimidiasque nates Gallica paeda tegit, Pasceris et nigrae solo nidore culinae Et bibis inmundam cum cane pronus aquam, Non culum, neque enim est culus, qui non cacat olim, Sed fodiam digito qui superest oculum: Nec me zelotypum nec dixeris esse malignum.

Denique pedica, Mamuriane, satur. Each was a legion's captain; in the fight 'Twas his to lead it; But each has won a record yet more brightHere may'st thou read it. They lived in honour's hallowed bond, and died That bond unparted; No common thought of envy could divide The loyal-hearted. But now that lovers are no more, 'Tis learnt by heart.

But though with garish tints he quarrels, Yet what about his lurid morals? Somehow The name has slipped from me, just now. Hark, there's a lull-Now, Naevolus, speak out. The crippling poison, I conclude From this close-fisted attitude, Has now attacked his hand. But you, as though nothing were left you at all, So miserly now have become That but once in a year your companions you call To a dinner with you at your home. What boon shall we beg for you, generous sir?

You've got five, so we'll ask God for fifty. And if in reply He should fifty confer, You will soon starve to death, Master Thrifty. Yet you appear to others' eyes The grandmamma of all. I saw thee parched by fever's fiery breath, And could not brook that thou shouldst die a slave; I gave thee freedom's right before thy deathWould that my boon had freed thee from the grave!

Yet is your raiment shabbier than before, Your shoes more patched and clouted than of yore, Ten wretched olives serve you for a feast, And out of these you save the half at least, Two meals from every dish you try to squeeze, And drink Veientan to its muddy lees, Two pence a day is all that you expend, One on cold pulse, one on your lady friend. Live decently henceforth, you cheating knave, Or else return to heaven the wealth it gave. Who would not deem a miracle was here?

Yet doth a marvel greater still appear. See how the lordly lions condescend On swift but timid hares their might to spend; They catch, set free, and gambol with the prey That safe within their gaping maw doth play. Freely the quarry passes to and fro Through fangs that seem to dread the puny foe; In sooth 'tis generous shame that doth restrain The might that late a lordly bull hath slain. Could human art have taught them pity? Nay, 'Tis Caesar's law of mercy these obey. What madness can possess you? Had Naevia sworn to crown your bliss To-night, we had excused you; But since you groan and sigh, by this We know she has refused you.

Then quaff a cup of fourfold size And others let us pour you; To drown your sorrow must be wise, If only sleep's before you. So shall I weave a song That through the ages long May never perish; Nay, for the funeral flame Cannot consume a fame That all men cherish. But fat and fruitful earth Turns weariness to mirth And toil to pleasure. But now with years my feeble footsteps quiver, And far my garret by Agrippa's bays.

If in the early morn I come to greet you, A long and weary journey I must take, Fain would I travel further yet to meet you And count the toil as naught for friendship's sake. One client less can give you little sorrow, 'Tis much to me if I withhold your due; And so I send my book to say good-morrow, Ere at a later hour I come to you. A kiss is sweet from ringdove's tongue: She's nicer than the nicest girl, She's dearer than the dearest pearl; No pet can beat her. Whene'er she whines, you'd think that she Was talking sadly.

Sometimes she cries, sometimes in glee She barks out gladly. And when she needs herself to ease, She lifts her paw and says-' Sir, please, I want to badly. So modest is she, we can't find A suitor of the canine kind To let come near her. Lest death should take her from our eyes, A picture giving Her very self in shape and size Portrays her striving. Put dog and picture both together; You'll wonder which is paint, or whether They both are living.

Though long I have forgotten it, The nonsense you can buy; For Pollius will not permit Its feebleness to die. Ah, fain were he That there were writ his own. Since fate denied him his desire, He lives to tend her grave. Fairer than a swan is she, Naught can rival her. Silver, lilies, privet, snow, All must yield their pride. Now your jealous thoughts, I know, Tend to suicide. Is a black but comely maid Darker than the night.

Ant or cricket, pitch, or crow, These are not so black; You'll consent to live, I know. Put that halter back! For here Antulla lies, too early slain, Here sire and mother Will share her grave, united once again Each to the other. Hast thou a hope this holy soil to own? Thou must forswear it; 'Tis given for ever to the dead alone, None else may share it. I'll read it through And straightway send it back to you. No need is there so far to roam, You'll find the book much nearer home. You know the place where Argus died? You often pass it-close beside Is Caesar's forum, and a stall By columns marked, on which they scrawl The names and works of bards, to tell A passer-by what books they sell.

You need not stop To tell the owner of the shopBy name Atrectus-what you seek; He'll find you Martial ere you speak; His top or second pigeon-hole Is sure to hold a handsome scroll, Well smoothed and decked with purple dye. It costs but half a crown to buy.

And, besides, what do you mean to express in the said prologue that you could not express in the verses? I see why tragedies and comedies are allowed one, because they cannot speak for themselves, but epigrams need no herald and are content with their own power of speech-and a hurtful one it is too, they can do their prologising on any page they will. I beseech you, if you think fit to listen, not to do an absurd thing, nor dress a dancer in the long robe.

Furthermore consider whether a wooden sword satisfies you as a weapon against a fighter armed with a net. I, for wly part, take my place with those spectators who protest against any such unfair conditions. Ah, if you only knew with what sort of prologue, and how long a one, you nearly had to deal! Be it then as you desire, and anyone who may chance to read this book shall owe it to you that he comes unwearied to page one. But, if you had, could any bear with you?

Why, little book, of brevity complain? It saves a waste of paper: A reader too more easily may brook The flaws and blunders of a tiny book; For at a banquet he could read you through, Ere the mulled wine should cool, so short are you. Yet though by brevity success you court, Many will find you long, however short. Thy sire and brother won the Jewish crown: The wreath the Chatti send is all thine own.

True, no one ever thought that you would pay. You're her ' brother ' and she is your ' sister. Why are you not her son when you've kissed her? I pledge my life this word is trueAlas, that fortune should refuse it. I dwell two weary miles away, The homeward road my toil will double, And all the while I know I may Have but the journey for my trouble.

For when I come, you are not there, At least I may not come anigh you; Or I am told that public care Or private matters occupy you. I would not grudge two miles and more To greet my friend and sit beside him: Yet its verses are not new And unknown, All the duller ones to you I had shown; Then how carefully you'd note them, In your pocket-book you wrote them, With intent, perhaps, to quote them As your own. Now the book-no lengthy screedTakes you half a week to read, Such enjoyment is indeed Long drawn out.

As a lazy traveller lags On his way; Short the journey, yet he flags; So you stay For an hour or two to bait, When you've barely passed the gate; Yet 'twas you that would not wait Or delay! VII TO ATTICUS YOU'RE a moderate reciter, you've a pretty knack of pleading, You're a pretty story-writer, and your verse is pretty reading, You've a pretty style in dancing, and your voice is rather pretty, If your plays are not entrancing they are moderately witty, Then your satire's rather comic, and of letters you've a smattering, While on questions astronomic you've a pretty trick of chattering, Your music's commonplace with no unusual ability, At games you show some grace with no remarkable agility.

Tho' you're moderate at all, you've mastered not a thing of them; So a sciolist I call you-and the very prince and king of them. If me you blame instead of him, Your intellect must need be dim: You call me but a feeble poet? I'm not so dull as not to know it; My verse is poor, that I admit, But doubt if you can better it. Yet higher should the favour beMere speech its worth profanesIf you would not inflict on me The quarter that remains.

For grief that scarce can be suppressed He tears his hair and beats his breast. It's suspicious this perfume whenever we meet: For men always scented don't really smell sweet. You had best pay the one where most credit you'll get. That too is blank, so off to Isis' shrineSome courtesan may take him home to dine. Well, Pompey's porch may do, Or, should that fail, perhaps his avenue: He hurries next to Faustus' baths and then To Lupus' and to Gryllus' murky den.

He bathes three times and moreHeaven sends no better fortune than before. O amorous bull, pray pity Selius' plight, And make him dine with you in heaven to-night. But it really is kindness not pride that you show. 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.

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? I come to call, and hear that you Have gone to call elsewhere; You cringe before a patron tooAnd so we are a pair. In town I join your escort's van And walk before you there; But you escort some other manAnd 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.

He that could face your daintiest fare, Good Zoilus, had better share With Lazarus at the gate. Well, all that he pays for is his, I surmise. Some by the hand you shake; Which would I choose? Your hand, for mercy's sake.

Over Witch's Knee (The Chronicles of Lesbia, #1) by Loki Renard

What sin is mine? What have I done amiss That Postumus, who distantly Has heretofore saluted me, Now greets me with a kiss? He's well avenged when e'er he doth caress me; Dare I provoke and make his vengeance worse? 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. Well, fate has granted wealth to you. But would you give the half of it?

That's much to ask you must admit. Will you give anything to me? It's plain to see What ' sharing ' means; your generous mood Gives me the ill and keeps the good. With wild applause your words he intersperses, ' Perfect,' ' Hear, hear,' ' 'Tis said to admiration,' 'Bravo,' ' How grand the style!

Sed nec pedico es nec tu, Sextille, fututor, Calda Vetustinae nec tibi bucca placet. Ex istis nihil es fateor, Sextille: Nescio, sed tu scis res superesse duas. His locks diffuse their perfume all around, White are his glittering arms without an hair, New sandals daily on his feet are bound, And softest hide is all that he can bear. The crescent on his scarlet boot is seen, His patch-bespangled brow bears many a star; Dost know the creature? Strip his forehead clean, The brands thereon tell what his titles are.

Or if Laronia keep the slaves I lend her, A rich old widow, you will not offend her. To serve a servant is a lot abhorred; Let him be free who is my overlord. Fair locks I love and you have none, That's one. Your face is of the beetroot's hue, That's two. Your one blear eye can hardly see, That's three. That act all nature might appal, That's all. May you grow old together, and never another Embrace you but he, you unnatural mother. Ape not the beardless Eastern style, The culprit's sloven chin abhor!

To pose as less than man is vile, 'Tis barbarous to pose as more. Though manhood's outward looks you wear In hirsute limb and bearded face, Your mind the while is plucked and bare, Of manly growth there's not a trace. That bulging cloth, a dripping pack, Your slave bore off. Pretend or feel Some shame, and put our dinner back; 'Twas not for your to-morrow's meal. I know what his complaint is, A case of greed suppressed and thirst unsated: Exhibit thrushes fat and other dainties; Red mullets too and pike are indicated; With fine old port his thirst should be abated, And rare liqueurs stored in their slender bottlesThe faculty have all miscalculated Hydropathy won't cure such fevered throttles.

So if thou trust thy glass and me, Put thoughts of laughter out of mind; The merry mood is not for thee, Nor for the fops a blustering wind. These shun the jostling of their kind, The beldame with her powdered grace Fears rain and is not glad to find Bright sunshine on her painted face. All merriment must thou abhor With aught that might provoke to it; The depths of grief must thou explore, Away with quips and roguish wit, And rather haunt some house of woe Where mourning widows sigh and moan, If mother's tears or sister's flow Take thou their sorrows for thine own; Be thine the Tragic muse alone, And thus a wiser maxim keepHerein is crafty counsel shown — 'If thou be wise, weep, lady, weep.

Just put in your head; 'twill be dirtier still. You sport a toga of Tarentine wool, Such tufts as from the Parman flocks they pull: Mine is so old you'd think a bull had torn it, Or that some scarecrow in the ring had worn it. Your Tyrian mantle's one of Cadmus own: My poor red cloak would scarce fetch half-a-crown. Your marble rounds on Indian ivory rest: My table's wood and is on drain-pipes pressed. For you huge mullets lie in golden dish: I from red earthen plates eat red crawfish.

A troop of pages serve your cevery need: I help myself and have no Ganymede. I've not a farthing left to spend. Were I to ask, refusing me Would wound your generosity; It needs must be a harder task Refusing what I do not ask. And yet-O shame-you look with careless eye Upon your friend who passes shivering by In threadbare coat, and do not think to give A rag or two to keep him just alive. The moths alone would be the sufferers here.

Non est pedico maritus: Quae faciat duo sunt: A young and well-grown serving lad, One maid if comely would not hurt, 'Twould keep him busy if he had A flirt. Ah, friend, if you would give me these, Though in a small provincial home, I'd leave you all the luxuries Of Rome. Qua tibi parte opus est, Lesbia, sumis aquam. Infelix uenter spectat conuiuia culi Et semper miser hic esurit, ille uorat. Cease hunting for choice dinners everywhere, And be content to drink vin ordinaire; Let gold inlay on Cinna's table shine, Nor envy him; and wear a coat like mine, Waste not your substance on a courtesan; Lodge simply-'tis enough for any man.

Rule thus your mind to love but simple things And you'll be freer than the Parthian Kings. But such a charge of rankest falsehood savours; She rather is too generous with her favours. The costliest of clothes he loves to wear, And after him there comes a motley throng Of clients spruce and slaves with curly hair. His chair is gay and decked with curtains fair; Say you the smartest dandy in the town? Just now to buy a meal of plainest fare He pawned his only ring for half-a-crown. Take roses, unguents, wine, and feast withal; But gaze with me at Caesar's dome which saith, 'A God was I-and died!

He's a sword and he'll use it. Well, are they quite legal, your goings-on, pray? Postquam triste caput fastidia uispillonum Et miseri meruit taedia carnificis, Uteris ore aliter nimiaque aerugine captus Adlatras nomen quod tibi cumque datur. Haereat inguinibus potius tam noxia lingua: Nam cum fellaret, purior illa fuit. Cui praestas, culum quod, Labiene, pilas? You're not in love you sayThat makes the matter worse.

Begin, if rhetoric attracts you greatly, There's room for teachers-three have died just lately. But should you think you lack the teacher's skill Or spirit, or are doubtful of succeeding, The courts have seethed with litigants, until The Marsyas himself might turn to pleading. Delay no more-we're growing tired of waitingOr you are like to die, still hesitating. And all her money now is yours to spend!

I am indeed distressed, my worthy friend. A razor is what you require To make you like your mirror. Why should they your caprice obey, And to your fancies pander. Cut all those cruel locks away, Or touch a salamander. It is plain that there is not much doing your way. I've won the cap of liberty, Although it cost mine all. The man whose mean desires accord With all that masters crave Must cringe; but he shall need no lord Who doth not need a slave. I'm sorry, sir, I can't believe you. The famous epicures of Rome Were always pleased to dine from home.

Why, if it bores you, should you go? But if you're serious, now's your chance: Friend Melior bids you dine to-day, So play the man and say him nay. Causa quae, nisi haec est, Undis ne fouearis irrumatis? Primus te licet abluas: I'm informed you received such a tempest of knocks As the pantaloon gets when they play Box and Cox. And, what's more surprising, folk now are repeating 'Twas Caecilius gave you that most unkind beating.

You declare it's not true; and I hope it as well, But the fellow has witnesses, so people tell. Don't envy him, friend, for his train of dependants: He borrows the money to pay their attendance. Two boys belonging to the youthful band, Who with their rakes smooth out the bloody sand, The savage beast with fangs accursed slewA greater crime the circus never knew. Well might we cry-' Thou cruel thief, forbear. Learn from our Roman wolf young lives to spare.

You thought you'd cornered him: Is Brutus' boy too small? Your critic eyes perhaps despise Colossus as too tall? A word remove and I will prove You do my poem wrong. Your couplets are too long by farThat is two lines too long. You can't have tried the baths that you call hot. And, as to-day I eat at home, Your invitation I decline. But your vengeance remains incomplete it appears; He has still got another part left.

Uolnera sic Paridis dicitur ulta Venus. Cur lingat cunnum Siculus Sertorius, hoc est: Ab hoc occisus, Rufe, uidetur Eryx. You'll say perhaps it does not suit the season. I want a summer suit: What if one bade a runner try contortions acrobatic? Ask Ladas this, and his reply methinks will be emphatic. A silly task it is to make all difficulties double, And foolery for fooling's sake is merely wasted trouble. Such tricks let dull Palaemon do, his dullards entertaining, And let me please the chosen few whose ear is worth the gaining.

Well, for that many thanks: And though with your verses the Muses you sully, I praise them; for here you take pattern by Tully.

When you vomit, you do as Mark Antony did; And your greed by Apicius' shadow is hid. But when you indulge in your beastliest tricks, To find you a model I'm quite in a fix. Should verse of mine find favour in thine eyes, Though often writ in haste, 'twill plead for me: Grant me a father's right; though fate's decree Deny me fatherhood, that wrong redress; If I have failed, may this my comfort be, And this the generous guerdon of success.

The boon that one alone can give By his divine prerogative Must not be made in vain. Should you prefer the former book, Yet I will not repine; Such preference I lightly brook Since both of them are mine. Choose thee a patron soon, or, I foresee, Snatched to a gloomy kitchen in a trice Thou shalt wrap dripping fish or pungent spice; Thy clammy end the scullion shall decree; Sayst thou that to Faustinus thou wouldst flee?

A happy choice-from ills shalt thou be free Safe in his cedar-scented paradise, My little book, For bindings rich no niggard hand hath he, But thou shalt dwell a tome of high degree With bosses decked and many a gay device In purple rare or scarlet dyes of price, And critics shall not dare to mangle thee, My little book. So, bidden by the water-nymphs, I pray, Bathe fully dressed or cast your veil away.

One's enough, pray believe me; for he'll love you well, Dear Julius, of whom you have oft heard me tell. He lives by the Closed Colonnade, in the flat Which Daphnis some years ago used to live at. Though you're covered with dust when before her you stand His wife will give welcome with heart and with hand. If you see them together, or him first, or her, Just say-'twill suffice-' Marcus' greetings I bear. On him hath Fortune never frownedTo-day his life began In happiness that now is crownedHis son becomes a man. Poor starvelings, what a blow to you!

The bounty given in Nero's day Is gone! I know that ye will say, 'We'll fence no more; our cry shall be "Fixed salaries and dinners free! But now in his will he has put down his name As heir to the total estate'Twere better for him, and would come to the same, To have been disinherited straight. The one-eyed hag of whom I spoke Was Thais, and your lady's name Hermione-'tis not the same Or similar. Had I said Thais, Whereas your lady-love was Lais, You might complain of that; beside You swear your love is not one-eyed! I called her lover ' Quintus '-true: Let's change to ' Sextus '-will that do?

Methinks a curious sort of treat. Perhaps you thought your guests had died And came there to be mummified! The boar was more than high-our senses proved itYou called it ' over-fresh,' and then removed it.

• All inclusive (Les chroniques du sanglier) (French Edition)?
• The Voyeur!
• See a Problem?.

A vain excuse; we're safe beyond all question. A meal of nothing gives no indigestion. My praise is just. For Cordus, tho' he cannot see, Accepts his lady-love on trust. You're drunk, no sober man would skin His pocket in this careless manner. If you go on as you begin You soon must be a worthless Tanner. I hope your foolish whim is past; Here's my advice, if you will take it; Retrench-the chance may be your last, No prudent cobbler should forsake it. The tartlet was cooled, nor could any one hurt; But nobody touched it; 'twas turned into dirt.

We accept your excuse: Young Hylas in its jaw Thrust his fair hand to try the gaping maw. But lo, a viper grim was lurking there, Alert and far more deadly than the bear. The boy knew nothing till he felt the sting. Shame that the bear was not a living thing! Does he record for ages yet unborn The deeds of Claudius, or is his theme The screeds that foolish scribblers Nero's deem? Does he the jests of naughty Phaedrus try, Epic severe and wanton elegy, And don the buskin of, great Sophocles, Or in the ' Poet's Corner' loll at ease Telling gay stories full of Attic grace, Or in the porch of Isis' temple pace, Or idly stroll along the portico, Where Jason and his men their pictures show?

Perchance some bathhouse sees him take a dipper, Titus or Tigellinus or Agrippa; Or else he sits and walks quite free from care Amid the box-trees where Europa fair Enjoys the sun; or in some snug retreat He and Lucanus and friend Tullus meet. It may be that near Baiae's steaming bay He idly sails the Lucrine all the day, Or drives with Pollio those four short miles'Do you want to know what Canius does? That to you was starvation; so into your cup You poured deadly poison and drank the lot up.

You were always a gourmet, of that I am sure; But by death you were proved the complete epicure. We'll call it your footmen's repast, if you wish. A Tuscan priest prepared the rogue to slay And bade a rustic who had come that way With sickle sharp to geld the unclean beast, Lest the rank odour should offend the feast. Then leaning o'er the altar with his knife He pressed it down to rob it of its life. But as he leaned, a hernia came to view, And the dull rustic without more ado Cut off the titbit, thinking, I suppose, The gods were honoured by such meats as those. So he's a Gaul who, when the rite began, A Tuscan was, but now no more a man.

Bring Sabineius there; a speech of his Once froze the baths of Nero through and through. Your Massic and Opimian rare For others are too exquisite, And no man is allowed to share The products of your learned wit. These things are yours, I don't dispute So plain a fact: You've been whispering to him, good sir, quite a while. Your coat is passing vile, 'tis true; You rent a dingy den; For these and for your pleasures too You sponge on other men. But don't be too scornful, for Didymus of yore And to-day Philomelus possesses far more.

Or e'en a serving-wench at worst, If these my love rebuff; Nay, I would choose the bond-maid first, If she were fair enough. THE duties you claim from a friend newly made You expect, Fabianus, by me should be paid. To come every morning my patron to greet, And follow your chair in the cold muddy street, To be with you still at the close of the day, When you bathe at Agrippa's, right out of my way, And I bathe with Titus.

Is this my reward For thirty long years of attentive regard? My toga-I bought it myself-has worn thin: Don't you think now my time of discharge might begin? Though not very nice, 'tis a saving device, Economy bids you retain it. What motive, Sextus, brings you up to town? Some idle hope of fortune or renown? I'll be a pleader: So Civis thought and Atestinus too, -You know them-but their rent is overdue. If that should fail, my verses might atone; They're worthy Virgil's pen, as you will own.

The man is mad; our Virgils you may meet And threadbare Ovids, cowering in the street. I'll find a patron-others have beforeMartial: And all have starved excepting three or four. I mean to live here-tell me how I can. By luck alone, if you're an honest man. Well can that one-eyed beldame see Tho' half her sight is gone!

You deceive yourself, not me. A small defect is nothing when revealed; But greater seems the blemish ill concealed. You dyed your hair-and lo, The locks once whiter than a swan Are blacker than a crow. Not everyone can you deceive And, though you hide the grey, Yet Proserpine will not believe But snatch the mask away. A tigress of her whelps bereft May fill the bravest heart with terror; Untouched the basking snake is left And handling scorpions is an error; But you provide a peril worse'Tis this, you overact the poet; When you persist in reading verse, Could any patience undergo it?

For though I run or stand or sit With verse my ears are still blockaded; Aye, at the baths I must submit, My privy chambers are invaded, You stop me on my way to dine, Then wearied by your droning numbers My seat at table I resignI fall asleep-you break my slumbers. Published September 14th by Sappho's Brats first published September 11th The Chronicles of Lesbia 1. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Over Witch's Knee , please sign up.

Lists with This Book. Feb 12, Kara rated it really liked it. It features lots and lots and lots of spankings. Spankings for discipline and spankings for foreplay. The writing is terrific, and I enjoyed the inner dialogues and the banter between characters. Atrocious did not like being a peasant. The hours were terrible and the food was worse. She had therefore quite logically decided to take another path and become a thief. I see what the problem is," the robber declared. Ayla the witch and Kira the warrior have a convoluted history, and both use people, including buying and selling them.

At one point, Kira says "Ayla and I are not good people, Atrocious. We have known too much pain, too much loss, too much death. Thorberta is introduced toward the end, and is a unique character and is the least annoying of the band primarily because she is what she is without rancor or deceit. As manipulative as Aya is, Ariadne really takes the cake. Well, except for the death and destruction of the world part. Once we have gotten to know the characters, finding a way to stop the Blood Witch becomes the focus of the story. The story is much more about the characters and their interactions than it is a stop-the-evil-witch story.

And therein lies the problem. Character-driven stories benefit from likable characters. I want to care what happens to them. Stories with truly bad characters can also entertain me…I want to see them get what they deserve. Each of the characters is moving inexorably on paths toward futures over which they have no choice nor any control.

Until the very end. Atrocious finally makes a choice that matters and ends the book on a high note. The many shifting declarations of fondness and love never really felt like more than expressions of lust, though. I would not call this a romance story despite numerous and frequent pairings. This was a fun great read! I loved the story and hope there is another book because I was left wanting more!

Lesbian fantasy need I say more? Jun 07, Sascha Broich rated it really liked it. Really funny to read. One irritating thing is the missing 'r' in the word 'brought' throughout the book. Also there is an excess of spanking involved. Kara rated it it was amazing May 22, Stephanie Laforest rated it liked it Feb 15, Tracy Tury pennington rated it liked it Jun 23, Jojo rated it it was amazing Sep 04, Tammy rated it it was amazing Apr 14, Liz Levy rated it it was ok Dec 02, Erma rated it liked it Oct 15, Scr33ch rated it really liked it Jan 10,