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You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.
Martial
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Martial
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You should not fear, nor yet should you wish for your last day.
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I am a shell-fish just come from being saturated with the waters of the Lucrine lake, near Baiae but now I luxuriously thrust for noble pickle.
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Those they praise, but they read the others.
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You puff the poets of other days, The living you deplore. Spare me the accolade: your praise Is not worth dying for.
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You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price to pay for your praise.
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