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Other documents randomly have
different content
roots, I order and I authorize you to hand me over to any one you
please, to be mutilated.
Megadorus. By my troth, Euclio, I perceive that you consider me a
fit man for you to make sport of in my old age, for no fault of my own.
Euclio. I’ faith, Megadorus, I am not doing so, nor should I desire it
were I able to.
Megadorus. Well, then, do you betroth your daughter to me?
Euclio. On those terms, and with that portion which I mentioned to
you.
Megadorus. Do you promise her, then?
Euclio. I do promise her.
Megadorus. May the gods bestow their blessings on it!
Euclio. May the gods do so! Observe and remember that we’ve
agreed, that my daughter is not to bring you any portion.
Megadorus. I remember it.
Euclio. But I understand in what fashion people are wont to
equivocate; an agreement is no agreement, no agreement is an
agreement—just as it pleases you.
Megadorus. I’ll have no misunderstanding with you. But what
reason is there why we shouldn’t have the nuptials this day?
Euclio. Why, by my troth, there is very good reason why we
should.
Megadorus. I’ll go, then, and prepare matters. Do you want me for
anything more?
Euclio. All is settled. Farewell.
Megadorus (going to the door of his house and calling out). Hullo!
Strobilus, follow me quickly to the meat-market.
(Exit Megadorus.)
Euclio. He has gone. Immortal gods, I do beseech you! How
powerful is gold! I do believe, now, that he has had some intimation
that I’ve got a treasure at home. He’s gaping for that; for the sake of
that has he persisted in this alliance!
—The Pot of Gold.

Terence
PARASITES AND GNATHONITES

Gnathonites (soliloquizing). Immortal gods! how far does one man

excel another! What a difference there is between a wise person and
a fool! This came strongly into my mind from the following
circumstance. As I was walking along to-day I met a certain
individual of this place, of my own rank and station—no mean fellow
—one who, like myself, had guttled away his paternal estate. I saw
him, shabby, dirty, sickly, beset with rags and years. “What’s the
meaning of this garb?” said I. He answered, “Wretch that I am, I’ve
lost what I possessed; see to what I am reduced; all my
acquaintances and friends have forsaken me.” On this I felt contempt
for him as in comparison with myself. “What!” said I, “you pitiful
sluggard, have you so managed matters as to have no hope left?
Have you lost your wits together with your estate? Don’t you see me,
who have risen from the same condition? What a complexion I have,
how spruce and well dressed, what portliness of person? I have
everything, yet have nothing; and although I possess nothing, still I
am in want of nothing.” “But I,” said he, “unhappily, can no longer find
anybody who will feed me in exchange for making me the butt of his
jokes.” “What!” said I, “do you suppose it is managed by those
means? You are quite mistaken. Once upon a time, in the early
ages, there was a calling of that sort; but I will tell you a new mode of
coney-catching; I, in fact, have been the first to strike into this path.
There is a class of men who strive to be the first in everything, but
are not; to these I pay my court. I do not offer myself to them to be
laughed at, but I am the first to laugh with them, and at the same
time to admire their parts. Whatever they say, I commend; if they
contradict that selfsame thing, I commend again. Does any one
deny? I deny; does he affirm? I affirm. In fine, I have so trained
myself as to humor them in everything. This calling is now by far the
most productive.” While we were thus talking, we arrived at the
market-place. Overjoyed, all the confectioners ran at once to meet
me; fishmongers, butchers, cooks, sausage-makers, fishermen,
whom, both when my fortunes were flourishing and when they were
ruined, I had served, and often serve still; they complimented me,
asked me to dinner, and gave me a hearty welcome. When this poor
hungry wretch saw that I was in such great esteem, and that I
obtained a living so easily, then the fellow began to entreat me that I
would allow him to learn this method of me. So I bade him become
my follower—if he could. As the disciples of the philosophers take
their names from the philosophers themselves, so, too, the Parasites
ought to be called Gnathonites.—Eunuchus.
At the beginning of the Christian Era, Roman Literature writers
had begun to come into their own, and the first century a.d. saw
many of the greatest Romans of them all in the paths of Literature.
Catullus, the blithe poet who left us some hundred or so of his
poems, frequently wrote lines more lyrical than chaste. Yet he
himself bids us remember that if a poet’s life be chaste, his lines
need not necessarily be so, too.
As Herrick later put it, “Jocund his muse was, but his life was
chaste.”
But the self-revelations of Catullus are probably no more improper
to read than those of many later and lesser poets.
Catullus
THE ROMAN COCKNEY
Stipends Anius even on opportunity shtipends,
Ambush as hambush still Anius used to declaim;
Then, hoped fondly the words were a marvel of articulation,
While with an h immense hambush arose from his heart.
So his mother of old, so e’en spoke Liber his uncle,
Credibly; so grandsire, grandam, alike did agree.

Syria took him away; all ears had rest for a moment;
Lightly the lips those words, slightly could utter again.
None was afraid any more of a sound so clumsy returning;
Sudden a solemn fright seized us: a message arrives.
“News from Sonia country; the sea, since Anius entered,
Changed; ’twas Ionian once, now ’twas Hionian all.”
 A FIXED SMILE
Egnatius, spruce owner of superb white teeth,
Smiles sweetly, smiles forever. Is the bench in view,
Where stands the pleader just prepared to rouse our tears,
Egnatius smiles sweetly. Near the pyre they mourn,
Where weeps a mother o’er the lost, the kind, one son;
Egnatius smiles sweetly—what the time, or place,
Or thing soe’er, smiles sweetly. Such a rare complaint
Is his, not handsome, scarce to please the town, say I.

So take a warning for the nonce my friend; town-bred

Were you, a Sabine hale, a pearly Tiburtine,
A frugal Umbrian body, Tuscan, huge of paunch,
A grim Samnian, black of hue, prodigious-tooth’d,
A Transpadane, my country not to pass untaxed—
In short, whoever cleanly cares to rinse foul teeth;
Yet sweetly smiling ever I would have you not:
For silly laughter, it’s a silly thing indeed.

Of Horace it is difficult to say anything without saying too much.

In this Outline there is no space for discussion, informative or
discursive, of the writers, it is our province but to name them and to
give examples of their humor.
Horace was not a comedian but in his Satires, as well as in some
of his other works, the comic muse is discernible.
Horace
OBTRUSIVE COMPANY ON THE SACRED WAY
Along the Sacred Road I strolled one day,
Deep in some bagatelle (you know my way),
When up comes one whose name I scarcely knew:
“Ah, dearest of dear fellows, how d’ye do?”
He grasped my hand: “Well, thanks; the same to you.”
Then, as he still kept walking by my side,
To cut things short, “You’ve no commands?” I cried.
“Nay, you should know me; I’m a man of lore.”
“Sir, I’m your humble servant all the more.”
All in a fret to make him let me go,
I now walk fast, now loiter and walk slow,
Now whisper to my servant, while the sweat
Ran down so fast my very feet were wet.
“Oh, had I but a temper worth the name,
Like yours, Bolanus!” inly I exclaim,
While he keeps running on at a hand-trot
About the town, the streets, I know not what.
Finding I made no answer, “Ah, I see
You’re at a strait to rid yourself of me;
But ’tis no use; I’m a tenacious friend,
And mean to hold you till your journey’s end.”
“No need to take you such a round; I go
To visit an acquaintance you don’t know.
Poor man, he’s ailing at his lodging, far
Beyond the bridge, where Cæsar’s gardens are.”
“Oh, never mind; I’ve nothing else to do,
And want a walk, so I’ll step on with you.”
Down go my ears in donkey-fashion, straight;
You’ve seen them do it, when their load’s too great.
“If I mistake not,” he begins, “you’ll find
Viscus not more, nor Varius, to your mind;
There’s not a man can turn a verse so soon,
Or dance so nimbly when he hears a tune;
While, as for singing—ah, my forte is there;
Tigellius’ self might envy me, I’ll swear.”
He paused for breath. I falteringly strike in:
“Have you a mother? Have you kith or kin
To whom your life is precious?” “Not a soul;
My line’s extinct; I have interred the whole.”
Oh, happy they! (so into thought I fell)
After life’s endless babble they sleep well.
My turn is next: despatch me, for the weird
Has come to pass which I so long have feared,
The fatal weird a Sabine beldame sung
All in my nursery days, when life was young:
“No sword nor poison e’er shall take him off,
Nor gout, nor pleurisy, nor racking cough;
A babbling tongue shall kill him; let him fly
All talkers, as he wishes not to die.”
We got to Vesta’s temple, and the sun
Told us a quarter of the day was done.
It chanced he had a suit, and was bound fast
Either to make appearance or be cast.
“Step here a moment, if you love me.” “Nay,
I know no law; ’twould hurt my health to stay.
 And then, my call.” “I’m doubting what to do,
Whether to give my lawsuit up, or you.”
“Me, pray!” “I will not.” On he strides again.
I follow, unresisting, in his train.
“How stand you with Mæcenas?” he began;
“He picks his friends with care—a shrewd, wise man.
In fact, I take it, one could hardly name
A head so cool in life’s exciting game.
’Twould be a good deed done, if you could throw
Your servant in his way; I mean, you know.
Just to play second. In a month, I’ll swear,
You’d make an end of every rival there.”
“Oh, you mistake; we don’t live there in league;
I know no house more sacred from intrigue;
I’m never distanced in my friend’s good grace
By wealth or talent; each man finds his place.”
“A miracle! If ’twere not told by you,
I scarce should credit it.” “And yet ’tis true.”
“Ah, well, you double my desire to rise
To special favor with a man so wise.”
“You’ve but to wish it; ’twill be your own fault,
If, with your nerve, you win not by assault.
He can be won; that puts him on his guard,
And so the first approach is always hard.”
“No fear of me, sir. A judicious bribe
Will work a wonder with the menial tribe.
Say I’m refused admittance for to-day,
I’ll watch my time; I’ll meet him in the way,
Escort him, dog him. In this world of ours
The path to what we want ne’er runs on flowers.”
’Mid all this prating met me, as it fell,
Aristius, my good friend, who knew him well.
We stop. Inquiries and replies go round:
“Where do you hail from?” “Whither are you bound?”
There as he stood, impassive like a clod,
I pull at his limp arms, frown, wink, and nod,
To urge him to release me. With a smile
He feigns stupidity. I burn with bile.
“Something there was you said you wished to tell
To me in private.” “Aye, I mind it well;
But not just now. ’Tis a Jews’ fast to-day:
Affront a sect so touchy? Nay, friend, nay!”
“Faith, I’ve no scruples.” “Ah, but I’ve a few!
I’m weak, you know, and do as others do.
Some other time—excuse me.” Wretched me,
That ever man so black a sun should see!
Off goes the rogue, and leaves me in despair,
Tied to the altar, with the knife in air,
When, by rare chance, the plaintiff in the suit
Knocks up against us: “Whither now, you brute?”
He roars like thunder. Then to me: “You’ll stand
My witness, sir?” “My ear’s at your command.”
Off to the court he drags him; shouts succeed;
A mob collects—thank Phœbus, I am freed!
—Satires.

The humorist feels a sense of personal grievance against the

Roman writers for that they wrote so wisely and so well, yet gave us
so little that can be used as Humor for Humor’s sake.
Petronius wrote engagingly, but with such indecency that he can
scarce be quoted for polite society.
His Trimalchio’s Dinner offers this:

AN INGENIOUS COOK

We little thought, as the saying is, that after so many dainties we

had another hill to climb; for the table being uncovered to a flourish
of music, three muzzled white hogs were brought in, with bells
hanging on their necks. The man leading them said one was two
years old, the other three, and the last full grown. For my part, I took
them for acrobats, and imagined the hogs were to perform some of
the surprising feats practised at the circus. But Trimalchio broke in
upon our expectation by asking us, “Which of these will you have
dressed for supper? Cocks and pheasants are country fare, but my
cooks have pans in which a calf can be roasted whole.” And
immediately commanding a cook to be called, Trimalchio, without
waiting for our choice, bade him kill the largest. He then inquired of
the cook how he came by him saying, “Were you bought, or were
you born in my house?” “Neither,” replied the cook, “but left you by
Pansa’s testament.” “Then see to it,” answered Trimalchio, “that this
beast is prepared quickly, or I shall make you serve my footmen.” ...
 While our host was talking on, an overgrown hog was brought to
table. We all wondered at the expedition which had been used,
swearing a capon could not have been dressed in that time; and
what increased our surprise was that this hog seemed larger than
the boar which had been set before us. Trimalchio, after gazing
steadfastly upon him, exclaimed, “What! have his entrails not been
taken out? No, by Hercules, they have not! Bring in that rogue of a
cook!” The cook, being dragged in before us, hung his head,
excusing himself that he had forgotten. “Forgotten!” roared his
master. “Strip the rascal! Strip him!” The poor man was stripped
forthwith, and placed between two tormentors. We all interceded for
him, alleging that such an error might occasionally happen, and
therefore desired his pardon, protesting we would never speak for
him if he repeated the same offense.
I thought he richly deserved his fate, and could not forbear
whispering to Agamemnon, “This must certainly be a most careless
rascal. How could any one forget to disembowel a hog? I would not
have forgiven him, by Hercules, had he thus served up a dish for
me!” Our host, resuming a pleasant look, said, “Come, now, you with
the short memory, let us see if you can disembowel the animal
before us.” Upon which the cook, having put his garments on again,
took his knife, and with a trembling hand slashed the hog on both
sides of the belly, when out tumbled a load of hog’s-puddings and
sausages....
The dessert consisted of a blackbird pie, dried grapes, and
candied nuts. There were also quinces, stuck so full of spices that
they looked like so many hedgehogs. Yet all this might have been
endured, had not the next dish been so monstrous and disgusting
that we would rather have perished of hunger than touched it; for, it
being placed upon the table, and, as we imagined, a good fat goose,
with fish and all kinds of fowl round it, Trimalchio cried, “Whatever
you see here is all made out of one body!” I, being a cunning spark,
took a guess at what it might really be, and, turning to Agamemnon,
“I wonder,” said I, “whether all this is not made of loam? I once
remember seeing such an imaginary dish in the Saturnalia at Rome.”
Scarce had I ended, when Trimalchio began to praise his cook:
 “There is no cleverer fellow in the world. Out of the belly he’ll
make you a dish of fish; a plover out of a piece of fat bacon; a turtle
out of leg of pork; and a hen out of the intestines. And therefore, in
my opinion, he has a very suitable name, for we call him Dædalus.
Because he is such an ingenious fellow, a friend of his brought him a
present of knives from Rome, of German steel; and immediately he
called for them, and, turning them over, gave us the liberty to try the
edges on his cheeks.”
Just then in rushed two servants in high dispute, as if they were
quarreling about a yoke, from which hung two earthen jars. And
when Trimalchio had judged between them, neither of them stood to
the sentence, but each fell to club law, and broke the other’s jar.
Amazed at the insolence of these drunken rascals, all our eyes were
fixed on their conflict, when we perceived oysters and other shell-fish
to fall from the broken jars, a boy collecting them in a charger and
handing them about among the guests.
Nor was the cook’s ingenuity in the least unworthy of this
extraordinary magnificence; for he brought us snails upon a silver
gridiron, and with a shrill, unpleasant voice sang us a song.... We
were almost pushed off our couches by the crowd of servants who
rushed into the hall; and who should be seated above me but the
ingenious cook, that had made a goose from a piece of pork, all
reeking of pickles and kitchen slops. Not content with being seated
at table, he began to act Thespis the Tragedian; and soon after he
challenged his master to contend with him for the laurel wreath at the
next chariot-races.
—Trimalchio’s Banquet.
Persius, who died at twenty-eight, left us six satires. Though an
imperfect imitator of Horace, his work is characterized by
earnestness and a true sense of satire.
POETIC FAME
Immured within our studies, we compose;
Some, shackled meter; some, freefooted prose;
But all, bombast—stuff, which the breast may strain,
And the huge lungs puff forth with awkward pain.
 ’Tis done! And now the bard, elate and proud,
Prepares a grand rehearsal for the crowd.
Lo! he steps forth in birthday splendor bright,
Combed and perfumed, and robed in dazzling white,
And mounts the desk; his pliant throat he clears,
And deals, insidious, round his wanton leers;
While Rome’s first nobles, by the prelude wrought,
Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,
And squeal with rapture, as the luscious line
Thrills through the marrow and inflames the chine.
Vile dotard! Canst thou thus consent to please,
To pander for such itching fools as these?
Fools, whose applause must shoot beyond thy aim,
And tinge thy cheek, bronzed as it is, with shame!
But wherefore have I learned, if, thus represt,
The leaven still must swell within my breast;
If the wild fig-tree, deeply rooted there,
Must never burst its bounds and shoot in air?
Are these the fruits of study, these of age?
Oh, times, oh, manners! Thou misjudging sage,
Is science only useful as ’tis shown,
And is thy knowledge nothing if not known?
But, sure, ’tis pleasant, as we walk, to see
The pointed finger, hear the loud “That’s he!”
On every side. And seems it, in your sight,
So poor a trifle, that whate’er we write
Is introduced to every school of note
And taught the youth of quality by rote?
Nay, more! Our nobles, gorged, and swilled with wine,
Call, o’er the banquet, for a lay divine.
Here one, on whom the princely purple glows.
Snuffles some musty legend through his nose,
Slowly distils Hypsipyle’s sad fate,
And love-lorn Phyllis dying for her mate,
With what of woful else is said or sung,
And trips up every word with lisping tongue.
The maudlin audience, from the couches round,
Hum their assent, responsive to the sound.
And are not now the poet’s ashes blest?
Now lies the turf not lightly on his breast?
They pause a moment, and again the room
Rings with his praise. Now will not roses bloom,
Now, from his relics, will not violets spring,
And o’er his hallowed urn their fragrance fling?
You laugh (’tis answered), and too freely here
Indulge that vile propensity to sneer.
Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice,
And merit, if he could the public voice?
Who would not leave posterity such rimes,
As cedar oil might keep to latest times—
Rimes which should fear no desperate grocer’s hand,
Nor fly with fish and spices through the land?
Thou, my kind monitor, whoe’er thou art,
Whom I suppose to play the opponent’s part,
Know, when I write, if chance some happier strain
(And chance it needs must be) rewards my pain,
Know, I can relish praise with genuine zest;
Not mine the torpid, mine the unfeeling breast.
But that I merely toil for this acclaim,
And make these eulogies my end and aim,
I must not, cannot grant. For—sift them all,
Mark well their value, and on what they fall—
Are they not showered (to pass these trifles o’er)
On Labeo’s Iliad, drunk with hellebore,
On princely love-lays driveled without thought,
And the crude trash on citron couches wrought?
You spread the table, ’tis a master-stroke,
And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak;
Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates
At the glad vest and the delicious cates,
“Tell me,” you cry, “for truth is my delight,
What says the town of me, and what I write?”
He cannot; he has neither ears nor eyes.
But shall I tell you who your bribes despise?
Bald trifler! cease at once your thriftless trade;
That mountain paunch for verse was never made.
—Satires.

In Martial we find a humorist after our own heart. As Homer was

the father of poetry and Herodotus the father of prose, so to Martial
must be ascribed the paternity of the epigram.
Epigrams, so-called, had been made before, but in Martial’s work
they rose to a new height, took on a new meaning.
 Before Martial, epigram meant merely inscription,—any short
poem that might conveniently be cut on stone.
Martial’s epigrams have keen wit and sharp point, such as appeal
to the mind and appreciation of the reader.
Fourteen hundred and fifty is his legacy of epigrams to us, and
most of them properly short, as an epigram should be.
TO SABIDIUS
I love thee not, Sabidius. But why?
I love thee not—that’s all I can reply.

PLAY’S THE THING

Aper pierced his wife’s heart with an arrow:
While playing, friends say.
The wife was exceedingly wealthy:
He knows how to play.

TO CATULLUS
My name’s in your will as your heir,
So you’ve said.
I’ll continue to doubt till the day—
When it’s read.

BETWEEN THE LINES

The man who sends you presents, Gaurus,—
You so rich and gray—
Remarks, if you’ve got sense and insight,
“Kindly pass away.”

TO AULUS
Though my readers sincerely admire me,
A poet finds fault with my books.
What’s the odds? When I’m giving a dinner
I’d rather please guests than the cooks.

TO POSTUMUS
When you kiss me you use only half of your mouth.
I approve. Half that half, though, will do.
Will you grant me a greater, ineffable boon?
 Keep the rest of that latter half, too.

ROUNDED WITH A SLEEP

Though he bathed with us yesterday, dined with us, too,
And was quite in the pink of condition,
Ancus died this a.m.—of a dream that he’d asked
Hermocrates to be his physician.

VENDETTA
Though it’s true, Theodorus, you frequently pray
For my book in a flattering tone,
No wonder I’m slow; I’ve good cause for delay
In my fear you’d then send me your own.

A MERE SUGGESTION
You read us your verse with your throat wrapped in wool.
The reason we’re anxious to know,
For to us it appears
That some wool in our ears
Would really be more apropos.

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

I hear that Lycoris has buried
Every friend that she’s had in her life.
I sincerely regret, Fabianus,
She’s not introduced to my wife.

A TOTAL ABSTAINER
Though you serve richest wines,
Paulus, Rumor opines
That they poisoned your four wives, I think.
It’s of course all a lie;
None believes less than I—
No, I really don’t care for a drink.

MUTE MILLIONS
In the verse Cinna writes
I am slandered, it’s said.
But the man doesn’t write
Whose verses aren’t read.
 MAN AND SUPERMAN
“Quintus loves Thais.” What Thais is that?
“Why, Thais the one-eyed, who—” Who?
Well, I was aware
She’d lost one of her pair,
But I didn’t know he had lost two.

TO LINUS
You ask what I grow on my Sabine estate.
A reliable answer is due.
I grow on that soil—
Far from urban turmoil—
Very happy at not seeing you.

CREDE EXPERTO
Diaulus left his doctoring
To practise undertaking.
His training as a medic, though,
Has really been his making.

NUMBERS SWEET
Two of your teeth were blown out by a cough,
And a subsequent cough blew out two.
You can now cough away, Delia, all night and day—
There’s nothing a third cough can do.

MILLIONS IN IT
Just give Linus half what he asks as a loan;
Then console
Yourself with the thought that you’d rather lose half
Than the whole.

TO MAMERCUS
Though you never have read us a line of your verse,
You insist on our thinking you write.
Yes, yes, be a poet; be anything else—
If you’ll only forbear to recite.

About the last of the great Latin Satirists is Juvenal, a

contemporary of Martial.
 His lines in translation, have a modern ring, but that may be
merely because the fundamental sources and themes of wit are
universal.
Juvenal
COSMETIC DISGUISE
A woman stops at nothing when she wears
Rich emeralds round her neck, and in her ears
Pearls of enormous size; these justify
Her faults, and make all lawful in her eye.
Sure, of all ills with which mankind are cursed,
A wife who brings you money is the worst.
Behold! her face a spectacle appears,
Bloated, and foul, and plastered to the ears
With viscous paste. The husband looks askew,
And sticks his lips in this detested glue.
She meets the adulterer bathed, perfumed, and dressed,
But rots in filth at home, a very pest!
For him she breathes of nard; for him alone
She makes the sweets of Araby her own;
For him, at length, she ventures to uncase,
Scales the first layer of roughcast from her face,
And, while the maids to know her now begin,
Clears, with that precious milk, her muddy skin
For which, though exiled to the frozen main,
She’d lead a drove of asses in her train!
But tell me now: this thing, thus daubed and oiled,
Thus poulticed, plastered, baked by turns and boiled,
Thus with pomatums, ointments, lacquered o’er—
Is it a face, pray tell me, or a sore?
—Satires.

ON DOMINEERING WIVES
Now tell me, if thou canst not love a wife,
Made thine by every tie, and thine for life,
Why wed at all? Why waste the wine and cakes
The queasy-stomached guest at parting takes,
And the rich present, which the bridal right
Claims for the favors of the happy night,
The charger, where, triumphantly inscrolled,
The Dacian Hero shines in current gold?
If thou canst love, and thy besotted mind
Is so uxoriously to one inclined,
Then bow thy neck, and with submissive air
Receive the yoke thou must forever wear.
To a fond spouse a wife no mercy shows;
Though warmed with equal fires, she mocks his wos,
And triumphs in his spoils; her wayward will
Defeats his bliss, and turns his good to ill.
Naught must be given, if she opposes; naught,
If she opposes, must be sold or bought;
She tells him where to love, and where to hate;
Shuts out the ancient friend, whose beard his gate
Knew from its downy to its hoary state;
And when pimps, parasites, of all degrees,
Have power to will their fortunes as they please,
She dictates his, and impudently dares
To name his very rivals for his heirs.
“Go, crucify that slave!” “For what offense?
Who the accuser? Where the evidence?
For when the life of man is in debate,
No time can be too long, no care too great.
Hear all, weigh all with caution, I advise—”
“Thou sniveler! Is a slave a man?” she cries.
“He’s innocent!” “Be’t so; ’tis my command,
My will. Let that, sir, for a reason stand.”
Thus the virago triumphs, thus she reigns.
Anon she sickens of her first domains,
And seeks for new; husband on husband takes,
Till of her bridal veil one rent she makes.
Again she tires, again for change she burns,
And to the bed she lately left returns,
While the fresh garlands and unfaded boughs
Yet deck the portal of her wondering spouse.
“Eight Husbands to Herself She Gave”—
A rare inscription for her grave!
—Satires.

Apuleius was the skilful teller of a long and fantastic tale called
Metamorphoses, commonly known as the Golden Ass.
But a small extract may be given.

Apuleius
 METAMORPHOSES
Fotis came running to me one day in great excitement and
trepidation, and informed me that her mistress, having hitherto made
no proficiency by other means in her present amour, intended to
assume feathers like a bird, and so take flight to the object of her
love, and that I must prepare myself with all due care for the sight of
such a wonderful proceeding. And now, about the first watch of the
night, she escorted me, on tiptoe and with noiseless steps, to that
same upper chamber, and bade me peep through a chink in the
door, which I did accordingly.
In the first place, Pamphile divested herself of all her garments,
and having unlocked a certain cabinet, took out of it several little
boxes. Taking the lid off one of them, and pouring some ointment
therefrom, she rubbed herself for a considerable time with her
hands, smearing herself all over from the tips of her toes to the
crown of her head. Then, after she had muttered a long while in a
low voice over a lamp, she shook her limbs with tremulous jerks,
then gently waved them to and fro, until soft feathers burst forth,
strong wings displayed themselves, the nose was hardened and
curved into a beak, the nails were compressed and made crooked.
Thus did Pamphile become an owl. Then, uttering a querulous
scream, she made trial of her powers, leaping little by little from the
ground; and presently, raising herself aloft, on full wing, she flew out-
of-doors. And thus was she, of her own will, changed, by her own
magic arts.
But I, though not enchanted by any magic spell, still, riveted to the
spot by astonishment at this performance, seemed to myself to be
anything else rather than Lucius. Thus deprived of my senses, and
astounded even to insanity, I was in a waking dream, and rubbed my
eyes for some time to ascertain whether or not I was awake at all. At
last, however, returning to consciousness of the reality of things, I
took hold of the right hand of Fotis, and putting it to my eyes, “Suffer
me,” said I, “I beg of you, to enjoy a great and singular proof of your
affection, while the opportunity offers, and give me a little ointment
from the same box. Grant this, my sweetest, I entreat you by these
breasts of yours, and thus, by conferring on me an obligation that
can never be repaid, bind me to you forever as your slave. Be you
my Venus, and let me stand by you a winged Cupid.”
“And are you, then, sweetheart, for playing me a fox’s trick, and
for causing me, of my own accord, to let fall the ax upon my legs?
Must I run such risk of having my Lucius torn from me by the wolves
of Thessaly? Where am I to look for him when he is changed into a
bird? When shall I see him again?”
“May the celestial powers,” said I, “avert from me such a crime!
Though borne aloft on the wings of the eagle itself, soaring through
the midst of the heavens, as the trusty messenger, or joyous arm-
bearer, of supreme Jove, would I not, after I had obtained this dignity
of wing, still fly back every now and then to my nest? I swear to you,
by that lovely little knot of hair with which you have enchanted my
spirit, that I would prefer no other to my Fotis. And then, besides, I
bethink me that as soon as I am rubbed with that ointment, and shall
have been changed into a bird of this kind, I shall be bound to keep
at a distance from all human habitations; for what a beautiful and
agreeable lover will the ladies gain in an owl! Why, do we not see
that these birds of night, when they have got into any house, are
eagerly seized and nailed to the doors, in order that they may atone,
by their torments, for the evil destiny which they portend to the family
by their inauspicious flight? But one thing I had almost forgot to
inquire: what must I say, or do, in order to get rid of my wings and
return to my own form as Lucius?”
“Be in no anxiety,” she said, “about all that matter; for my mistress
has made me acquainted with everything that can again change
such forms into the human shape. But do not suppose that this was
done through any kind feeling toward me, but in order that I might
assist her with the requisite remedies when she returns home. Only
think with what simple and trifling herbs such a mighty result is
brought about: for instance, a little anise, with some leaves of laurel
infused in spring water, and used as a lotion and a draft.”
Having assured me of this over and over again, she stole into her
mistress’s chamber with the greatest trepidation, and took a little box
out of the casket. Having first hugged and kissed it, and offered up a
prayer that it would favor me with a prosperous flight, I hastily
divested myself of all my garments, then greedily dipping my fingers
into the box, and taking thence a considerable quantity of the
ointment, I rubbed it all over my body and limbs. And now, flapping
my arms up and down, I anxiously awaited my change into a bird.
But no down, no shooting wings appeared. Instead, my hairs
became thickened into bristles, and my tender skin was hardened
into a hide; my hands and feet, too, no longer furnished with distinct
fingers and toes, formed into massive hoofs, and a long tail projected
from the extremity of my spine. My face was now enormous, my
mouth wide, my nostrils gaping, and my lips hanging down. In like
manner my ears grew hairy and of immoderate length, and I found in
every respect I had become enlarged. Thus, hopelessly surveying all
parts of my body, I beheld myself changed—not into a bird, but an
ass.
I wished to upbraid Fotis for the deed she had done; but, now
deprived both of the gesture and voice of man, I could only
expostulate with her silently with my under-lip hanging down, and
looking sidewise at her with tearful eyes. As for her, as soon as she
beheld me thus changed she beat her face with her hands, and cried
aloud, “Wretch that I am, I am undone! In my haste and flurry I
mistook one box for the other, deceived by their similarity. It is
fortunate, however, that a remedy for this transformation is easily to
be obtained; for, by only chewing roses, you will put off the form of
an ass, and in an instant will become my Lucius once again. I only
wish that I had prepared as usual some garlands of roses for us last
evening; for then you would not have had to suffer the delay even of
a single night. But at the break of dawn the remedy shall be provided
for you.”
Thus did she lament; and as for me, though I was a perfect ass,
and instead of Lucius, a beast of burden, I still retained human
sense. Long and deeply, in fact, did I consider with myself whether I
ought not to bite and kick that most wicked woman to death.
However, better thoughts recalled me from such rash designs, lest,
by inflicting on Fotis the punishment of death, I should at once put an
end to all chances of efficient assistance. So, bending my head low,
and shaking my ears, I silently swallowed my wrongs for a time, and
submitting to my most dreadful misfortune, I betook myself to the
stable to the good horse which had carried me so well, and there I
found another ass also, which belonged to my former host, Milo.
Now it occurred to me that, if there are in dumb animals any silent
and natural ties of sympathy, this horse of mine, being influenced by
a certain feeling of recognition and compassion, would afford me
room for a lodging and the rights of hospitality. But, oh, Jupiter
Hospitalis, and all you the guardian divinities of Faith! this very
excellent nag of mine and the ass put their heads together and
immediately plotted schemes for my destruction; and as soon as
they beheld me approaching the manger, laying back their ears and
quite frantic with rage, they furiously attacked me with their heels,
fearing I had design upon their food. Consequently, I was driven
away into the farthest corner from that very barley which the evening
before I had placed, with my own hands, before that most grateful
servant of mine.
Thus harshly treated and sent into banishment, I betook myself to
a corner of the stable. And while I reflected on the insolence of my
companions, and formed plans of vengeance against the perfidious
steed, for the next day, when I should have become Lucius once
more by the aid of the roses, I beheld against the central square
pillar which supported the beams of the stable, a statue of the
goddess Hippona, standing within a shrine, and nicely adorned with
garlands of roses, and those, too, recently gathered. Inspired with
hope, the moment I espied the salutary remedy I boldly mounted as
far as ever my forelegs could stretch; and then, with neck at full
length, and extending my lips as much as I possibly could, I
endeavored to catch hold of the garlands. But by a most unlucky
chance, just as I was endeavoring to accomplish this, my servant
lad, who had the constant charge of my horse, suddenly espied me,
sprang to his feet in a great rage, and exclaimed, “How long are we
to put up with this vile hack, which but a few moments ago was for
making an attack upon the food of the cattle, and is now doing the
same even to the statues of the gods? But if I don’t this very instant
cause this sacrilegious beast to be both sore and crippled”—and
searching for something with which to strike me, he stumbled upon a