Book X, Epigram 9 (Ker)

With my eleven-footed and eleven-syllabled verse, and flowing, yet not froward wit, I, that Martial, who am known to the nations and to Rome's peoples (why do you envy me?) am not known better than the horse Andraemoiib what can I do here? What do you leave to us, Paulus, us who are of the herd of Numa and a teeming crowd? Shall I greet as Lord and King him who but gives me a glance? This, and how much more blandly! you also do. Shall I follow a litter or chair? You don't refuse even to shoulder one, and to struggle to pass first through the middle of the mud. Shall I repeatedly rise when a man recites poems? You are already standing, and put to your lips both hands at once. What shall a poor man do, debarred from being a client? Your purple has ousted our togas.