xtensive Roman nose.

AQUILIUS.--What nose would a Roman wish to have? I object to Roman,
though it is not a bad one for the purpose. The metamorphosed would
certainly have a ballad written on him and sung about the streets. Write
it, and call him "The Man-mountain, or real and undoubted Promontory of
Noses."

GRATIAN.--It should seem they were like enough to feast--like their gods
they so irreverently prayed to--on the smell and the smoke only; so they
needed good noses and bad appetites. There is something a little abrupt
in the latter part, which I doubt if I like: the Loves and Graces should
not be made parties to the making of such a monster; and as _monster_ is
now-a-days all adopted adjective, follow the fashion of speech, and call
it "One extensive Monster-Nose."--Well, what next?

AQUILIUS.--A little piece of extravagant badinage. It seems Calvus
Licinius had sent Catullus a collection of miserable poems, and that,
too, on commencement of the Saturnalia, dedicated to joy, and freedom
from care and annoyance. Our author writes to complain of the malicious
present. There is some force, and a fair fling of contempt at the bad
poets of the day in it.

AD CALVUM LICINIUM, ORATOREM.

Now if I loved you less, my friend,
Facetious Calvus, than these eyes,
You merit hatred in such wise
As men Vatinius hate. To send
Such stuff to me! Have I been rash
In word or deed? The gods forfend!
That you should kill me with such trash,
Of vile and deleterious verse--
Volumes on volumes without end,
Of ignominious poets, worse
Than their own works. May gods be pliant,
And grant me this: that poison--pest
Light on 'em all, and on that client
Who sent 'em you; and you in jest
Transfer them, odious, and mephitic,
And execrable. I suspect 'em
Sent you by that grammarian critic,
Sulla. If so, and you have lost
No precious labour to collect 'em,
'Tis well indeed; and little cost
To you, with malice aforethought,
To send (and with intent to kill him,
And on this blessed day, when nought
But Saturnalian joys should fill him)
Your friend Catullus such a set
Of murderous authors; but the debt
I'll pay, be even with you yet--
For no perfidious friend I spare.
At early dawn, ere the sun shine, I
Will rise, and ransack shop and stall,
Collect your Caesii and Aquini,
And that Suffenus: and with car