such an extent that they arouse a feeling of aversion and alienation
in the hearts of their readers.

Accordingly we have admitted only a few of this kind, and have
rejected a great many, as, for example, Owen's frigid and spiteful
epigram:

Look, not a hair remains on your bright skull.
The hairs on your inconstant brow are null.
With every last hair lost behind, ahead,
What has the bald man left to lose? His head.[25]

Nor do we greatly care for many of the same kind in Martial, which
nevertheless were not omitted for the reasons given above.[26]

_On wordy epigrams._

It would be a long task to assemble all the natural aversions,
nevertheless we may add a few more which have removed a whole host of
epigrams from this anthology. Beyond those already mentioned, nature
finds distasteful long circumlocutions and the piling up of a single
point with varying phrase; for nature burns with a desire to find out,
ever hastens to the conclusion, and is impatient at being detained by
much talk unless there is a special reward. Consequently wordy
epigrams beget a good deal of loathing, especially those that do not
sufficiently balance their length with the magnitude of the idea. Some
of Martial's are burdened with this fault; sometimes they accumulate
too many commonplace compliments or are too petty in enumeration. For
example, in this epigram to what point are so many trite similes piled
up?

Her voice was sweeter than the aged swan,
None would prefer the Eastern pearl before her,
Or the new-polished tooth of Indic beasts,
Or the first snow, lilies untouched by hand;
She who breathed fragrance of the Paestan rose,
Compared with whom the peacock was but dull,
The squirrel uncharming, and unrare the phoenix,
Erotion, is still warm on a new pyre.[27]

Similarly, why in another well-known epigram is the same idea repeated
again and again?

Oh not unvalued object of my love,
Flaccus, the darling of Antenor's hearth,
Forego Pierian songs, the sisters' dances:
No girl among them ever gave a dime.
Phoebus is nought; Minerva has the cash,
Is shrewd, is only usurer to the gods.
What's there in Bacchus' ivy? The black tree
Of Pallas bends with mottled leaves and weight.
On Helicon there's only water, wreaths,
The divine lyres, and profitless applause.
Why do you dream of Cirrha, bare Permessis?
The forum is more Roman and mor