1I hear that Valerius Martialis has died, and I am grieved. 1He was a talented man, sharp and keen, one who in his writing had a great deal of both wit and gall, and no less candour. 2I had sent him off with money for the journey when he was retiring; 2I had given this to our friendship, I had given it also to the little verses he composed about me. 3It was an old custom to honour with offices or with money those who had written the praises of individuals or of cities; 3but in our times this above all, like other fine and excellent things, has fallen out of use.
3For since we ceased to do things worthy of praise, we think it foolish to be praised as well. 4You ask what the verses are for which I returned the favour? 4I would refer you to the volume itself, if I did not remember some of them; 4if you like these, you will look for the rest in the book. 5He addresses the Muse and bids her seek out my house on the Esquiline and approach it respectfully: 'But take care that you do not, drunk, knock at the eloquent door at a time that is not yours; 5he gives whole days to stern Minerva, while for the ears of the Hundred Men he labours at what ages to come and posterity may compare even with the pages of Arpinum.
5You will go more safely at the hour of the late lamps; 5this hour is yours, when Lyaeus revels, when the rose reigns, when hair is drenched with scent. 5Then let even rigid Catos read me.' 6Was I right, then, both to send off most affectionately at that time the man who wrote this about me, and to grieve now at his death as that of a most affectionate friend? 6For he gave me the most he could, and would have given more had he been able. 6And yet what greater thing can be given to a man than glory and praise and eternity? 6But what he wrote will not be eternal; 6perhaps it will not, yet he wrote it as if it were going to be.
6Farewell.