23. To Carus, on a Wreathed Bust of Domitian -
Tell me where now the golden garland lies
That Alban Pallas gave thee for thy prize. Carus:
See'st thou our master's face in marble wrought?
To grace his locks my crown took wings unsought. Martial:
The pious oak may grudge the olive now
Its glory; for it wreathes our victor's brow.
That Alban Pallas gave thee for thy prize. Carus:
See'st thou our master's face in marble wrought?
To grace his locks my crown took wings unsought. Martial:
The pious oak may grudge the olive now
Its glory; for it wreathes our victor's brow.
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