[In this letter to his friend Cornelius Priscus, written around 104, Pliny eulogizes Martial, commending the poet's wit, incisiveness, and good nature. He also describes their patron-client relationship and raises doubts about the endurance of Martial's epigrams.]

I have just heard of the death of poor Martial, which much concerns me. He was a man of an acute and lively genius, and his writings abound in both wit and satire, combined with equal candour. When he left Rome I complimented him by a present to defray the charges of his journey, not only as a testimony of my friendship, but in return for the little poem which he had written about me. It was the custom of the ancients to distinguish those poets with honours or pecuniary rewards, who had celebrated particular persons or cities in their verses; but this practice, with every other that is fair and noble, is now grown out of fashion; and in consequence of having ceased to act laudably, we consider applause as an impertinent and worthless tribute. You will be desirous, perhaps, to see the verses which merited this acknowledgement from me; and I believe I can, from my memory, partly satisfy your curiosity, without referring you to his works: but if you are pleased with this specimen of them, you must turn to his poems for the rest. He addresses himself to his Muse, whom he directs to seek my house upon the Esquiline, and to approach me with respect:

"Go, wanton Muse, but go with care,
Nor meet, ill-tim'd, my Pliny's ear.
He, by sage Minerva taught,
Gives the day to studious thought,
And plans that eloquence divine,
Which shall to future ages shine,
And rival, wond'rous Tully! thine.
Then, cautious, watch the vacant hour,
When Bacchus reigns in all his power!
When crown'd with rosy chaplets gay,
E'en rigid Catos read my lay."

Do you not think that the poet who wrote in such terms of me, deserved some friendly marks of my bounty then, and that he merits my sorrow now? For he gave me the most he could, and it was want of power only, if his present was not more valuable. But to say truth, what higher can be conferred on man than fame, and applause, and immortality? And though it should be granted, that his poems will not be immortal, still, no doubt, he composed them upon the contrary supposition. Farewell.