S ABELLUS looks haughty; there's reason for pride;
He's made a good harvest this last Christmastide;
And he thinks and declares to the junior Bar
That he's the most lucky of pleaders by far.
The reasons that make him so puffed up are these,
I'll give you the whole catalogue, if you please—
To begin with, a half peck of flour and ground rice
And a pound and a half of frankincense and spice;
Lucanian sausage, Falerian ham,
And a pot filled with African figs boiled to jam,
A Syrian flagon of dark syrup wine,
Fat onions and cheeses and snails really fine;
From a client who lives in Picenum he got
A box with some olives—a very poor lot—
A napkin adorned with a senator's band,
And seven small cups made to fit in a stand
Which a potter had fashioned in Spain far away.
And had done quite a deal of embossing—in clay!
No wonder Sabellus feels self-satisfied;
He's beaten the record this last Christmastide.