"His master's grief now, once his joy,
Here lies Pantagathus, a boy
So dexterous one could never feel
The touch when his tonsorial steel
Trimmed the unruly hairs or sheared
The stubble of a stubborn beard.
Earth, treat him, as is only right,
As gently as his hand was light."
Martial, The Epigrams (85 AD).
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