by Martial
even filthy street-whores hide in tombs.
Is my critique too stringent, to your thought?
I don’t say “Don’t get fucked,” just “Don’t get caught.”
1.37
You take a dump in gold (poor gold!) and aren’t ashamed of it.
Bassa, you drink from glass; it therefore costs you more to shit.
1.38
The book that you recite from, Fidentinus, is my own.
But when you read it badly, it belongs to you alone.
1.40
Spite, do you scowl to read of praise, though due?
Then envy all, while no one envies you.
1.46
When you say, “I’m in haste, so get it done with,”
my passion droops and falters instantly.
Tell me to wait: held back, I’ll just go faster.
If you’re in a hurry, Hedylus, don’t rush me.
1.47
Diaulus was a doctor lately; now he’s a mortician:
he does as undertaker what he did as a physician.
1.54
If you can spare some time for being loved
(for you have friends on every side, it’s true),
Fuscus, make room for me, if space remains.
Do not refuse me just because I’m new:
your old friends all were new once. See if you
can’t make a newfound chum an old friend, too.
1.57
Flaccus, you ask what kind of girl I want?
One not too hard to get, but not too easy.
I like a girl between the two extremes:
one who will neither satiate nor tease me.
1.58
The dealer priced a boy at a hundred grand.
I laughed, but Phoebus paid it instantly.
My cock is grieved and grumbles to himself,
applauding Phoebus and berating me.
But his cock earned two million for him. Score
as much for me, cock: next time I’ll pay more.
1.59
The dole at Baiae matches that in Rome.
Why amidst pleasures does such hunger dwell?
Give me the murky baths of Lupus and Gryllus:
why dine so badly, Flaccus, to bathe well?
1.62
Laevina, no less chaste than ancient Sabines
and sterner than her mate (who was quite dire),
on trusting Lakes Lucrinus and Avernus
and warming in the Baian spas, caught fire,
ran off with a youth, and left her spouse bereft:
arriving, Penelope; Helen when she left.
1.63
You’d have me recite my poems. I decline.
You want to recite yours, Celer, not hear mine.
1.64
You’re lovely, yes, and young, it’s true,
and rich—who can deny your wealth?
But you aren’t lovely, young, or rich,
Fabulla, when you praise yourself.
1.71
I’ll drink six drafts for Laevia and seven for Justina,
five for Lycis, four for Lyde, and for Ida, three.
Let all my girls be numbered by the pouring of Falernian,
and since not one of them has come, let you, Sleep, come to me.
1.72
You think yourself a poet, Fidentinus,
based on my verse, and want it widely known?
So Aegle thinks she has her teeth because
she purchased Indian ivory and bone;
so too Lycoris, blacker than ripe mulberries,
when powdered with white lead thinks she looks fair.
And you, the same way you’ve become a poet,
when you’ve gone bald, will have a head of hair.
1.73
None in all Rome would’ve wished to touch your wife
for free—if you permitted it—not ever.
Now that you’ve posted guards, Caecilianus,
you’ve drawn a crowd of fuckers. You’re so clever.
1.74
He was your lover, Paula. It’s a fact you could deny.
Look, he’s now your husband. Can you still call it a lie?
1.77
Charinus has good health, and yet he’s pale.
Charinus doesn’t drink much, yet he’s pale.
Charinus can digest well, yet he’s pale.
Charinus gets some sun, and yet he’s pale.
Charinus paints his face, and yet he’s pale.
Charinus licks a cunt, and yet he’s pale.
1.83
Manneia, your lapdog licks your lips with his tongue.
It’s no surprise that a dog likes eating dung.
1.84
Though Quirinalis doesn’t want a mate,
he does want sons. He’s found a way to get them.
He fucks his slave girls, filling his estate
and house in town chock-full of homegrown knights:
a real paterfamilias, by his lights.
1.89
Cinna, you’re always murmuring in one’s ear—
even what’s safe to chatter in a crowd.
You laugh, complain, blame, judge, and weep in one’s ear;
you sing in one’s ear, keep still, and shout out loud.
This malady is so ingrained in you,
you often whisper praise of Caesar, too.
1.90
Bassa, I never saw you close to men;
no gossip linked you to a lover here.
A crowd of your own sex was always with you
at every function, no man coming near.
I have to say, I thought you a Lucretia,
but you (for shame!) were fucking even then.
You dare to link twin cunts and, with your monstrous
clitoris, pretend to fuck like men.
You’d suit a Theban riddle perfectly:
where there’s no man, there’s still adultery.
1.91
You blast my verses, Laelius; yours aren’t shown.
Either don’t carp at mine or show your own.
1.94
Aegle, when you were fucked, your singing sucked.
Now you’re a vocalist, but can’t be kissed.
1.95
You shout down lawyers, Aelius, without cease,
but not for free. You’re paid to hold your peace.
1.102
Lycoris, the painter of your Venus tried,
I’d say, to show he’s on Minerva’s side.
1.105
Wine born, Ovidius, in Nomentan fields,
after a lengthy lapse of time occurs,
puts off its name and nature in old age,
and the old jar’s called whatever it prefers.
1.106
Rufus, you often add more water
to your wine. If friends insist,
you’ll sip an ounce of wine, half-drowned.
Has Naevia pledged a night of bliss
and you would keep your fucking sure,
your mischief clear? You sigh, keep still,
and groan: she’s turned you down. Then drink
full cups of unmixed wine to kill
your bitter grief. Why should you keep
yourself deprived? You have to sleep.
1.108
You have a house (and may it stand and prosper
for many years) that’s lovely to behold,
but over the Tiber, while my garret views
Vipsanian laurels. Here I have grown old.
Gallus, I’d have to move to call each morning.
That’s hard, though were it farther still, I’d go.
But you have little need for one more client,
while it means much to me to tell you no.
I’ll greet you often at dinner, face to face.
Mornings, my book will greet you in my place.
1.110
“Write shorter epigrams” is your advice.
Yet you write nothing, Velox. How concise
!
1.111
Your wisdom is as famed as your devotion;
your faith and honor, Regulus, are unswerving.
Who wonders that you’re sent this book with incense
does not know how to give to the deserving.
1.112
Not knowing you, I’d “Lord” and “Patron” you.
I’ve got your number now: “Priscus” will do.
1.113
Reader, if you would spend good hours badly,
wasting free time with what I wrote in play
as a young man and boy once, you may seek it
(rubbish I hardly recognize today)
from Quintus Pollius Valerianus,
who will not let my trifles fade away.
1.117
Each time we meet, you say right off,
“May I send a boy to get your book
of epigrams? I’ll send it back
at once, after I’ve had a look.”
Lupercus, spare the boy; my home,
At the Pear Tree, is far. There I
live three flights up—and steep ones, too.
What you desire is closer by.
Surely you stroll down Argiletum:
facing Caesar’s Forum, where
a shop has doorposts crammed with lists
of all the poets—seek me there.
Ask for Atrectus (he’s the owner).
From cubby one or two, he’ll hand
you Martial, smoothed and purple-clad,
for five denarii, on demand.
You say, “You’re not worth such expense”?
Lupercus, you’re a man of sense.
Book Two
2.3
Sextus, you have no debts—no debts, I say, for
one cannot have debts who cannot pay.
2.4
How doting is your conduct toward your mother,
and, Ammianus, how she dotes on you!
You call her “sister” and she calls you “brother.”
But why do naughty names attract you two?
Why aren’t you happy being what you are?
Do you suppose that this is harmless fun?
It’s not: a mother who would be a sister
is not content with being either one.
2.5
May I fall ill if I don’t yearn to see
you, Decianus, night and day, but you
live two miles off, and when I must return,
the distance turns to four miles, not just two.
You’re often out. When home, you say you’re not;
you need free time; your cases must be planned.
I don’t mind going two miles just to see you;
it’s going four to miss you I can’t stand.
2.10
You kiss me, Postumus, with half your lips.
That’s fine! Take half away from that half, too.
Would you give more, a gift beyond description?
Then keep the whole remaining half for you.
2.12
Your kisses smell of myrrh; you always have
an odor not your own—what must I think?
To smell good all the time appears suspicious.
Postumus, men who always smell good, stink.
2.13
Both judge and lawyer grab what they can get,
so, Sextus, my advice is—pay your debt.
2.15
Hormus, you pass your cup to nobody.
That isn’t arrogance; it’s courtesy.
2.17
A female barber sits at Subura’s entrance
where torturers hang up their bloody whips
and Argiletum throngs with many a cobbler.
This barber, Ammianus, doesn’t clip.
No, she’s no clipper; she’s a highway robber.
2.19
You think a dinner, Zoilus, makes me happy?
What’s more, a dinner you provide? Some hope!
The guest who’s happy with a meal of yours
should lie with beggars on Aricia’s slope.
2.20
Paulus buys verse, which he recites as his,
for if the things you buy aren’t yours, what is?
2.21
Some get your hand: some, kisses. You demand,
“Which would you like? You choose.” I’ll take the hand.
2.22
What use are you, Apollo and the Muses?
See how the playful Muse afflicts her poet:
Postumus gave me a half-lipped kiss before;
he’s started using both lips to bestow it.
2.23
“Who’s Postumus in your book?” you ask
repeatedly, but I won’t tell.
Why should I make those kissings mad
that can avenge themselves so well?
2.25
Galla, you say you will, then break your vow.
So, if you always lie, refuse me now.
2.26
Bithynicus, since Naevia breathes in gasps
and coughs hard, often sending spittle flying
into your lap, you think you’ve got it made?
You’re wrong: she’s playing up to you, not dying.
2.27
When Selius, praising you, spreads nets for dinner,
bring him to hear you read or plead a case.
“That’s it!” “Great!” “Zinger!” “Wicked!” “Bravo!” “Brilliant!”
“Well said!”—“The dinner’s yours now; shut your face.”
2.28
If someone says you’re sodomized, Sextillus,
give him your middle finger with loud laughter.
You neither fuck nor bugger; the hot mouth
of Vetustina isn’t what you’re after.
You don’t do these. What then? I can’t explain.
But you know two more options still remain.
2.30
I chanced to seek a loan of twenty thousand—
which one could give away and not think twice.
The man I asked, a trusted longtime friend,
whose strongbox whips up riches in a trice,
said, “Be a lawyer. You’ll make piles of cash.”
I asked for money, Gaius, not advice.
2.31
I’ve often fucked Chrestina. You ask, “How was it?”
If, Marianus, it can be done, she does it.
2.33
Philaenis, why don’t I kiss you? You are bald.
Philaenis, why don’t I kiss you? You are red.
Philaenis, why don’t I kiss you? You’ve one eye.
Whoever kisses these is giving head.
2.38
What yield does my Nomentan farmstead bear?
Linus, I don’t see you when I am there.
2.39
You give a known adulteress gowns of violet and scarlet.
Give her a gift she’s merited: the toga of a harlot.
2.42
Washing your ass pollutes the tub. Instead,
to make it fouler, Zoilus, douse your head.
2.49
I won’t wed Telesina: she’s a tart.
But she sleeps with boys. I’ve had a change of heart.
2.50
You suck and drink water, Lesbia—so you should:
you take in water where it does most good.
2.51
Often your strongbox holds just one denarius,
Hyllus, and that’s rubbed smoother than your ass.
No barkeeper or baker will obtain it,
but one whose outsize penis is first-class.
Your belly watches as your asshole dines,
one gorging as the wretched other pines.
2.52
Dasius counts his bathers well. He made
busty Spatale pay for three. She paid.
2.53
You want to be a free man? You’re a liar,
Maximus; you don’t. But if you do,
here’s how: if you
can give up dining out,
if Veii’s grape subdues your thirst, if you
can laugh at wretched Cinna’s gold-trimmed dishes
and wear togas like mine contentedly,
if you use two-bit whores and can’t stand straight
while entering your home, you will be free.
If you’ve the strength of will to face such things,
you’ll live a freer man than Parthia’s kings.
2.54
Linus, what deeds your wife suspects,
which part of you she’d have more chaste,
she’s shown by blatant signs: she’s placed
a eunuch to keep watch on you.
What a malicious, sharp-nosed shrew!