by Martial
2.55
I wished to love you; you would have
me court you. What you want must be.
But if I court you, as you ask,
Sextus, you’ll get no love from me.
2.56
The Libyans, Gallus, call your wife bad names.
She’s charged with boundless greed—without a doubt,
a foul reproach. Those tales, though, are sheer lies.
She isn’t on the take; she just puts out.
2.58
You mock my toga; yours is sleek and fine.
Mine may be threadbare, Zoilus, but it’s mine.
2.59
I’m called “The Crumb,” a little banquet hall:
you view the Caesars’ tomb from me on high.
Pound couches; call for roses, wine, and nard.
The god himself reminds you, you will die.
2.60
Young Hyllus, you fuck the wife of an armed tribune,
fearing no worse than that he’ll bugger you.
He’ll geld you while you sport. “But that’s forbidden,”
you’ll say. So it’s permitted, what you do?
2.61
When your young cheeks first bloomed with hints of down,
your shameless tongue licked men below the waist.
Now that your vile head’s scorned by undertakers,
and torturers regard you with distaste,
your mouth has a new use: consumed with envy,
at any name you hear you bark and scoff.
Your noxious tongue should stick to genitals,
for it was cleaner when it sucked men off.
2.62
You pluck your chest and legs and arms; your cock
is shaved and ringed with short hairs. These you cut,
we know, to please your mistress, Labienus.
For whose sake do you depilate your butt?
2.63
On the Sacred Way, your final hundred thousand
bought Leda, Milichus. Love at such expense
would be excessive were you rich. You say,
“I’m not in love.” That’s more extravagance.
2.65
Why is Saleianus looking sadder?
“For no small cause,” you say, “I’ve lost my wife.”
O monstrous crime of fate! What rotten luck!
Has she, rich Secundilla, lost her life,
who brought a dowry of a million, too?
I’m sorry things turned out like that for you.
2.66
In Lalage’s coiffure, a single ringlet
was out of place, attached by a loose pin.
Plecusa was struck down, the cruel hair’s victim,
felled with the mirror that revealed the sin.
Cease, Lalage, to fix your baleful hair,
and may your mad head let no slave girl near it.
Let curling irons brand or razors bare it
so that your mirror’s image shows your spirit.
2.67
Wherever you meet me, Postumus, at once
you cry “How are you doing?” This you call
even if we should meet ten times an hour.
I think you don’t do anything at all.
2.68
Don’t say I’m insolent to greet you now
not as “my lord” or “patron,” but by name.
My cap of freedom cost me all I have.
He should have lords and patrons who can’t claim
to own himself, and who desires the things
that lords and patrons want. If you can do
without a servant, Olus, then it follows
that you can do without a patron, too.
2.70
You don’t like others bathing first.
Why, Cotilus, unless you dread
soaking in water that’s licked cocks?
But even washing first, you’re forced
to wash your cock before your head.
2.71
Caecilianus, no one could be kinder.
Whenever I read epigrams of mine,
you reel off some by Marsus or Catullus.
Is this a favor, done to make mine shine
compared to lesser poems? That may be.
I’d rather you recite your poetry.
2.73
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Lyris claims when drunk.
The same thing she does sober: sucking spunk.
2.76
You gave him nothing; Marius bequeathed you
five whole pounds of silver. He deceived you!
2.78
Where to keep fish in summertime, you ask?
Your so-called “heated baths” would suit the task.
2.79
Only when I’ve invited guests, do you ask me to dine.
Today I dine in, Nasica. So sorry to decline.
2.80
Fannius, fleeing his foes, chose suicide.
That’s crazy—so as not to die, he died!
2.83
Husband, you maimed your wife’s poor lover.
Shorn of its nose and ears, his face
looks vainly for its former grace.
Do you believe you’ve done enough?
You’re wrong. He still can be sucked off.
2.87
Sextus, their love for you makes beauties simmer—
say you, with the face of an underwater swimmer.
2.88
You recite no verse, Mamercus, but claim you write.
Claim what you like—so long as you don’t recite.
2.89
Gaurus, you like to stay up all night drinking.
I pardon it—Cato had that vice, too.
You write verse without Phoebus and the Muses.
You should be praised—so Cicero would do.
You vomit like Antony, squander like Apicius.
You suck—I wonder whose bad habit this is.
2.92
He who alone could grant it gave the Right
of Fathers of Three Children in reward
for poetry I’ve written. Farewell, wife.
I mustn’t waste the bounty of our lord.
2.93
“If this book is the second, where’s the first?”
What can I do if that one is more shy?
But if you’d rather this become the first one,
Regulus, dock the title of one I.
Book Three
3.3
While black salve hides your fair face, you insult
the water with your ugly body. Please
believe, through me, the goddess tells you: “Either
reveal your face, or bathe in a chemise.”
3.6
May eighteenth should be honored, Marcellinus,
doubly in your observance: first it gave
the date your father entered heaven’s light;
now first fruits from the downy cheeks you shave.
Although it gave him a fine gift before—
a happy life—it never gave him more.
3.8
Quintus loves Thais. “Which?” The one-eyed one.
Thais, at least, has one eye; he has none.
3.9
Cinna, they say, writes verse attacking me.
He doesn’t write, whose verses none will see.
3.12
You gave your guests good scent last night,
I grant you, but no food was carved.
How droll, to be perfumed and starved!
To be anointed and not fed
is fine, Fabullus—for the dead.
3.14
Famished Tuccius came from Spain.
Just outside of Rome
at the Mulvian Bridge, he heard the dole
had ended. He went home.
3.15
Cordus gives more on credit than any other.
“But how? He’s poor.” He’s blind and he’s a lover.
3.17
A c
heese tart, passed around and around the table,
burned our hands cruelly with its searing heat.
Sabidius’ greed burned hotter, so at once
he blew on it three or four times. Though the treat
cooled down, appearing ready to permit
our grasp, no one could touch it. It was shit.
3.18
Your preface grumbled that your throat was sore.
You’ve made your excuses, Maximus. Why say more?
3.22
You’d spent twice thirty million on your belly,
Apicius, and ten million more was left.
That was like thirst and famine. Loath to endure
such hardship, you took poison, your last draft.
In no act were you more the epicure.
3.26
None, Candidus, but you has land and cash.
No other owns gold plate and murrine stone,
or vintage Caecuban and Massic wines.
Talent and judgment, too, are yours alone.
You alone have it all—I don’t demur—
except your wife, for everyone has her.
3.27
You often come when asked, but don’t invite me.
I pardon you—if you treat all the same.
Yet others you invite. We both have faults:
I have no judgment, Gallus; you, no shame.
3.28
You seem surprised that Marius’ ear smells rank.
You chat in it, Nestor. He has you to thank.
3.32
I can’t do crones. Matrinia, do you grumble?
I can, but you’re a corpse, not just a crone.
I can do Hecuba and Niobe,
but not once one’s a bitch and one’s a stone.
3.33
I like a freeborn girl; if that’s denied me,
my next choice is a girl who’s been set free.
A slave’s my last choice, but if her appearance
beats theirs, she’ll be a freeborn girl to me.
3.34
Your name means “snow.” It does and doesn’t hit the mark.
You’re Chione and you’re not: you’re cold and dark.
3.37
Wealthy friends, you’re quick to take offense.
It’s not good manners, but it saves expense.
3.39
One-eyed Lycoris loves a boy
as fine as Ganymede of Troy.
Faustinus, anyone can tell—
with just one eye, she sees quite well.
3.41
Because from your vast riches, Telesinus,
you loaned me a hundred and fifty grand, you then
assume you’re a great friend. You great, for giving?
No, I—because you get it back again.
3.43
You dye your hair, Laetinus, to feign youth—
a swan before, a raven now instead.
You don’t fool all. Proserpina can tell
you’re gray. She’ll pull that mask right off your head.
3.45
Whether Apollo fled Thyestes’ dinner,
I can’t say. Ligurinus, yours we flee.
The feasts are lavish and superb, but nothing
can please when you recite your poetry.
I don’t want turbot or mullet when we sup;
I don’t want mushrooms or oysters. Just shut up.
3.48
Olus, to build a “pauper’s cell,” sold land.
A pauper’s cell is now at his command.
3.49
You mix Veientan for me, while you drink Massic wine.
I’d rather smell your cups than drink from mine.
3.51
When I admire your face and legs and hands,
“You’ll like me better nude,” you always tease.
Yet, Galla, you won’t bathe with me in public.
Am I the one you fear will fail to please?
3.53
I wouldn’t miss your face and neck
and hands and legs and ass and breasts
and hips and (not to list the rest
by item)—Chloe, I could do
just fine without the whole of you.
3.54
I can’t afford the price you’re asking, so
to keep things simpler, Galla, just say no.
3.55
Wherever you go, we think that Cosmus, moving shop,
has spilled a vial of cinnamon oil. You should
not pride yourself on foreign nonsense, Gellia.
That stuff, you know, can make my dog smell good.
3.57
Lately in dry Ravenna, my sly barkeep proved a cheat:
I asked for water in my wine; the wine he sold was neat.
3.61
Vile Cinna, you ask for “nothing”—so say you.
If that’s true, I deny you nothing, too.
3.64
The Sirens, gleeful scourge of mariners,
beguiling bane and cruelhearted joy,
whom no man could abandon once he’d heard them,
were left, they say, through sly Ulysses’ ploy.
I’m not surprised; amazement would prevail
if he deserted Canius midtale.
3.65
An apple’s fragrance as a young girl bites it;
Corycian saffron’s odor; the lush scents
of blooming grapevines white with their first clusters
or grass just cropped by sheep; the redolence
of myrtle, Arab spice-reapers, rubbed amber,
fire pale with clouds of Eastern incense, soil
lightly sprinkled with summer rain, a garland
resting on tresses moist with spikenard oil—
your kiss is scented, cruel boy, so sweetly.
What if you gave it freely and completely?
3.68
Lady, thus far I wrote this book for you.
For whom did I write the latter part? For me.
In this part are the gym, warm baths, the track.
Withdraw: we’re stripping. Don’t look or you’ll see
nude men. From here on, drunk Terpsichore,
not knowing what she says, lays shame aside
after the wine and roses, naming bluntly
what Venus in August welcomes back with pride,
what stewards set as the garden’s guard, what virgins
view from behind a hand. If I know you,
weary of this long book, you’d set it down,
but now you will be keen to read it through.
3.69
All of your epigrams use decent language.
There’s no cock in your verses. That’s impressive!
I praise you: you’re the purest of the pure.
There’s not a page of mine that’s not suggestive.
Let naughty youths and easy girls read mine,
or old men plagued by a mistress and her ploys.
Your words, Cosconius, so pure and pious,
ought to be read by maidens and young boys.
3.70
Aufidia’s spouse before, you’re now her lover;
your former rival is the one she wed.
Why want her not as your wife, but another’s?
Does it take fear to make you rise in bed?
3.71
Your boy’s cock hurts; your ass aches. I’m no seer,
but what you’re doing, Naevolus, is clear.
3.72
You want to be fucked, but not to bathe with me.
You must have some great shame that I don’t know.
Saufeia, either your breasts hang flat as rags
or you’re afraid your belly’s folds will show;
or your split crotch reveals a deep crevasse,
or something juts outside your pussy’s slit.
But no, I’m sure you’re gorgeous in the nude.
If that’s true, you’ve a worse fault: you’re a twit.
3.73
You
sleep with well-hung boys; what stands for them
won’t stand for you. So what should I conclude,
Phoebus? I’d like to think that you’re a pansy,
but rumor says you don’t like being screwed.
3.76
You scorn girls, Bassus, and get hard for crones.
Not beauty but senescence pleases you.
Isn’t this madness? Isn’t your cock insane?
Andromache, no, but Hecuba you’d do!
3.79
Sertorius starts all things, completing none.
I reckon when he fucks, he doesn’t come.
3.80
Apicius, you don’t badmouth anyone—