by Martial
But gone to wait on someone else. We make a proper pair.
I’m your spaniel, I’m the toady to your every pompous whim.
You court a richer patron. I dog you and you dog him.
To be a slave is bad enough, but I refuse to be
A flunkey’s flunkey, Maximus. My master must be free.
20
He buys up poems for recital
And then as “author” reads.
Why not? The purchase proves the title.
Our words become his “deeds.”
26
Because the old lady gasps for breath
And sprays saliva in your eye
And coughs as if she’d caught her death,
Do you suppose you’re home and dry?
Miscalculation! Naevia’s trying
To flirt, Bithynicus, not dying.
27
When Selius spreads his nets for an invitation
To dinner, if you’re due to plead a cause
In court or give a poetry recitation,
Take him along, he’ll furnish your applause:
“Well said!” “Hear, hear!” “Bravo!” “Shrewd point!” “That’s good!”,
Till you say, “Shut up now, you’ve earned your food.”
36
I wouldn’t like you with tight curls
Nor yet too tousled. Both a girl’s
Complexion and a gipsy’s tan
Are unattractive in a man.
Beards, whether Phrygianly short
Or wild like those defendants sport,
Put me off, Pannychus, for I hate
The “butch” and the effeminate
Equally. As it is, your trouble
Is that despite the virile stubble
That mats your chest and furs your leg
Your mind’s as hairless as an egg.
38
You ask me what I get
Out of my country place.
The profit, gross or net,
Is never seeing your face.
44
The moment I buy three or four pounds of plate,
A new slave or a woollen toga, my mate
Sextus the money-lender, whom I’ve known
For donkey’s years, assumes I want a loan,
Panics and takes precautions. I soon hear
His growled aside (intended for my ear):
“I owe Phoebus four thousand, there’s eleven
Due to Philetus, and Secundus’ seven…
I’ve nothing in my strong-box left to lend.”
Oh, he’s a master of the arts, my friend.
To say no, Sextus, when a pal applies
Is cruel. But before he even tries…!
55
I wanted to love you: you prefer
To have me as your courtier.
Well, I must follow your direction.
But goodbye, Sextus, to affection.
67
Whenever, Postumus, you meet me
You rush forward and loudly greet me
With “How do you do?” Even if we meet
Ten times in an hour you still repeat
“How do you do?” How does one do
As little with one’s time as you?
82
Why did you cut out your slave’s tongue,
Ponticus, and then have him hung
Crucified? Don’t you realise, man,
Though he can’t speak, the rest of us can?
87
You claim that lots of pretty women
Are mad for you. I wonder.
With that puffed face—like a man swimming
And slowly going under?
BOOK THREE
4
Go, book, to Rome. Asked where you come from, say,
“Somewhere not far from the Aemilian Way.”
If pressed for my address, you may reply,
“Forum Cornelii’s the town.” Asked why
I’m not in Rome, state the bald truth: “He found
The toga-ed client’s unrewarding round
Tedious and intolerable.” “And when,”
Some fool will say, “does he come back again?”
Tell him, “He left, a poet. When he can earn
A living on the zither he’ll return.”
5
Since, little book, you’re bent on leaving home
Without me, do you want, when you reach Rome,
Lots of introductions, or will one suffice?
One will be quite enough, take my advice—
And I don’t mean some stranger, but the same
Julius whom you’ve often heard me name.
Go to the Arcade entrance—right beside it
You’ll find his house (Daphnis last occupied it).
He has a wife, who even if you land
Dust-spattered at the door will offer hand
And heart in hospitable welcome. Whether
You see her first, or him, or both together,
All you need say is, “Marcus Valerius sends
His love.” A formal letter recommends
Strangers to strangers; there’s no need with friends.
7
Domitian’s banned our money dole. Adieu
The worn-out client’s pitiful revenue
For being obsequious, which some half-drowned
Superintendent of the bath dealt round.
We’ve seen the last of “princely” dividends.
What do you think of the news, my starving friends?
“Let’s face the facts,” they say, “we’re on our uppers:
We want a fixed wage, not uncertain suppers.”
12
Last night, Fabullus, I admit,
You gave your guests some exquisite
Perfume—but not one slice of meat.
Ironic contrast: to smell sweet
And yet be desperate to eat.
To be embalmed without being fed
Makes a man feel distinctly dead.
27
Our dinner invitations are one-sided:
When I ask you, you usually come; yet you
Never ask me. I shouldn’t mind provided
You asked nobody else. However, you do.
Neither one of us, Gallus, comes out blameless.
What do I mean? I’m stupid and you’re shameless.
28
Marius’ earhole smells.
Does that surprise you, Nestor?
The scandal that you tell’s
Enough to make it fester.
38
What brings you to the city? What wild scheme,
Sextus, tell me, what money-spinning dream?
“My plan is to become the highest-paid
Pleader in Rome, put Cicero in the shade,
Dazzle the courts in all three Forums …” Whoa!
Civis and Atestinus (whom you know)
Were barristers, yet neither managed to earn
Enough for the rent. “If that fails, I shall turn
Poet: the masterpieces that emerge’ll
Convince you that you’re listening to pure Virgil.”
You’re mad. You see those tramps in threadbare cloaks?
They’re all Virgils and Ovids—standing jokes!
“Well, then, I’ll haunt rich houses, take the dole.”
Four clients at the most keep body and soul
Together that way; all the rest, pale wraiths,
Starve. “What shall I do, then? For my faith’s
Unshaken: I’ll live here.” Honour the gods,
And you may just survive—against the odds.
43
You’ve dyed your hair to mimic youth,
Laetinus. Not so long ago
You were a swan; now you’re a crow.
You can’t fool everyone. One day
Proserpina, who knows the truth,
Will rip that actor’s wig away.
44
W
hy, you ask, whenever you show your face
Is there a public stampede, a vast unpopulated space?
The answer—you may as well know it—
Is that you overact the poet:
A grave fault,
Ligurinus, and one which could easily earn you assault.
The tigress robbed of her young,
The scorpion’s tail, the heat-crazed puff-adder’s tongue
Are proverbial, but you’re worse;
For who can endure ordeal by verse?
You read to me when I’m standing and when I’m sitting,
When I’m running and when I’m shitting.
If I head for the warm baths you make my ears buzz with your din,
If I want a cold dip you stop me from getting in,
If I’m hurrying to dinner you detain me in the street,
If I reach the table you rout me out of my seat,
If I collapse, exhausted, into bed you drag me to my feet.
Do you never pause
To consider the havoc you cause?
You’re a decent citizen, upright and pious,
But, by God, you terrify us!
45
Whether or not Apollo fled from the table
Thyestes ate his sons at, I’m unable
To say; what I can vouch for is our wish
To escape your dinner parties. Though each dish
Is lavish and superb, the pleasure’s nil
Since you recite your poems. To hell with brill,
Mushrooms and two-pound turbots! I don’t need
Oysters: give me a host who doesn’t read.
48
Olus sold land to build a pied-à-terre:
He can’t foot bills now, for one foot’s in the air.
49
You drink the best, yet serve us third-rate wine.
I’d rather sniff your cup than swill from mine.
55
Whenever you walk past, Gellia, I can’t stop
Myself thinking, “Cosmus has moved shop”:
You reek as if a cinnamon flask had been
Unstoppered and up-ended. Please don’t preen
Yourself on bottled charm. Were I to treat
My dog the same way, he’d smell just as sweet.
58
Our friend Faustinus at his Baian place
Doesn’t go in, Bassus, for wasted space—
No useless squads of myrtle, no unmated
Planes, no clipped box; true, unsophisticated
Country’s his joy. His corners overflow
With tight-packed grain, and jars in a long row
Exhale the breath of autumns long ago.
After November, when the frosts begin,
The rugged pruner brings the last grapes in.
Bulls roar in his coombs, and steers, the nap
Still on their harmless brows, lust for a scrap.
The poultry from the mired yard all roam loose—
Jewelled peacock, speckled partridge, squawking goose,
Guinea-fowl, and the bird that gets the name
Flamingo from its feathering of flame,
And pheasant from unholy Colchis; proud
Cocks tread their Rhodian hens; the cotes are loud
With whirring wings; wood-pigeons coo, wax-pale
Turtle-doves answer; greedy piglets trail
After the aproned bailiff’s wife, and lambs
Queue for the bulging udders of their dams.
Young slaves born on the farm, with skins as white
As milk, sit in a circle round the bright
Fireside, and logs, heaped liberally, blaze
For the domestic gods on holidays.
No butler lolls about indoors, whey-faced
With sloth, no wrestling-master’s hired to waste
The household oil; there they make use of time
To lure with artfully spread net and lime
The glutton thrush, or play the catch with taut
Rod, or bring home the doe their traps have caught.
The garden’s such light sweat to hoe and weed,
The town slaves tend it happily; there’s no need
For a nagging overseer—the long-haired,
Mischievous boys are cheerfully prepared,
When the bailiff gives his orders, to obey,
And even the pampered eunuch finds work play.
The country-folk who call never arrive
Without some gift—pale combs straight from the hive,
Somnolent dormice, a cheese pyramid
From Umbria’s woods, or capons, or a kid:
The big-boned daughters of the honest peasants
In wicker baskets bring their mothers’ presents.
When work is done, the neighbour, a glad guest,
Is asked to dine; no hoarding of the best
Food for tomorrow’s feast; all get their fill,
Servers as well; fed slaves feel no ill-will
Waiting on tipplers.
You, though, who reside
In the suburbs, Bassus, starve in genteel pride:
Your belvedere looks on mere laurel-leaves,
Your garden god is smugly safe from thieves,
You feed your workers city corn, your cheese,
Apples, eggs, wine, fowls, fruit and cabbages
Are carted for you to your frescoed home.
Is this “the countryside,” or outer Rome?
60
Now I’m no longer a paid client-guest,
Why should I put up with your second-best
Menu when you invite me out? You take
Choice oysters fattened in the Lucrine lake
While I suck whelks and cut my lips. You dine
On mushrooms—I’m given fungus fit for swine.
Turbot for you—for me brill. You enjoy
A splendid plump-arsed turtle-dove—I toy
With a magpie that died caged. Why, Ponticus,
Do we eat with you when you don’t eat with us?
The dole’s abolished—good: but what’s the point
Unless our meat’s carved from the same joint?
63
I’ve often heard you called “man of the world,”
But what does it mean? “Oh, someone who has curled,
Neatly combed hair and balsam on his skin,
Or cinnamon, who can hum the song just in
From Spain or Egypt, who knows how to prance
And wave his shaved arms to the latest dance,
Who spends the entire day in women’s care,
Endlessly whispering in an easy chair,
Who reads the notes posted from hand to hand
And writes them too, who simply cannot stand
His neighbour’s arm brushing his cloak, who knows
Who sleeps with whom, who’s always asked and goes
To parties, and who’s never at a loss
For the full pedigree of a winning ‘hoss’…”
Out of your own mouth, Cotilus! Let us say,
“Man of the world” signifies popinjay.
86
Madam, I’ve warned you many times,
Skip when my book becomes obscene;
Yet you read on. Well, if the mimes
You watch Latinus act on stage
Fail to corrupt you—and I’m clean
Compared with them—then turn the page.
90
She’s half-and-half inclined
To sleep with me. No? Yes?
What’s in that tiny mind?
Impossible to guess.
BOOK FOUR
7
Hyllus, how can you possibly say
No, when you said yes yesterday?
You used to be so warm; you’re colder
Suddenly—why? You proffer airy
Excuses: “Now I’m that much older,
I�
��ve started to shave, I’m getting hairy.”
O long, long single night that can
Turn a young into an old, old man!
Why are you teasing me, contrary
Hyllus? Until today you were
A boy. How did the change occur?
8
The first two hours of the morning tax
Poor clients; during the third advocates wax
Eloquent and hoarse; until the fifth hour ends
The city to her various trades attends;
At six o’clock the weary workers stop
For the siesta; all Rome shuts up shop
At seven; the hour from eight to nine supplies
The oiled wrestlers with their exercise;
The ninth invites us to recline full length,
Denting the cushions. At last comes the tenth.
Euphemus, that’s the hour when you prepare
Ambrosia, with a major-domo’s care,
For godlike Caesar who, relaxing, grips
In his great hand the nectar that he sips
Sparingly. Then my jest-books can appear.
Please smooth their passage to the Emperor’s ear:
My Muse, shy-footed, dare not importune
Jupiter with her levity before noon.
21
“God doesn’t exist, there’s no one in the skies,”
Says Segius. If it’s justice he denies,
He’s right: would he be wealthy otherwise?
30