by Martial
66
Last week, the auctioneer was trying to sell
A girl whose reputation one could smell
From here to her street corner in the slums.
After some time, when only paltry sums
Were being offered, wishing to assure
The crowd that she was absolutely pure,
He pulled the unwilling “lot” across and smacked
Three or four kisses on her. Did this act
Make any difference to the price? It did.
The highest offerer withdrew his bid.
82
The other day, Rufus, somebody gave
Me the once-over, as though I were a slave
Or a gladiator open to inspection
At a sale. A thumb was jerked in my direction
Together with a surreptitious glance,
Then up he came: “Are you by any chance
Martial, whose wicked epigrams are famous,
Whom everyone but a deaf Dutch ignoramus
Has heard of?” With a slight nod of the head
And a modest smile I bowed. “Then why,” he said,
“Do you walk around wearing that terrible cloak?”
“Because I’m a terrible poet.” Terrible joke!
Rufus, to save me making it again,
Send me a cloak that keeps out the rain.
BOOK SEVEN
3
Why have I never sent
My works to you, old hack?
For fear the compliment
Comes punishingly back.
11
Why do you press me to emend
My trifles with my own hand? Friend,
You’re a flatterer. You know quite well
You’ll keep the manuscript to sell.
16
At home I’ve empty coffers.
Only one thing can save me:
Sell all the gifts you gave me.
Regulus, any offers?
39
Having had enough of early rising
And running around, of patronising
“Good-mornings” or “The great man’s out,”
Caelius decided to have gout.
He smeared and bandaged both his feet
And in his eagerness to complete
The imposture hobbled about wincing.
Such power has art, so self-convincing
Was Caelius, that at last his act
Transmuted fiction into fact.
43
Cinna, the best thing would be if you lent
Me anything I asked for. The next best
Would be for you to say no then and there.
I like good givers, and I don’t resent
A straight refusal of a small request.
It’s ditherers like you that I can’t bear.
54
You tell me regularly every morning
Your dreams—dreams about me, of doom and warning,
Which worry me sick. Already, to appease
Heaven, I’ve poured to the expiatory lees
Both last and this year’s wine; meanwhile I pay
The local witch to exorcise your grey
Forebodings. All my salt meal’s used, I’ve finished
My stock of frankincense, my flock’s diminished
By the huge quantity of lambs I’ve slain,
Not a pig, not a fowl, not even eggs remain.
Nasidianus, for our friendship’s sake
Either dream of yourself or stay awake.
58
Galla, since you invariably fancy
Long hair and soft, combed beards, by now you’ve wed
Six or seven husbands, each of them a nancy.
Afterwards, when they’ve failed the test in bed
(Cocks like wet leather that won’t get a stand on
However hard your hand pumps), you abandon
The weaponless field and the unmanly men—
And fall into the same old trap again.
Find some uncouth, rough-chinned philosopher
Who’s always harping on the days that were!
You’ll find one; but that grim “old Roman” set
Is riddled with queers. Real men are hard to get.
61
The thrusting shopkeepers had long been poaching
Our city space, front premises encroaching
Everywhere. Then, Domitian, you commanded
That the cramped alleyways should be expanded,
And what were footpaths became real roads.
One doesn’t see inn-posts, now, festooned with loads
Of chained flagons; the praetor walks the street
Without the indignity of muddy feet;
Razors aren’t wildly waved in people’s faces;
Bar-owners, butchers, barbers know their places,
And grimy restaurants can’t spill out too far.
Now Rome is Rome, not just a huge bazaar.
87
People have the oddest kinks.
My friend Flaccus fancies, ears and all, a lynx;
In Canius’ opinion
You can’t beat a coal-black Abyssinian;
Publius gets the itch
With a little terrier bitch;
Cronius is in love with a monkey that looks like him—almost human;
Marius cuddles a deadly ichneumon;
Lausus likes his talking magpie; Glaucilla, more reckless,
Coils her pet snake into a shivery necklace;
Telesilla,
When her nightingale died, erected a commemorative pillar.
Since it’s every master to his own monstrous taste,
Why, sweet, Cupid-faced
Labycas, shouldn’t you too be embraced?
BOOK EIGHT
12
Why have I no desire to marry riches?
Because, my friend, I want to wear the breeches.
Wives should obey their husbands; only then
Can women share equality with men.
23
Because my cook ruined the mutton
I thrashed him. You protested: “Glutton!
Tyrant! The punishment should fit
The crime—you can’t assault a man
For a spoilt dinner.” Yes, I can.
What worse crime can a cook commit?
27
If you were wise as well as rich and sickly,
You’d see that every gift means, “Please die quickly.”
29
The epigrammatist’s belief
Is that he pleases since he’s terse.
But what’s the use of being brief
At length—the length of a book of verse?
35
Since you’re alike and lead a matching life,
Horrible husband and ill-natured wife,
Why all the discord and domestic strife?
41
He says he’s “sorry” that he failed to send
My usual New Year’s gift. A sorry friend!
How sorry, I’m not sure. At any rate
I know I too am in a sorry state.
43
Chrestilla digs her husbands’ graves,
Fabius buries his wives. Each waves,
As bride or groom, the torch of doom
Over the marriage bed. Now pair
These finalists, Venus: let them share
Victory in a single tomb.
61
Charinus is ill with envy, bursting with it, weeping and raging and looking for high branches to commit suicide.
Why is he so mortified?
Not because the whole world’s my admiring reader,
Nor because my book, smartly knobbed and dyed with oil of cedar,
Is passed from hand to hand among the nations that acknowledge Rome,
But simply because I’ve got a suburban summer home,
And mules to take me there, which I don’t, as I used to have to, pay for.
What curse shall I pray for
/>
To make him even iller?
His own mules, and a country villa.
69
Rigidly classical, you save
Your praise for poets in the grave.
Forgive me, it’s not worth my while
Dying to earn your critical smile.
71
For New Year, Postumus, ten years ago,
You sent me four pounds of good silver-plate.
The next year, hoping for a rise in weight
(For gifts should either stay the same or grow),
I got two pounds. The third and fourth produced
Inferior presents, and the fifth year’s weighed
Only a pound—Septicius’ work, ill-made
Into the bargain. Next I was reduced
To an eight-ounce oblong salad-platter; soon
It was a miniature cup that tipped the scales
At even less. A tiny two-ounce spoon
Was the eighth year’s surprise. The ninth, at length,
And grudgingly, disgorged a pick for snails
Lighter than a needle. Now, I note, the tenth
Has come and gone with nothing in its train.
I miss the old four pounds. Let’s start again!
79
Her women friends are all old hags
Or, worse, hideous girls. She drags
Them with her everywhere she goes—
To parties, theatres, porticoes.
Clever Fabulla! Set among
Those foils you shine, even look young.
BOOK NINE
4
We all know Galla’s services as a whore
Cost two gold bits; throw in a couple more
And you get the fancy extras too. Why, then,
Does your bill, Aeschylus, amount to ten?
She sucks off for far less than that. What is it
You pay her for? Silence after your visit.
6
On your return from Libya I tried
On five consecutive days to call and pay
My compliments. When I was turned away
Three times with “He’s asleep” or “occupied,”
I’d had enough. All right, if you’re so shy,
Good-day, Afer, good riddance and goodbye.
9
Although you’re glad to be asked out,
Whenever you go, you bitch and shout
And bluster. You must stop being rude:
You can’t enjoy free speech and food.
33
If from the baths you hear a round of applause,
Maron’s great prick is bound to be the cause.
60
Garland of roses, whether you come
From Tibur or from Tusculum,
Whether the earth you splashed with red
Was Paestum’s or the flower-bed
Of some Praeneste farmer’s wife
Who snipped you with her gardening-knife,
No matter in which countryside
You flew your flag before you died—
To lend my gift an added charm,
Let him believe you’re from my farm.
68
Abominable schoolmaster, bogeyman of little girls and boys,
We can do without you and your noise.
Before the crested cocks have shattered the night’s silence
You’re snarling, thundering, handing out corporal violence.
An anvil being banged to make a lawyer a bronze equestrian statue
Can’t, for sheer din, match you,
Nor even the frenzied acclamation
Of the fans in the amphitheatre applauding their victorious Thracian.
We neighbours don’t expect our sleep to be unbroken:
It’s a small nuisance to be occasionally woken,
But to be kept sleepless all night is a disaster.
Send your pupils home, loud-mouthed schoolmaster.
Are you willing to take
As much to shut up as you earn for the row you make?
70
“Bad times! Bad morals!” good old Cicero
Exclaimed over a hundred years ago
When Catiline was plotting wicked war
Against the State, and father and son-in-law
Clashed, and the blood of our self-wounded nation
Drenched the poor earth. Why trot the trite quotation
Out now, Caecilianus? Why complain?
What’s wrong? Our government is mild, the sane
Sword’s in its sheath, and we’re assured a lease
Of unobstructed happiness and peace.
If you think “times” are “bad,” by all means moan,
But don’t accuse our morals—blame your own.
81
Readers and listeners like my books,
Yet a certain poet calls them crude.
What do I care? I serve up food
To please my guests, not fellow cooks.
85
When Paulus has “a sudden chill”
His guests lose more weight than their host.
He merely plays at being ill,
But our lost meal gives up the ghost.
88
When you were chasing my good will
You sent me gifts. You caught me. Then
The gifts stopped. You should send them still.
The ill-fed boar breaks from his pen.
BOOK TEN
8
She longs for me to “have and hold” her
In marriage. I’ve no mind to.
She’s old. If she were even older,
I might be half inclined to.
15
Crispus, you’re always saying you’re the friend
Who loves me best. But your behaviour offers
No evidence for it. When I asked, “Please lend
Five thousand,” you refused me though your coffers
Are crammed to bursting. And though fellaheen
Sweat on your profitable Nile estate
Have I had one ear of spelt from you, one bean?
Have you ever given me in the chilly season
A short-cut toga? Or sent silver-plate,
Even half a pound of it? I see no reason
Why I should count you as a friend—apart
From the informality with which you fart.
16
Aper the archer’s rich wife, struck
Through the heart by his own shaft, was killed.
All sports consist of skill and luck:
She was unlucky, he is skilled.
19
Marius doesn’t entertain, or send
Presents, or stand as surety, or lend—
He hasn’t got the money for it. Yet
A mob still courts this unrewarding “friend.”
Clients of Rome, how stupid can you get?
43
Seven wives you’ve had—all dead
And buried in one field.
Of whom can it be said
His land gives richer yield?
47
Of what does the happy life consist,
My dear friend, Julius? Here’s a list:
Inherited wealth, no need to earn,
Fires that continually burn,
And fields that give a fair return,
No lawsuits, formal togas worn
Seldom, a calm mind, the freeborn
Gentleman’s health and good physique,
Tact with the readiness to speak
Openly, friends of your own mind,
Guests of an easy-going kind,
Plain food, a table simply set,
Nights sober but wine-freed from fret,
A wife who’s true to you and yet
No prude in bed, and sleep so sound
It makes the dawn come quickly round.
Be pleased with what you are, keep hope
Within that self-appointed scope;
Neither uneasily apprehend
Nor morbidly desire the en
d.
54
Your tables may, for all I know,
Be priceless; but that doesn’t show
Under a cloth. Fool! Anyone’s able
To own a covered “antique” table.
55
Marulla’s hobby is to measure
Erections. These she weighs at leisure
By hand and afterwards announces
Her estimate in pounds and ounces.
Once it’s performed its exercise
And done its job and your cock lies
Rag-limp, again she’ll calculate,
Manually, the loss in weight.
Hand? It’s a grocer’s balance-plate!
59
If an epigram takes up a page, you skip it:
Art counts for nothing, you prefer the snippet.
The markets have been ransacked for you, reader,
Rich fare—and you want canapes instead!
I’m not concerned with the fastidious feeder:
Give me the man who likes his basic bread.
61
Here, six years old, by Destiny’s crime