Epigrams (Modern Library Classics)
Page 7
Made a ghost before her time,
Erotion lies. Whoever you be,
Next lord of my small property,
See that the dues of death are paid
Annually to her slender shade:
So may your hearth burn bright and strong,
Your household thrive, yourself live long,
And this small stone, throughout the years,
Remain your only cause for tears.
74
Have mercy on me, Rome—a hired
Flatterer desperately tired
Of flattery! How long, how long,
Among the milling, toga-ed throng
Of parasites must I, for a whole
Day’s work, bring back the worthless dole,
When Scorpus in his chariot
Gets fifteen sacks of gold, mint-hot,
In an hour? My books won’t make me money;
I’ve never hoped for Hybla’s honey,
Corn by the Nile, Apulian sheep
Or fine grapes that command the sweep
Of the Pontine marsh from Setia’s crest.
Then what do I crave? One good night’s rest.
80
When Eros goes into a shop
And sees fine slaves, a table-top
Of citrus-wood, a Murrine cup,
He weeps, he heaves his whole heart up
Because he can’t, poor man, take home
The entire street! Thousands in Rome
Suffer the same pangs—but dry-eyed:
They mock his tears; theirs scald inside.
85
Ladon, the boatman, in retirement bought a
Plot by his “dear old” Tiber. When it spilled
Into his fields one winter and flood-water
Kept ruining them, what did he do? He filled
His superannuated boat with rocks
To form a barrier high up on the bank,
And staved off inundation. Paradox:
A skipper saved because his vessel sank!
90
Why poke the ash of a dead fire?
Why pluck the hairs from your grey fanny?
That’s a chic touch which men admire
In girls, not in a flagrant granny;
Something, believe me, which might suit
Andromache but looks far from cute
In Hecuba. Ligeia, you err
If you think sex could rear its head
To burrow in your mangy fur.
Remember what the wise man said:
“Don’t pluck the lion’s beard when it’s dead.”
94
My orchard isn’t the Hesperides,
There’s no Massylian dragon at the gate,
Nor is it King Alcinous’ estate;
It’s in Nomentum, where the apple-trees,
Perfectly unmolested, bear a crop
So tasteless that no guard needs to be kept—
Thieves wouldn’t bother. And so please accept
My harvest offering, fresh-picked—from a shop.
97
Laid with papyrus to catch fire
And lightly heaped, the funeral pyre
Was all prepared, the wife was buying
Myrrh and cinnamon, and crying,
The grave, the bier, the corpse-perfumer
Were ready, when the dying Numa
Declared his previous will invalid,
Named me as heir—and promptly rallied.
BOOK ELEVEN
17
Not all the epigrams I write
Belong to naughtiness and the night:
You’ll find a few that can be read
Before midday, with a clear head.
18
Lupus, I’m deeply in your debt
For this suburban “farm”; and yet
My window-box in Rome’s as big.
Do you call this an “estate”? A sprig
Of rue here seems Diana’s wood;
The wing of one cicada could
Umbrella it; an ant devours
The property within twelve hours;
A rose-petal would wrap it round;
There’s not a grass-blade to be found,
Not a leaf to crush to make perfume,
Not a pepper plant, not even room
For a cucumber to lie straight
Or a snake to stretch. The whole “estate”
Unsatisfactorily supplies
A single caterpillar; flies
Die of starvation once they’ve fed
On the diminutive willow-bed;
A mole’s my ploughman and ditch-digger;
Mushrooms won’t venture to grow bigger,
Violets can’t smile, figs daren’t expand.
The dragon of my hinterland
Is a mouse, feared by the farmer more
Than the great Calydonian boar;
The swallow’s claw steals all my crop
To wall her nest; and though I lop
His sickle and priapic rod
There’s no space for the garden god.
A snail-shell barely can contain
The harvest of my gathered grain
And, as for grapes, a pitch-sealed nut
Stores a year’s vintage. Thank you … but
Your gift miscarried by one letter:
For “rood” read “food”—and I’d live better.
19
Why won’t I marry you? You’re a blue-stocking,
And my cock’s educated something shocking.
24
Labullus, I court you,
I escort you, I support you
By lending an ear to your chatter,
And everything you say or do I flatter.
Meanwhile how many verses have died stillborn in my inspiration!
Doesn’t it strike you as a grave loss to the nation
That, because of you, poems should perish
Which all Rome reads, foreigners ask for, knights think well of, senators cherish,
Barristers praise to the skies
And poets—criticise?
It’s intolerable. It’s not right
That just so that you can have one more toga-ed little parasite
The number of my books should be diminished.
It’s almost a month now, and I’ve scarcely finished
A single page. Well, that’s Rome
For a poet who hates dining at home.
29
Phyllis, when your old claws attempt to strum
My instrument, I’m half-throttled by your thumb,
And when you call me “mouse” or “precious lover”
It takes me over twelve hours to recover.
You’ve no idea how to make love. Say, “Please
Accept a hundred thousand sesterces”
Or, “Have some farmland—here’s a large estate
In Setia” or, “Take this antique plate,
My wines, slaves, tables, or my house in town.”
That’s the right way to rub me—up, not down.
35
Three hundred guests, not one of whom I know—
And you, as host, wonder that I won’t go.
Don’t quarrel with me, I’m not being rude:
I can’t enjoy sociable solitude.
39
You rocked my cradle, Charidemus, gave
Me constant care and guidance while I grew;
Yet now, although the towel’s black when I shave
And my girl scolds my prickly kiss, to you
I’m still a child. You bully my bailiff, cow
My steward, make the very building quake.
You ban fun, you bar girls, you won’t allow
Me liberties—although you’re pleased to take
Plenty yourself! You nag, spy, grumble, sigh,
Itching to use the old tutorial stick
Whenever you’re irascible. “Oh,” you cry,
“Your father never did that!” if I slick
My hair
with scent or sport a purple cloak,
And when I drink you frown and count each cup
As though it came from your own cellar. The joke
Has gone too far. I can’t, I won’t put up
With an ex-slave aping Cato. I’m a man:
If you can’t see that, ask my girl—she can.
56
Because you hysterically glorify death, old Stoic,
Don’t expect me to admire you as heroic.
What does your high-mindedness amount to but a few broken-handled jugs,
A cheerless, fireless hearth, some moth-eaten rugs,
A bare bed-frame, a cut-down toga (worn day and night)—and bugs?
What a spiritual achievement—to be able to do without straw for your bed,
Sour red wine and cheap black bread!
Come off it! Imagine yourself tucked up asleep
Under thick purple quilts, on pillows bulging with the wool of Leuconian sheep,
In the arms of a red-lipped boy who’s just filled your guests’ cups to the brim
And made them long for a taste of him.
Ah, be honest, then you’d pray
To live three times as long as Nestor, to savour every minute of every day.
It’s easy to despise life when things go wrong:
The true hero endures much, and long.
57
Does it surprise you, my dear poet friend,
That when I ask you round to dine I send
Some lines of verse? Though Jupiter has his fill
Of nectar and ambrosia, we still
Offer him wine and entrails in a dish.
The gods have given you all a man could wish:
Since you can’t want what you’ve already got,
To send you something begs the question: what?
62
Lesbia claims she’s never laid
Without good money being paid.
That’s true enough: when she’s on fire
She’ll always pay the hose’s hire.
66
You’re an informer and tool of slander
And a notorious swindler and a pander
And a cock-sucker and a gangster and a…
I can’t make out, Vacerra, why you’re poor.
67
You give me nothing now. “Ah, yes,”
You say, “but you’re one of my heirs.”
Unless you’re stupid, you can guess
How hopefully I say my prayers.
68
You ask great men small favours, yet
The little asked you never get.
It would be kinder to your pride
To beg more—and still be denied.
71
One day Leda announced to her aged husband, “I’m suffering from hysteria.
I’m sorry, but I’m told that nothing but intercourse will make me feel cheerier.”
In the same tearful breath
She swore his honour mattered more than her health, she preferred a martyr’s death.
Her lord and master urged her to preserve her life and beauty
And gave permission for the vicarious performance of his duty.
At once the nurses retire, the doctors rush in,
Hoist and prise open her legs. Ah, sweet medicine!
73
Whenever I say, “Please come,” you always swear
You will, and you yourself fix when and where.
I’m there all right, but usually, after I’ve lain
Interminably frustrated, stiff with strain,
My left hand helps me out—sad substitute.
Lygdus, what curse can I devise to suit
A stander-up like you? May you be made
To carry a one-eyed harridan’s sunshade!
77
For hours, for a whole day, he’ll sit
On every public lavatory seat.
It’s not because he needs a shit:
He wants to be asked out to eat.
96
German, this is our aqueduct
And not the Rhine. Barbarian clot,
How dare you elbow and obstruct
A thirsty boy from drinking? What!
Jostle a Roman from his place!
This is the conqueror’s fountain, not
A trough for your defeated race.
98
There’s no escaping the kissers, Flaccus.
They ambush us, attack us,
Waylay us,
Delay us
At all times of day, wherever you go or I go.
Ulcers, weeping sores, filthy scabs, impetigo,
Salve-smeared lips,
A nose with stalactitic drips,
An ice-cold cheek, a sweat-soaked face,
Even a mouth reserved for your bride’s embrace
Won’t save you. It’s useless to resist:
You’re sure to be kissed.
Wrap your head in a hood, travel in a double-curtained litter or a sedan with a multiple barrier,
There’ll still be a chink for an osculatory harrier.
Become consul, tribune, praetor with six shouting, crowd-clearing lictors with rods and axes,
Sit on the curule chair, in the high tribunal, dealing justice to the nations—there’s no prophylaxis:
Whether you’re crying,
Half-dying,
Yawning, swimming or pissing,
Someone will clamber up and start kissing.
There’s only one remedy. It’s this:
Make friends with people you don’t want to kiss.
99
Whenever you rise from a chair, Lesbia, your wretched clothes jump,
Like buggers, right up your rump—
I’ve often observed the sight.
You try twitching them to the left or the right
And finally wrench them free with a tearful shriek,
So deep is the creek they’ve sailed up, so fierce the squeeze
Of those colossal twin Symplegades.
Would you like to cure this unattractive defect? Do you want my advice? This is it:
Don’t get up—and never sit.
100
Flaccus, the sort of girl I hate
Is the scrawny one, with arms so thin
My rings would fit them, hips that grate,
Spine like a saw, knee like a pin
And a coccyx like a javelin.
But all the same I don’t go in
For sheer bulk. I appreciate
Good meat, not blubber, on my plate.
102
Whoever said of you, “She’s all complexion
And no expression,” Lydia, scored a hit.
Sit like a waxwork or a studio peach
And keep your mouth shut, and you’re exquisite.
But the first word ruins that perfection:
You’re utterly disqualified by speech.
Don’t let the aediles hear you. If they catch you,
They’ll class you as a portent—talking statue!
103
Safronius, you look so meek and mild
I can’t imagine how you got your child.
104
Either get out of the house or conform to my tastes, woman.
I’m no strait-laced old Roman.
I like prolonging the nights agreeably with wine: you, after one glass of water,
Rise and retire with an air of hauteur.
You prefer darkness: I enjoy love-making
With a witness—a lamp shining or the dawn breaking.
You wear bed-jackets, tunics, thick woollen stuff,
Whereas I think no woman on her back can ever be naked enough.
I love girls who kiss like doves and hang round my neck:
You give me the sort of peck
Due to your grandmother as a morning salute.
In bed, you’re motionless, mute—
Not a wriggle,
Not a giggle—
As solemn as a priestess at
a shrine
Proffering incense and pure wine.
Yet every time Andromache went for a ride
In Hector’s room, the household slaves used to masturbate outside;
Even modest Penelope, when Ulysses snored,
Kept her hand on the sceptre of her lord.
You refuse to be buggered; but it’s a known fact
That Gracchus’, Pompey’s and Brutus’ wives were willing partners in the act,
And that before Ganymede mixed Jupiter his tasty bowl
Juno filled the dear boy’s role.
If you want to be uptight—all right,
By all means play Lucretia by day. But I need a Laïs at night.
108
I should have thought you’d had your fill
By now—this book’s too long—yet still
You clamour for couplets. You forget,
My slaves need rations, I’m in debt,
The interest’s due.… Dear reader, pay
My creditors for me. Silent, eh?
The puzzled innocent? Good-day!
BOOK TWELVE
12
Whenever you drink all night you make
Huge promises, which next day you break.
Booze in the morning—for my sake.
13
The rich know anger helps the cost of living:
Hating’s more economical than giving.
18
While you’re, no doubt, anxiously threading
Rome’s noisiest, nastiest streets, or treading