by Martial
5.33
A lawyer slanders my verse. I don’t know who—
but, lawyer, you’ll be sorry when I do.
5.34
To you, my parents Fronto and Flaccilla,
I commend this girl, my darling and delight.
Don’t let the dark shades and the huge-mouthed hellhound
fill my small Erotion with fright.
She would have known the chill of six midwinters
had she survived by just as many days.
Now let her lisping mouth prattle my name to
her old patrons, as she romps and plays.
Let no hard turf hide her soft bones. Earth, do
not press her harshly; she was light on you.
5.36
Faustinus, one I flattered in my book
pretends he owes me nothing. What a crook!
5.42
Sly thieves will smash your coffer and steal your cash;
impious flames will wreck your family home;
your debtor won’t repay your loan or interest;
your barren fields will yield less than you’ve sown;
a crafty mistress will despoil your steward;
a wave will swamp your ships piled high with stores.
But what you give to friends is safe from Fortune:
only the wealth you give is always yours.
5.43
Laecania’s teeth are snowy; those of Thais, black with rot.
The reason? Thais has her own; Laecania’s were bought.
5.45
Bassa, you say you’re beautiful and young.
Whoever says such things is neither one.
5.46
I just like kisses snatched when you’re unwilling;
your anger, not your beauty, turns me on.
To ask you, Diadumenus, I beat you.
Now both your love and fear of me are gone.
5.47
He swears he never dines in. That’s no line.
If not invited, Philo doesn’t dine.
5.52
I’ll always cherish what you’ve done for me.
Why don’t I speak of it? Because you do.
Whenever I tell someone of your bounty,
he cries at once: “He told me of it, too!”
Some things two can’t do well; just one suffices.
You must keep mum if you want me to gush.
Believe me, Postumus, the greatest gifts
are canceled when the giver just won’t hush.
5.53
Bassus, why write of Medea or Thyestes?
What’s Niobe or Andromache to you?
Deucalion’s your best theme (drown your pages)
or Phaethon, if you’d rather ( fire will do).
5.57
When I call you “lord,” don’t swagger, Cinna. Why?
I often give your slave the same reply.
5.58
You say you’ll live tomorrow, always tomorrow.
When will it get here? Where is it abiding?
How far off, Postumus? Where will you find it?
Is it in Parthia or Armenia, hiding?
Already it’s as old as Priam or Nestor.
To buy tomorrow, how much would you pay?
Will you live then? Today is late already.
He’s wise who did his living yesterday.
5.59
In sending you no silver and no gold,
my purpose, eloquent Stella, is to please.
A lavish giver wants a big return—
my earthenware will put you at your ease.
5.64
Callistus, pour me a double of Falernian.
Chill it, Alcimus, with summer snows.
Sleek my damp hair with ample oil of cardamom,
and weight my brows with garlands made of rose.
The Mausoleum of Caesar, so close by,
says, “Live it up, for even gods can die.”
5.66
Pontilianus, though often hailed, you never
greet first. If that’s your way, farewell forever.
5.68
I sent you hair from northerners up yonder
to show you, Lesbia, that yours is blonder.
5.73
Why, Theodorus, don’t I send
my books, though you demand and plead
repeatedly? My reason’s good:
so you won’t give me yours to read.
5.74
Asia and Europe cover Pompey’s sons,
but Libyan earth, if any, hides his plot.
Why wonder that he’s scattered through the world?
Wreckage so vast can’t lie in just one spot.
5.75
A law forced Laelia into wedded life—
so, Quintus, she’s rightly called your lawful wife.
5.76
By drinking poison often, Mithridates
from all pernicious toxins gained immunity.
So, Cinna, since you always dine so poorly,
you face down death by famine with impunity.
5.79
Eleven times you rose at dinner, Zoilus,
to change the outfit you were dining in,
so that your sweat-drenched clothing wouldn’t cling
or subtle drafts disturb your rested skin.
Why don’t I sweat at dinner, as a rule?
Having one outfit keeps me mighty cool.
5.81
If poor, Aemilianus, poor you’ll stay.
None but the rich get wealthier today.
5.82
Why did you promise me two hundred grand
if you can’t give me ten? Perhaps you can
but just don’t want to? Isn’t that more shameful?
Gaurus, go to hell, you petty man!
5.83
I flee you, Dindymus, when chased; I chase you when you flee.
It’s not your wanting me I want; it’s your not wanting me.
Book Six
6.6
Lupercus, in a comedy
the actors number only three,
but four men win your Paula’s heart
(she even loves the walk-on part).
6.12
The hair she swears is hers Fabulla bought.
So, Paulus, is that perjury or not?
6.14
Laberius, you claim that you can write
excellent verse. Why don’t you, since you can?
If anyone who can write good verse doesn’t,
I’ll think he’s an extraordinary man.
6.15
While an ant wandered in the shade of poplars,
a drop of amber trapped the tiny beast,
so she who was despised while still alive
has been made precious now that she’s deceased.
6.16
You whose sickle frightens men, whose cock
scares queers, guard this secluded plot with care.
Keep old thieves from your orchard, but let in
a boy or lovely girl with flowing hair.
6.17
Cinnamus, you’d have us call you Cinna.
Isn’t that barbarous beyond belief !
So, if your name were Furius before,
we likewise ought to call you Fur, you thief.
6.18
In Spanish soil rests pious Saloninus;
no better soul’s seen Styx’s home before.
It’s wrong to mourn; since you survive him, Priscus,
part of him lives, the part he valued more.
6.20
I asked you for a hundred grand in loan
after you’d asked what help you could bestow.
For ten days you ask questions, waver, stall,
and torture us both. Please, Phoebus, just say no.
6.22
You’re marrying your lover, Proculina,
taking as spouse your partner in transgression
so that the law can’t brand you with adultery.
That isn’t m
arrying; it’s a confession.
6.23
“Stand up!” you always tell my penis, Lesbia.
A cock’s no finger, rising on demand.
Although you urge with coaxing hands and words,
your face dictates the opposite command.
6.24
Carisianus never plays—
he wears a toga on holidays.
6.30
If you had promptly given me six thousand
when you said “Take it home; it’s yours today,”
I’d feel I owed you for two hundred thousand.
Instead, you gave it after much delay,
seven or nine months later. Want the truth?
Paetus, your six grand was thrown away.
6.33
Sabellus the bugger, once the gladdest man,
is now the saddest, Matho. What bad luck!
Escapes or deaths of slaves, thefts, fires, bereavements
plague him. Poor man, he’s even forced to fuck.
6.34
Load me with kisses, Diadumenus.
You ask “How many?” You would bid me count
the waves, the shells that dot Aegean shores,
the bees that wander the Cecropian mount,
the cheers and claps that fill the theater
when Caesar’s face comes suddenly into view.
Not the sum Lesbia gave to witty Catullus
when begged: he who can count them wants too few.
6.36
With nose and penis both so large in size,
you smell it, Papylus, each time you rise.
6.40
Lycoris, once no woman could outshine you.
Now Glycera’s the one none can outdo.
She’ll be like you; you cannot be like her.
Time does that: her I want; I wanted you.
6.41
Reciting with one’s throat wrapped up in fleece
shows one can neither speak nor hold one’s peace.
6.45
You’ve played enough, you wanton cunts: get married.
Chaste love you are allowed and nothing but.
Is this chaste love? Laetoria weds Lygdus.
She’ll act worse as a wife than as a slut.
6.46
The Blues won’t run, despite the constant lash—
yet, Catianus, still they’re earning cash.
6.48
When togaed crowds, Pomponius, shout “Bravo!”
your dinner, not your speech, has moved them so.
6.50
When paying court to good men, Telesinus,
a pauper, wore a shabby, threadbare gown.
But since he started seeing filthy queers,
he buys up silver, tables, land cash down.
Want to get rich, Bithynicus? Get a clue:
chaste kisses bring small gain—or none—to you.
6.51
Lupercus, since you dine so much without me,
I’ll pay you back by being troublesome.
I’m angry: call, send, beg me all you please—
“What will you do?” What will I do? I’ll come.
6.52
Here lies Pantagathus, whose life was brief,
taken in boyhood, to his master’s grief.
With steel just skimming skin, he had the skill
to shave rough cheeks and trim each straying strand.
Be light and kind, earth, as you should; you still
cannot be lighter than his artful hand.
6.53
Andragoras bathed and dined with us with cheer;
next day, Faustinus, he was found stone dead.
What caused his sudden death, you ask? He dreamed
Doctor Hermocrates approached his bed.
6.55
Because you smell of Niceros’ lead boxes,
black with cinnamon and cassia wood
and all the spice nest of the splendid phoenix,
you laugh at us who don’t smell, Coracinus.
I’d rather smell of nothing than smell good.
6.56
You think you’ve cheated gossip, Charidemus,
because your legs and chest are rough with hair?
Trust me: remove the hair from your whole body
and swear an oath you pluck your buttocks bare.
“What for?” You know what many folks have said—
make them assume you’re sodomized instead.
6.57
You craft false locks from ointment, Phoebus, hiding
with painted curls your bald and dirty head.
You needn’t call a barber for a haircut:
a sponge can give a better shave instead.
6.59
That it’s not cold makes Baccara grieve and gripe
thanks to his many woolen cloaks. He prays
for murky fog and wind and snow; he hates
when temperatures turn mild on winter days.
You hard-heart, when has my cloak, which a breeze
can lift from my shoulders, ever done you wrong?
How much more natural and more humane
to wear your woolen cloaks all August long!
6.60
Rome praises, loves, recites my little books.
I’m carried in each hand or pocket. See!
Someone blushes, pales, gapes, yawns, or hates it.
That’s what I want: my verse now pleases me.
6.62
Salanus, a father, lost his only son.
Send presents, Oppianus. Why delay?
Oh, what a wicked shame! What evil Fates!
Which vulture now will make this corpse his prey?
6.66
When Gellianus the auctioneer was selling
a girl just now, of none-too-good report,
the kind who sits in the middle of Subura,
for quite a while the bids had fallen short.
Wanting to prove that she was clean, he pulled
her near, against her will, and kissed her two,
three, four times. What resulted from that kissing?
One who’d just bid six hundred then withdrew.
6.79
Lupus, you’re sad, though lucky. Don’t disclose it.
Fortune will call you thankless if she knows it.
6.82
Rufus, just now a man inspected me
with care, as purchasers or trainers do.
He fixed me with his eye, pointed his finger,
and said, “Aren’t you the very Martial who
is known for naughty jests by all but those
who have the ear of a Batavian?”
I smiled a little smile and nodded slightly,
admitting that I was the very one.
“Then why,” he asked me, “is your cloak so bad?”
“Because I’m a bad poet,” I replied.
Rufus, lest this befall a poet often,
send me a better cloak to save my pride.
6.84
Philippus, borne by eight, is fit, but lazy.
Avitus, if you think he’s sane, you’re crazy.
6.86
When shall I drink you, snow-cooled Setine wine,
in plentiful cups without a doctor’s ban?
Unworthy of such a boon is one who’d rather
be heir to Midas—foolish, thankless man!
May one who hates me own vast fields of wheat,
rivers of gold—and drink warm water, neat.
6.90
Gellia has one lover—that is true.
What makes it even worse: she’s wife to two.
6.91
Our leader’s sacred ban forbids adultery. You
should be delighted, Zoilus: you don’t screw.
Book Seven
7.3
Why don’t I send my books to you?
For fear you’d send me your books, too.
7.4
Because his pallor, Castricus, got worse,
Oppianus st
arted writing verse.
7.9
Cascellius is sixty, at his peak
in cleverness. When will he learn to speak?
7.11
You make me, Pudens, emend by hand
my small books’ imperfections.
You love me so—to want my trifles
with autograph corrections!
7.13
Dusky Lycoris went to Hercules’ hills on
hearing that old ivory turns white
in Tibur’s sun. How potent Tibur’s air is!
In no time, she returned as black as night.
