Selected Epigrams

by Martial

  9.8

  Fabius, whom you gave six grand a year,

  has left you nothing. He left no one more.

  Bithynicus, don’t grumble. He has left you

  six grand a year more than you had before.

  9.9

  Though, Cantharus, you’re fond of dining out,

  you hurl abuse, you threaten, and you shout.

  I warn you, leave your truculence behind:

  you can’t both stuff your face and speak your mind.

  9.10

  You’d like to wed Priscus, Paula? That’s no surprise:

  you’re wise. He’d rather not. He too is wise.

  9.14

  You think this fellow has a friend’s true heart,

  who likes you for your spread and how you dine?

  He loves sow’s udder, mullet, boar, and oysters.

  If I dined so, he’d be a friend of mine.

  9.15

  On seven husbands’ tombs, Chloe the murderess

  wrote “Chloe’s work.” What more could she confess?

  9.19

  You praise, Sabellus, in three hundred verses,

  the baths of Ponticus, whose dinners shine.

  You do not want to bathe; you want to dine.

  9.21

  Artemidorus sold his field to buy a boy,

  whom Calliodorus sold to get the field.

  Artemidorus plays and Calliodorus plows.

  Which of them, Auctus, gets a better yield?

  9.25

  Whenever we watch your Hyllus serving wine,

  you fix us, Afer, with a troubled eye.

  What crime is it to look at a soft page?

  We view the sun, stars, temples, gods. Should I

  avert my gaze as if a Gorgon offered

  the cup, hiding my eyes and face? Indeed,

  though Hercules was fierce, one could view Hylas;

  Mercury can play with Ganymede.

  If guests can’t watch your young boys serving wine,

  ask Oedipuses and Phineuses to dine.

  9.32

  I want an easy girl, who roams in a cloak,

  who puts out for my slave ahead of me,

  who sells for two denarii all she has,

  who simultaneously can service three.

  She who talks big and asks large sums may go

  oblige the cock of a blockhead from Bordeaux.

  9.33

  Flaccus, when at the baths you hear applause,

  I’m certain Maro’s cock must be the cause.

  9.40

  When Diodorus left for Rome from Pharos

  to seek the Tarpeian wreath, Philaenis swore

  (naive girl!) that on his return she’d lick

  what even modest Sabine wives adore.

  His ship broke up in a raging storm, and though

  waves swamped him and he foundered in the sea,

  he still swam back to shore to claim her pledge.

  What a slow husband! What great lethargy!

  Had my girl, on the shore, made such a vow,

  I’d have returned with her immediately.

  9.44

  I just asked Vindex whose fine work

  his sculpture of Alcides was.

  “Poet, don’t you know Greek?” he asked

  with a laugh and nod, the way he does.

  “The name’s inscribed on the base.” I read

  “Lysippus”; Phidias, I’d have said.

  9.50

  Gaurus, you claim that since my poems please

  by brevity, my talent’s second rate.

  I grant they’re short. But you who write twelve books

  on Priam’s mighty battles, are you great?

  I make small boys of bronze, who live and play;

  you, great one, make a giant out of clay.

  9.52

  Believe me, Quintus Ovidius, I love

  your birthday, April first, as much as mine,

  March first—for you deserve it. Both are blessed,

  days marked with choicer pebbles as a sign.

  One gave me life; the other, a best friend.

  Yours, Quintus, gives me more joy, in the end.

  9.53

  I wished to give a trifling birthday gift,

  Quintus, which you forbid imperiously.

  I must obey. Let’s do what both would wish,

  what pleases both. Let you give one to me.

  9.60

  Whether you come from Paestum’s fields or Tibur’s,

  whether your blooms made Tusculan soil blush red,

  adorned Campania lately, or were plucked

  by a steward’s wife from a Praenestine bed,

  let my Sabinus (to lend your wreath more charm)

  assume you’ve come from my Nomentan farm.

  9.62

  Philaenis is arrayed in purple

  every day (and evenings, too),

  but isn’t showy or stuck-up:

  she likes their odor, not their hue.

  9.63

  You’re asked to dinner, Phoebus, by every queen.

  I’d say one fed by a cock is none too clean.

  9.66

  Your wife is lovely, chaste, and young, Fabullus,

  so why beg Caesar for a father’s perks?

  What you beseech our lord and god to grant you,

  you’ll give yourself, if your equipment works.

  9.67

  All night I had a randy girl, whose mischief

  none can exhaust. Worn out from having tried

  a thousand modes, I asked her for the boy way.

  Before I’d started begging, she complied.

  Laughing and blushing, I asked for something ruder.

  At once the wanton girl gave her permission.

  To me, she’s pure still; Aeschylus, she won’t be

  to you—if you accept her lewd condition.

  9.69

  You tend to shit at the climax of a screw.

  When buggered, Polycharmus, what do you do?

  9.74

  A painting shows Camonius as a boy;

  in this alone, the child’s small form lives on.

  No portrait from his prime was made, his father

  fearing to see his face with all speech gone.

  9.78

  Galla had buried seven husbands, Picentinus; then

  she married you. Galla, I think, would like to join her men.

  9.80

  A starving pauper wed a wealthy crone.

  Gellius feeds his wife and gives her the bone.

  9.81

  Though listener and reader like my books,

  some poet, Aulus, says they lack finesse.

  I don’t much care. I’d far rather impress

  the diners with my courses than the cooks.

  9.82

  An astrologer said that shortly you’d be doomed,

  nor do I reckon, Munna, that he lied.

  You drained your family wealth through lavish spending

  for fear of leaving something when you died.

  In less than a year, two million was consumed:

  Tell me, is this not shortly to be doomed?

  9.83

  For all the feats of your arena, Caesar,

  which beat the famous shows of former leaders,

  our eyes confess great debt, our ears still more,

  for you’ve made watchers of habitual readers.

  9.85

  Atilius, when Paulus feels unwell,

  his dinner guests must fast—but not the host.

  Your sudden illness, Paulus, is fictitious,

  but my free meal has given up the ghost.

  9.87

  When, after seven cups of wine,

  I’m fuddled and my speech is slurred,

  you bring who-knows-what document,

  saying, “I’ve recently conferred

  freedom on Nasta, Father’s slave.

  Seal here.” Not now, Lupercus. Ask

  tomorro
w: that’s more suitable.

  For now, my ring seals just the flask.

  9.88

  Rufus, when you pursued me, you’d send presents;

  now that I’m caught, you give me none at all.

  To keep your captive, go on sending gifts,

  or else the ill-fed boar may flee the stall.

  9.89

  Stella, your rule’s too hard, that guests must versify!

  “You may, of course, write bad verse,” you reply.

  9.91

  If Caesar’s messenger and Jove’s should call me

  to dine in different heavens, though the sky

  were closer and the Palace farther off,

  I’d send this answer to the gods on high:

  “Search on for one who’d be Jove’s company;

  my Jupiter keeps me on earth, you see.”

  9.96

  Doctor Herodes took a patient’s scoop for wine by stealth.

  When caught, he said, “You nitwit, drinking’s ruining your health.”

  9.100

  For three denarii, you bid me come

  to pay you morning calls in formal dress,

  then stay beside you, walk before your litter,

  and call upon ten widows, more or less.

  My toga may be threadbare, cheap, and graying,

  but, Bassus, it costs more than you are paying.

  9.102

  You cancel the four hundred grand I owe you.

  Give me instead a hundred grand in loan.

  Boast of your useless gift to others, Phoebus:

  what I can’t pay you, I already own.

  Book Ten

  10.1

  If as a book I seem too long, my end

  too far, to make me short, read just a few.

  My short page often ends at a poem’s end,

  so make me just as brief as pleases you.

  10.8

  Paula would marry me; I’m disinclined.

  She’s old. If she were older, I’d change my mind.

  10.9

  I, Martial, am renowned for poetry

  of eleven feet or syllables, acclaimed

  for ample wit, without effrontery,

  by tribes and nations—but why envy me?

  The horse Andraemon is as widely famed.

  10.16

  Aper shot his wealthy wife—an arrow through her heart

  during a game of archery. At gamesmanship, he’s smart.

  10.21

  Sextus, why relish writing what Claranus

  and skilled Modestus barely comprehend?

  Your books need not a reader, but Apollo.

  Cinna outrivaled Vergil, you contend.

  Let your verse earn such praise; let my creations

  please scholars without needing explications.

  10.22

  You ask why I paint healthy lips

  with white lead and my chin with goo

  often when I go out, Philaenis?

  I’m not fond of kissing you.

  10.23

  Happy Antonius Primus now has numbered

  fifteen Olympiads of tranquil years.

  He looks back on past days and years securely,

  not dreading Lethe’s water as it nears.

  No day that he recalls is grim or painful;

  there’s none whose memory he would avoid.

  A good man can expand his life: he lives

  twice over whose past life can be enjoyed.

  10.27

  The senate on your birthday, Diodorus,

  reclines as guests of yours; few knights are missed.

  Your dole is lavish: thirty coins apiece.

  Yet no one is aware that you exist.

  10.29

  The dish you used to send at the Saturnalia,

  you sent your mistress; the green dinner gown

  you gave her on the first of March was purchased

  instead of buying me a toga. Now,

  Sextilianus, you get girls for free:

  you fuck them with the gifts you once gave me.

  10.31

  You lately sold a servant for twelve hundred

  to dine well, Calliodorus, just one time.

  But you did not dine well: the four-pound mullet

  you bought as the meal’s showpiece was a crime.

  One wants to shout, “That’s not a fish, you beast!

  That’s no fish! That’s a man on whom you feast.”

  10.32

  You ask, Caedicianus, whom this picture,

  adorned with roses and violets, portrays?

  That’s Marcus Antonius Primus in midlife.

  In this the old man views his younger face.

  If only art could show his heart and spirit!

  For loveliness, no painting could come near it.

  10.39

  You swear you were born when Brutus led us. Liar!

  Lesbia, were you born in Numa’s day?

  There, too, you lie: those who recount your eons

  report Prometheus molded you from clay.

  10.40

  My Polla, I was always told,

  saw a queer friend a lot

  in private. Lupus, I broke in.

  A faggot he was not.

  10.43

  You’ve buried seven wives now in your field.

  Phileros, no one’s land can top that yield.

  10.44

  To visit, Quintus Ovidius, Caledonians,

  green Tethys and Father Ocean, do you yield

  the hills of Numa and Nomentan leisure,

  parted in old age from your hearth and field?

  You postpone joys, but Atropos keeps spinning,

  and every hour’s added to your sum.

  You will have shown your friend (who wouldn’t praise it?)

  that keeping your word means more than life. But come

  back to your Sabine home at last to dwell,

  counting yourself among your friends as well.

  10.45

  If my small books say something smooth and sweet,

  if a suave page sounds flattering, you deplore

  such greasy fare; you’d rather gnaw a rib

  when I serve loin of a Laurentian boar.

  My flask’s not to your taste: drink Vatican

  if vinegar delights your palate more.

  10.47

  Most genial Martial, these things are

  the elements that make life blessed:

  money inherited, not earned;

  a fire year-round, a mind at rest,

  productive land, no lawsuits, togas

  rarely, friends of like degree,

  a gentleman’s physique, sound health,

  shrewd innocence, good company,

  plain fare, nights carefree, yet not drunk;

  a bed that’s decent, not austere;

  sleep, to make darkness brief; desire

  to be just what you are, no higher;

  and death no cause for hope or fear.

  10.49

  Though you drink drafts of amethyst

  and swill Opimian, dark and old,

  you toast me in new Sabine wine.

  “Would you prefer it served in gold?”

  you ask me. Cotta, who would sup

  leaden wine from a golden cup?

  10.52

  Numa saw Thelys the eunuch in formal dress

  and called him a condemned adulteress.

  10.53

  I’m Scorpus, the glory of the roaring Circus,

  Rome’s short-lived darling, cheered for a brief span,

  then seized by jealous Fate at twenty-seven.

  Counting my wins, she thought me an old man.

  10.54

  You cover your fine tables. Get a clue!

  Olus, like that, I own fine tables, too.

  10.59

  If just one poem fills a page, you skip it.

  The short ones please you, not the best. I serve

  a lavish dinner culled
from every market,

  but you are only pleased with the hors d’oeuvre.

  A finicky reader’s not for me; instead,

  I want one who’s not full without some bread.

  10.61

  Here rests Erotion’s all-too-hurried shade,

  dispatched in her sixth winter by Fate’s crime.

  Make yearly offerings to her tiny ghost,

  whoever rules this plot after my time.

  So may your home and household last for years

  with nothing but this stone to call for tears.

  10.64

  Polla, my queen, if you take up my books,

  receive my jests without a frown of scorn.

  Your bard, the glory of our Helicon,

  who blew fierce war on his Pierian horn,

  in bawdy verses didn’t blush to say,

  “Cotta, if I’m not sodomized, why stay?”