by Martial
10.65
Since you boast you’re a citizen of Corinth,
Charmenion, which no one can deny,
why call me “brother,” when I come from Tagus,
born of Iberians and Celts. Do I
look similar to you? You roam resplendent
with curled locks; I have stubborn Spanish hair.
You’re smooth from daily depilation; I
have shins and cheeks with bristles everywhere.
Your mouth lisps and your tongue is weak, but only
Silia’s voice is more robust than mine.
A dove is not more different from an eagle,
a shy gazelle from an unyielding lion.
So cease to call me “brother” so that I
don’t start to call you “sister” in reply.
10.66
Who, Theopompus, bid you be a cook?
Who was so proud, so heartless? Could one bear
to desecrate this face with kitchen soot
or let a greasy fire pollute this hair?
Whose hand can better hold wine-scoops and crystal,
or, mixing it, improve Falernian’s taste?
Let Jupiter make Ganymede his cook
if starlike pages thus can go to waste.
10.74
Rome, spare at last the tired congratulator,
the weary client. How long shall I call
among the escorts and the men in togas,
earning a hundred cents a day in all,
while Scorpus for one hour’s win takes home
fifteen full bags of new gold coin in gains?
I wouldn’t want my books to be rewarded—
for what are they worth?—with Apulian plains.
Not Hybla nor the grain-rich Nile attracts me,
nor the delightful grape that from the steep
summit of Setia’s slope views Pomptine marshes.
What do I want, you ask? I want to sleep.
10.77
Maximus, nothing Carus did was naughtier
than dying of fever. It, too, was unfair!
Harsh, heinous fever, if you’d just been milder!
He should have been saved—for his physician’s care.
10.80
Eros weeps when viewing murrine cups
or boys or tables made of citrus wood.
He groans that he can’t buy the whole Enclosure.
He’d take it home, poor fellow, if he could.
How many do like Eros, but dry-eyed!
Most ridicule his tears—and weep inside.
10.81
When two arrived one morning to fuck Phyllis,
each longed to take her naked first. To meet
their wish, she vowed she’d service both at once—
and did: one raised her tunic; one, her feet.
10.84
You wonder why Afer doesn’t go to bed?
You see who lies beside him. Enough said.
10.90
Why pluck your ancient cunt, Ligeia,
stirring up buried ash and bone?
Such daintiness suits girls, but you
no longer can be called a crone.
Trust me, it’s nice for Hector’s wife,
but for his mother it’s unfit.
You’re wrong to think you have a cunt
now that a cock’s unknown to it.
Ligeia, show some shame at least:
don’t pluck its beard when the lion’s deceased.
10.91
Almo owns only eunuchs, his cock is no use,
yet he gripes that Polla fails to reproduce.
10.94
No serpent of Numidia guards my orchard,
nor does Alcinous’ royal land serve me.
My farm’s Nomentan trees bear fruit in safety;
their leaden apples fear no thievery.
I therefore send these yellow fruits of autumn,
produced in mid-Subura recently.
10.95
Your spouse and lover returned your brat to you,
denying they fucked you, Galla. What did you do?
10.97
As a pyre was built with flammable papyrus,
the weeping wife bought myrrh and spice to strew.
When undertaker, bier, and grave were ready,
Numa named me his heir—and then pulled through.
10.100
You fool, why mix your verse with mine? A book
at odds with itself, poor man, does you no good.
Why try to herd your foxes with the lions
and make owls look like eagles? Even should
you have one foot as swift as Ladas, blockhead,
you can’t run if the other leg is wood.
10.102
How did Philinus, you inquire,
who never fucks, become a sire?
Ask Gaditanus, if you’d know it,
who never writes, though he’s a poet.
Book Eleven
11.13
Don’t pass this famous marble by
while walking the Flaminian Way.
Rome’s darling and the wit of Nile,
talent and grace, delight and play,
the grief and glory of Rome’s stage,
and all the love gods met their doom,
buried with Paris in this tomb.
11.14
Don’t bury the little farmer, heirs, for soil,
however light, to him means heavy toil.
11.15
I’ve pages Cato’s wife might read,
and Sabine wives of daunting looks,
but I want this whole book to laugh,
outdoing all the bawdy books.
Let it be wine-soaked and not blush
at stains from Cosmus’ rich pomade,
play with the boys and love the girls,
naming outright the part that made
us all, our common parent, which
virtuous Numa called his cock.
Recall, Apollinaris, these
are Saturnalian verses. Please
don’t judge my morals by this book.
11.17
Sabinus, not all of my pages suit the night.
You’ll find some you can read by morning light.
11.19
Why won’t I wed you, Galla? You’re well-read.
My cock makes frequent grammar slips in bed.
11.25
That randy cock of Linus, known among
a host of girls, won’t stand. So watch out, tongue.
11.28
At Doctor Euctus’ house, mad Nasica attacked
and buggered his Hylas. I’d say his wit’s intact.
11.29
When your old hand starts stroking my limp cock,
Phyllis, I’m murdered by your thumb, and when
you call me “mouse” or “light of my eyes,” I think
ten hours will hardly rally me again.
You don’t know coaxing. Say “I’ll give you acres
of fruitful Setine soil and a hundred grand.
Take wine, a house, boys, gold-trimmed plates, and tables.”
That’s how to rub me. Then you’ll need no hand.
11.30
You say the mouths of lawyers and writers of verse
smell bad. But, Zoilus, mouths that suck smell worse.
11.34
Aper bought a dark and ancient cottage,
in which not even an owl would wish to dwell.
But Maro owns a fine estate nearby.
Aper will live in poor style, but dine well.
11.35
You ask three hundred people I don’t know
and then you act astonished, fume, and moan
because I won’t come too when I’m invited.
Fabullus, I don’t like to dine alone.
11.37
Why, Zoilus, do you waste that poor sardonyx,
surrounding it with one whole pound of setting?
Lately, a ring l
ike that would link your shins.
The same weight on a finger isn’t fitting.
11.38
Someone paid twenty grand for a muleteer.
Does the price surprise you, Aulus? He couldn’t hear.
11.40
Lupercus loves fair Glycera;
he is her only lord and owner.
He griped to Aelianus that
for one whole month he couldn’t bone her.
Asked what he was waiting for,
he answered that her teeth were sore.
11.42
You call for lively verse—on lifeless themes.
But how, Caecilianus? You decree
you’ll have Hyblaean or Hymettian honey,
yet offer Corsican thyme to the Attic bee.
11.43
Catching me with a boy, you scold me, wife.
and say you have an asshole, too. Agreed!
So Juno often said to lustful Jove,
yet still he lies with strapping Ganymede.
Hercules dropped his bow and bent his Hylas.
Do you think Megara lacked an ass? Denied
his fleeing Daphne, Phoebus was tormented,
but Hyacinthus made those flames subside.
Briseis often turned her back to Achilles,
yet his smooth friend was nearer. Don’t allot
masculine names to your belongings, wife:
just think that you possess a second twat.
11.44
You’re childless, rich, and born when Brutus led us.
Do you believe your friendships to be true?
Some are—the ones you had when young and poor.
Your new friends would be glad to bury you.
11.45
Each time you cross a labeled bedroom’s threshold,
whether a boy or girl has caught your eye,
you’re not content with curtains, doors, and bolts;
you want more privacy, so none can spy.
If there’s suspicion of the slightest chink
or holes bored by a lewd pin, they’re caulked, too.
Nobody is so worried or so modest
who wants to bugger, Cantharus, or screw.
11.46
Mevius, you don’t rise, except in sleep;
your cock starts pissing on your feet instead.
Your shriveled dick is pressed by weary fingers,
but, urged thus, doesn’t lift its lifeless head
Why pester cunts and butts in vain? To thrive,
go high up: that’s where old cocks come alive.
11.47
So why does Lattara shun all baths beloved
by female hordes? He doesn’t want to fuck.
Why won’t he stroll in Pompey’s shade or visit
Isis’ shrine? He doesn’t want to fuck.
Why pour cold water on his body, smeared
with Spartan mud? He doesn’t want to fuck.
Since he shuns womankind thus, why does Lattara
lick a cunt? He doesn’t want to fuck.
11.50
Till now, only a pauper honored Vergil’s
neglected tomb and hallowed memory.
Silius chose to help his slighted shade,
and honors the poet, no less poet he.
11.51
From Titius hangs a column as immense
as that the girls of Lampsacus revere.
He bathes in spacious bathtubs of his own
with none to jostle him or crowd too near.
And yet he’s cramped for room, bathing alone.
11.57
Severus, do you wonder that I send you,
a poet, verse when asking you to dine?
Jove has his fill of nectar and ambrosia,
yet still we offer him raw guts and wine.
The gods gave you all gifts. With such a lot,
what can I give you that you haven’t got?
11.60
Is Chione or Phlogis better in bed?
Chione’s fairer; Phlogis is on fire.
Phlogis could tauten Priam’s floppy strap
or make old Pelias young with her desire.
She has the itch one wants one’s girl to have,
which Criton, not Hygia, can allay.
But Chione feels nothing, makes no sound:
you’d think she’d turned to stone or gone away.
You gods, if one might win so much from you,
if you would offer benefits so rich,
may you give Chione’s physique to Phlogis
while letting Chione have Phlogis’ itch.
11.62
Lesbia swears she never gives free lays.
It’s true: when she gets fucked, she always pays.
11.63
Watching me while I bathe, you often comment
that my smooth boys are well endowed—how come?
I’ll give you a frank answer, Philomusus:
they bugger busybodies in the bum.
11.64
I don’t know what you write to all those girls; I do
know this much, Faustus: no girl writes to you.
11.66
You’re an informer, slanderer,
cocksucker, swindler, panderer,
and fight instructor. It seems funny,
Vacerra, that you have no money.
11.67
Alive, you give me nothing, saying you’ll bequeath me more.
Maro, if you’re no fool, you know what I am hoping for.
11.68
Though you ask great men for small things, you’re denied.
Ask big things, Matho, to preserve your pride.
11.71
To her old husband Leda claimed hysteria;
fucking, for her, she wails, is a true need,
but she denies, with tears and moans, that living
is worth the price; she’d rather die, indeed.
He begs her to live and not give up her prime.
What he can’t do is done by his decree.
The female doctors leave; the male ones come.
Her feet are lifted. Drastic remedy!
11.72
Natta calls his athlete’s cock his “weenie”—
compared to it, Priapus would look teeny.
11.75
Your slave bathes with you, Caelia,
encased in a bronze sheath. But why,
since he’s no singer to the lyre
or flute? I guess so you won’t spy
his cock. So why bathe publicly?
Are we all eunuchs, then, to you?
Not to seem grudging, therefore, take
the cock-shield off your servant, too.
11.76
Paetus, you make me pay you back ten thousand,
since Bucco lost two hundred thousand. When
the sins aren’t mine, I beg, don’t let them harm me.
You, who can lose two hundred grand, lose ten.
11.77
For hours all day Vacerra sits
in all the privies. Constipation?
No, he doesn’t want to shit;
he wants a dinner invitation.
11.79
Because I came an hour late for dinner,
I’m charged with being indolent and slow.
Paetus, the fault’s not mine and not the road’s—
it’s yours, for sending mules that wouldn’t go.
11.81
An old man and a eunuch, Dindymus, pester
Aegle, a girl who lies between them dry.
One foiled by lack of strength and one by age,
each burns with fruitless lust through every try.
Venus, she begs you’ll help the luckless three:
give one his youth and one virility.
11.83
You lodge none but the childless rich for free.
No rent, Sosibianus, tops your fee.
11.85
Zoilus, while you licked, your tongue was struck
with sudde
n torpor. Surely, now you fuck.
11.86
To soothe your sore throat, constantly inflamed
by a harsh cough, the doctor would insist
that you get honey, nuts, sweet cakes, whatever
makes boys less fretful. Yet you still persist
in all-day coughing. This is no cough, I see;
Parthenopaeus, this is gluttony.
11.87
Once you were rich; back then, you were a bugger.
For ages, women were unknown to you.
Now you run after crones. How want compels one!
It’s even, Charidemus, made you screw.
11.88
Carisianus says for many days now
he couldn’t sodomize. Urged to confide
the reason lately, Lupus, to his friends,
“I’m plagued with diarrhea,” he replied.
11.89
Why send me pristine wreaths? I’d rather wear
