by Martial
I warn you, fisherman, for your sake,
Keep well clear of the Baian lake
Or you’ll commit a crime. This pool
Is swum in by a sacred school
Of fish who know their master and
Nibble his earth-compelling hand;
What’s more, each, being named, will swim,
Called by the Emperor, to him.
Not long ago, by this deep stretch,
Some sacrilegious Libyan wretch,
While tugging at his quivering rod,
Was instantly struck blind by God
And never saw his catch. Now, hating
His cursèd hooks, he squats here, waiting
For alms. Then, while you still may, go
Hence innocently; but first throw
Some unbarbed morsel in, and wish
Long life to the imperial fish.
34
Attalus, you’re the butt of a good joke:
“His toga’s filthy, but he’s clean—clean broke.”
38
Galla, say no; for love, unless
It teases, cloys with happiness.
Don’t take too long, though, to say yes.
64
My friend’s few happy acres vie
With the Hesperides: they lie
On the Janiculum’s long spine.
A flat crest with a mild incline,
Un-overlooked, his plateau breathes
Serener air, and, when mist wreathes
The valleys, Julius Martial’s height
Shines with a private, privileged light.
On starry nights when there’s no cloud,
The graceful gable of his proud
Villa lifts gently towards heaven.
From one side you can see the seven
Sovereign hills, a bird’s-eye view
Of all Rome, Alba’s summits too,
And Tusculum’s, and each cool retreat
In the suburbs—old Fidenae, neat
Little Rubrae, and the goddess’ wood
Who likes her annual virgins’ blood.
From the other, either road he goes,
North or north-west, the traveller shows
Clear to the eye: the wheels spin round
And yet the carriage makes no sound
To interrupt sleep; for, though the ridge
Is not far from the Mulvian Bridge
And all the boats that glide and scud
Up and down holy Tiber’s flood,
No bargee’s shout or bosun’s cry
Can climb to vex the ear so high.
This house half out of, half in Rome,
The owner bids you treat as home;
Indeed you’ll think of it as yours,
So hospitably are the doors
Opened, the visitor supplied
With every want, nothing denied.
Such liberality once reigned
When King Alcinous entertained
Ulysses, or Molorchus played
Host after Hercules had made
Him rich overnight.
You who now call
All but your own grand properties small,
Order a hundred men with hoes
To work cool Tibur, or impose
A single manager to run
Setia’s vine-terraces as one
Vast farm—I’ll still (asking your pardon)
Prefer my namesake’s modest garden.
66
You’ve spent your whole life in the provinces,
And that’s the cheapest way to live there is.
On the odd Ides or Calends you might take
Your dusty toga out and give it a shake;
One dinner-suit lasts you ten summers’ wear.
Your scrub and fields offer wild boar and hare
Gratis; you beat your copses and get plump
Thrushes as gifts; fish in abundance jump
Out of your wriggling river, for the asking, on the line;
Your big red jar pours out the next hill’s wine.
Your plain hearth’s tended by a retinue
Of your own country people—not for you
Some pretty, Greek-born butler. You can screw
Your housekeeper when wine heats up your blood
Or some rough farmer’s wife. No fire or flood
Has ever touched your house, no August sun
Ruined your crops, no ship—for you have none—
Gone down at sea. Your solitary vice
Is the good old knucklebones, not desperate dice,
And you stake only a few nuts. You were the heir
Of a rich, miserly mother, Linus. Where
Are those million sesterces? Since your bereavement
They’ve vanished. A remarkable achievement!
70
When Ammianus’ father breathed
His last, his son, hovering in hope,
Found that the final will bequeathed
Him nothing but a length of rope.
Though none of us dreamed he could regret
The old man’s death, he’s most upset.
71
Rufus, I’ve searched all Rome for a long time
To find a girl who says no. There are none.
It seems as if it’s simply just not done,
As if it’s impermissible, a crime,
To say no. Does that mean that they’re all whores,
That virgins don’t exist? No, there are scores.
Then what does a good girl do? She doesn’t give
Either herself or a plain negative.
81
Now that she’s read my epigram—the one
About girls saying no—Fabulla’s begun
To be difficult. Already she’s thrown back
My first, my second, even my third attack.
Fabulla, do be sensible. When I said,
“Say no,” I meant, “Say the last no in bed.”
89
Whoa, little book! Slow up! Easy there! Steady!
We’ve reached the finishing post, yet you’re still ready
To gallop uncontrollably on, to run
Past the last page, as if your job weren’t done.
(I’d have called it a day after page one!)
My reader’s fed up now, about to drop,
And my copyist, who longs to shut up shop,
Agrees: “Whoa, little book! Enough! Full stop!”
BOOK FIVE
9
I was unwell. You hurried round, surrounded
By ninety students, Doctor. Ninety chill,
North-wind-chapped hands then pawed and probed and pounded.
I was unwell: now I’m extremely ill.
10
“Fame is denied to living authors; few
Readers give their contemporaries their due.
Why is this so?” Well, Regulus, I’ll tell you.
The character of envy is to value
The ancients higher than the moderns. So,
Nostalgically, ungratefully, we go
For shade to Pompey’s antique colonnade,
So old men praise the ugly temple made
Uglier by Catulus. You read Ennius, Rome,
When Virgil was available nearer at home;
In his own century Homer’s public found him
Uncouth; Menander’s audience seldom crowned him
Or even clapped; though Ovid was a poet,
Corinna was the only one to know it.
But there’s no cause, my little books, to worry:
If glory must be posthumous, why hurry?
18
Because, this month, when napkins, pretty spoons,
Paper, wax tapers and tall jars of prunes
Fly to and fro, I’ve sent you nothing but books,
My humble, home-made verses, I may seem
Stingy or impolite. But I abhor
&
nbsp; The tricks of the angler’s trade. Gifts are like hooks,
And flies, as everyone knows, fool greedy bream.
So, Quintianus, when a man who’s poor
Sends nothing to a rich friend, it’s an act
Of generosity—in point of tact.
20
If you and I, Julius, old friend,
Were granted licence to expend
Time without worry, infinite leisure,
Together to explore life’s pleasure,
We’d neither of us bother then
With the ante-rooms of powerful men,
Arrogant busts, ancestral faces,
Or the law’s bitter, tedious cases.
No; strolls, gossip, the Colonnade,
Bookshops, the baths, the garden’s shade,
The Aqueduct, the exercise-ground,
Would constitute our onerous round.
But, as it is, we, both and each,
Miss the rich life within our reach.
We watch the good sun speed and set,
And the lost day goes down as debt.
Would any man, if he knew how
To live, not do it here and now?
26
In one of my recent literary jokes,
I gave you “alpha,” Cordus, for your cloaks.
By all means, if that poem got your goat,
Award me “beta” for my overcoat.
34
To you, my parents, I send on
This little girl Erotion,
The slave I loved, that by your side
Her ghost need not be terrified
Of the pitch darkness underground
Or the great jaws of Hades’ hound.
This winter she would have completed
Her sixth year had she not been cheated
By just six days. Lisping my name,
May she continue the sweet game
Of childhood happily down there
In two such good, old spirits’ care.
Lie lightly on her, turf and dew:
She put so little weight on you.
39
Three times a month you change your will
And hopefully, with each codicil,
I send you cakes flavoured with honey
Of Hybla. Now that I’ve no money,
Have pity! Stop will-tinkering,
Charinus, or else do the thing
Long promised by that cough which mocks
Our expectations. My strong-box
Is drained, my purse has nothing in it.
Even if I became this minute
Richer than Croesus, I’d soon be
The beggar in the Odyssey:
At this rate, you’d exhaust my means
If all you got each time was beans.
45
Bassa, you tell us that you’re young
And beautiful. Is it the truth?
That old refrain is often sung
By those who’ve lost both looks and youth.
46
The only kisses I enjoy
Are those I take by violence, boy.
Your anger whets my appetite
More than your face, and so to excite
Desire I give you a good beating
From time to time: a self-defeating
Habit—what do I do it for?
You neither fear nor love me more.
56
For ages you’ve been agonising, bothering me with the problem: to which schoolmaster should you entrust your son?
Right, then. The boy should shun
Anyone who teaches
Grammar or rhetoric; let him steer clear of Virgil, skip Cicero’s speeches
And leave Tutilius to stew in his own fame.
If he writes poetry, for the sake of the family name
Disinherit him. If it’s money he wants to earn,
He can easily learn
To twang the harp in the chorus, or toot
The accompanist’s flute.
If he seems short on intellect,
Make him an auctioneer or an architect.
74
Asia and Europe each provide a grave
For Pompey’s sons, and he himself lies under
Egypt, if grave he can be said to have.
Or is the world his tomb? There’d be no wonder
In that: one monument would be too small
To house so huge, so ruinous a fall.
76
By daily making himself sick
With minuscule drops of arsenic
King Mithridates once built up
Immunity to the poison-cup.
In the same way, your small, vile dinner
Saves you from death by hunger, Cinna.
78
Toranius, if the prospect of a cheerless, solitary dinner
Bores you, eat with me—and get thinner.
If you like appetite-whetters,
There’ll be cheap Cappadocian lettuce,
Pungent leeks, and tunny-fish
Nestling in sliced eggs. Next, a black earthenware dish
(Watch out—a finger-scorcher!) of broccoli just taken
From its cool bed, pale beans with pink bacon,
And a sausage sitting in the centre
Of a snow-white pudding of polenta.
If you want to try a dessert, I can offer you raisins (my own),
Pears (from Syria), and hot chestnuts (grown
In Naples, city of learning)
Roasted in a slow-burning
Fire. As for the wine, by drinking it you’ll commend it.
When this great feast has ended,
If, as he well might,
Bacchus stirs up a second appetite,
You’ll be reinforced by choice Picenian olives fresh from the trees,
Warm lupins and hot chick-peas.
Let’s face it,
It’s a poor sort of dinner; yet, if you deign to grace it,
You’ll neither say nor hear
One word that’s not sincere,
You can lounge at ease in your place,
Wearing your own face,
You won’t have to listen while your host reads aloud from some thick book
Or be forced to look
At girls from that sink, Cadiz, prancing
Through the interminable writhings of professional belly-dancing.
Instead, Condylus, my little slave,
Will pipe to us—something not too rustic, nor yet too grave.
Well, that’s the “banquet.” I shall invite
Claudia to sit on my left. Who would you like on my right?
81
If you’re poor now, my friend, then you’ll stay poor.
These days only the rich get given more.
BOOK SIX
17
“Address me,” you insist, “as Long,”
Longbottom. The contraction’s wrong.
Surely you wouldn’t make the same
Mistake if Cockburn were your name?
20
“Why don’t you ever ask a favour?”
“Then lend me a hundred,” I replied.
And now you stall and hedge and waver;
For ten whole days you’ve crucified
Our nerves—until I’m on my knees
Begging you, “Phoebus, say no, please!”
45
Promiscuous girls, you’ve had your fun:
Now marry and “cleave unto one”
Lawfully. What a hope!
Laetoria, who’s about to wed
Lygdus, will find the double bed
Offers her twice the scope.
46
The four-horse chariot of the Blues,
When Catianus plies the whip,
Drops back—to win the bribe and lose
The race. Consummate jockeyship!
48
Pomponius, when loud applause
Salutes you from your client-guests,
&n
bsp; Don’t fool yourself: good food’s the cause
And not your after-dinner jests.
51
Because you’re always giving splendid
Dinners and never ask me, I’ve
Planned my revenge. I’m so offended
By now that if you beg me, “Please
Come to my house,” on bended knees
I’ll … what will I do to you? Arrive!
52
His master’s grief now, once his joy,
Here lies Pantagathus, a boy
So dexterous one could never feel
The touch when his tonsorial steel
Trimmed the unruly hairs or sheared
The stubble of a stubborn beard.
Earth, treat him, as is only right,
As gently as his hand was light.
60
All Rome is mad about my book:
It’s praised, they hum the lines, shops stock it,
It peeps from every hand and pocket.
There’s a man reading it! Just look—
He blushes, turns pale, reels, yawns, curses.
That’s what I’m after. Bravo, verses!
63
You know you’re being got at, you’re aware
He’s nothing but a fortune-hunting crook,
And yet, poor fool, you’ve named him as your heir
To step into your shoes. “Ah, but he sent
Me presents that were quite magnificent.”
That was mere bait: didn’t you spot the hook?
Can a fish love an angler? Do you believe
That he’ll feel sorrow when you die? Just leave
Him nothing—then he’ll genuinely grieve.
