Epigrams (Modern Library Classics)

by Martial

  66

  Last week, the auctioneer was trying to sell

  A girl whose reputation one could smell

  From here to her street corner in the slums.

  After some time, when only paltry sums

  Were being offered, wishing to assure

  The crowd that she was absolutely pure,

  He pulled the unwilling “lot” across and smacked

  Three or four kisses on her. Did this act

  Make any difference to the price? It did.

  The highest offerer withdrew his bid.

  82

  The other day, Rufus, somebody gave

  Me the once-over, as though I were a slave

  Or a gladiator open to inspection

  At a sale. A thumb was jerked in my direction

  Together with a surreptitious glance,

  Then up he came: “Are you by any chance

  Martial, whose wicked epigrams are famous,

  Whom everyone but a deaf Dutch ignoramus

  Has heard of?” With a slight nod of the head

  And a modest smile I bowed. “Then why,” he said,

  “Do you walk around wearing that terrible cloak?”

  “Because I’m a terrible poet.” Terrible joke!

  Rufus, to save me making it again,

  Send me a cloak that keeps out the rain.

  BOOK SEVEN

  3

  Why have I never sent

  My works to you, old hack?

  For fear the compliment

  Comes punishingly back.

  11

  Why do you press me to emend

  My trifles with my own hand? Friend,

  You’re a flatterer. You know quite well

  You’ll keep the manuscript to sell.

  16

  At home I’ve empty coffers.

  Only one thing can save me:

  Sell all the gifts you gave me.

  Regulus, any offers?

  39

  Having had enough of early rising

  And running around, of patronising

  “Good-mornings” or “The great man’s out,”

  Caelius decided to have gout.

  He smeared and bandaged both his feet

  And in his eagerness to complete

  The imposture hobbled about wincing.

  Such power has art, so self-convincing

  Was Caelius, that at last his act

  Transmuted fiction into fact.

  43

  Cinna, the best thing would be if you lent

  Me anything I asked for. The next best

  Would be for you to say no then and there.

  I like good givers, and I don’t resent

  A straight refusal of a small request.

  It’s ditherers like you that I can’t bear.

  54

  You tell me regularly every morning

  Your dreams—dreams about me, of doom and warning,

  Which worry me sick. Already, to appease

  Heaven, I’ve poured to the expiatory lees

  Both last and this year’s wine; meanwhile I pay

  The local witch to exorcise your grey

  Forebodings. All my salt meal’s used, I’ve finished

  My stock of frankincense, my flock’s diminished

  By the huge quantity of lambs I’ve slain,

  Not a pig, not a fowl, not even eggs remain.

  Nasidianus, for our friendship’s sake

  Either dream of yourself or stay awake.

  58

  Galla, since you invariably fancy

  Long hair and soft, combed beards, by now you’ve wed

  Six or seven husbands, each of them a nancy.

  Afterwards, when they’ve failed the test in bed

  (Cocks like wet leather that won’t get a stand on

  However hard your hand pumps), you abandon

  The weaponless field and the unmanly men—

  And fall into the same old trap again.

  Find some uncouth, rough-chinned philosopher

  Who’s always harping on the days that were!

  You’ll find one; but that grim “old Roman” set

  Is riddled with queers. Real men are hard to get.

  61

  The thrusting shopkeepers had long been poaching

  Our city space, front premises encroaching

  Everywhere. Then, Domitian, you commanded

  That the cramped alleyways should be expanded,

  And what were footpaths became real roads.

  One doesn’t see inn-posts, now, festooned with loads

  Of chained flagons; the praetor walks the street

  Without the indignity of muddy feet;

  Razors aren’t wildly waved in people’s faces;

  Bar-owners, butchers, barbers know their places,

  And grimy restaurants can’t spill out too far.

  Now Rome is Rome, not just a huge bazaar.

  87

  People have the oddest kinks.

  My friend Flaccus fancies, ears and all, a lynx;

  In Canius’ opinion

  You can’t beat a coal-black Abyssinian;

  Publius gets the itch

  With a little terrier bitch;

  Cronius is in love with a monkey that looks like him—almost human;

  Marius cuddles a deadly ichneumon;

  Lausus likes his talking magpie; Glaucilla, more reckless,

  Coils her pet snake into a shivery necklace;

  Telesilla,

  When her nightingale died, erected a commemorative pillar.

  Since it’s every master to his own monstrous taste,

  Why, sweet, Cupid-faced

  Labycas, shouldn’t you too be embraced?

  BOOK EIGHT

  12

  Why have I no desire to marry riches?

  Because, my friend, I want to wear the breeches.

  Wives should obey their husbands; only then

  Can women share equality with men.

  23

  Because my cook ruined the mutton

  I thrashed him. You protested: “Glutton!

  Tyrant! The punishment should fit

  The crime—you can’t assault a man

  For a spoilt dinner.” Yes, I can.

  What worse crime can a cook commit?

  27

  If you were wise as well as rich and sickly,

  You’d see that every gift means, “Please die quickly.”

  29

  The epigrammatist’s belief

  Is that he pleases since he’s terse.

  But what’s the use of being brief

  At length—the length of a book of verse?

  35

  Since you’re alike and lead a matching life,

  Horrible husband and ill-natured wife,

  Why all the discord and domestic strife?

  41

  He says he’s “sorry” that he failed to send

  My usual New Year’s gift. A sorry friend!

  How sorry, I’m not sure. At any rate

  I know I too am in a sorry state.

  43

  Chrestilla digs her husbands’ graves,

  Fabius buries his wives. Each waves,

  As bride or groom, the torch of doom

  Over the marriage bed. Now pair

  These finalists, Venus: let them share

  Victory in a single tomb.

  61

  Charinus is ill with envy, bursting with it, weeping and raging and looking for high branches to commit suicide.

  Why is he so mortified?

  Not because the whole world’s my admiring reader,

  Nor because my book, smartly knobbed and dyed with oil of cedar,

  Is passed from hand to hand among the nations that acknowledge Rome,

  But simply because I’ve got a suburban summer home,

  And mules to take me there, which I don’t, as I used to have to, pay for.

  What curse shall I pray for
/>
  To make him even iller?

  His own mules, and a country villa.

  69

  Rigidly classical, you save

  Your praise for poets in the grave.

  Forgive me, it’s not worth my while

  Dying to earn your critical smile.

  71

  For New Year, Postumus, ten years ago,

  You sent me four pounds of good silver-plate.

  The next year, hoping for a rise in weight

  (For gifts should either stay the same or grow),

  I got two pounds. The third and fourth produced

  Inferior presents, and the fifth year’s weighed

  Only a pound—Septicius’ work, ill-made

  Into the bargain. Next I was reduced

  To an eight-ounce oblong salad-platter; soon

  It was a miniature cup that tipped the scales

  At even less. A tiny two-ounce spoon

  Was the eighth year’s surprise. The ninth, at length,

  And grudgingly, disgorged a pick for snails

  Lighter than a needle. Now, I note, the tenth

  Has come and gone with nothing in its train.

  I miss the old four pounds. Let’s start again!

  79

  Her women friends are all old hags

  Or, worse, hideous girls. She drags

  Them with her everywhere she goes—

  To parties, theatres, porticoes.

  Clever Fabulla! Set among

  Those foils you shine, even look young.

  BOOK NINE

  4

  We all know Galla’s services as a whore

  Cost two gold bits; throw in a couple more

  And you get the fancy extras too. Why, then,

  Does your bill, Aeschylus, amount to ten?

  She sucks off for far less than that. What is it

  You pay her for? Silence after your visit.

  6

  On your return from Libya I tried

  On five consecutive days to call and pay

  My compliments. When I was turned away

  Three times with “He’s asleep” or “occupied,”

  I’d had enough. All right, if you’re so shy,

  Good-day, Afer, good riddance and goodbye.

  9

  Although you’re glad to be asked out,

  Whenever you go, you bitch and shout

  And bluster. You must stop being rude:

  You can’t enjoy free speech and food.

  33

  If from the baths you hear a round of applause,

  Maron’s great prick is bound to be the cause.

  60

  Garland of roses, whether you come

  From Tibur or from Tusculum,

  Whether the earth you splashed with red

  Was Paestum’s or the flower-bed

  Of some Praeneste farmer’s wife

  Who snipped you with her gardening-knife,

  No matter in which countryside

  You flew your flag before you died—

  To lend my gift an added charm,

  Let him believe you’re from my farm.

  68

  Abominable schoolmaster, bogeyman of little girls and boys,

  We can do without you and your noise.

  Before the crested cocks have shattered the night’s silence

  You’re snarling, thundering, handing out corporal violence.

  An anvil being banged to make a lawyer a bronze equestrian statue

  Can’t, for sheer din, match you,

  Nor even the frenzied acclamation

  Of the fans in the amphitheatre applauding their victorious Thracian.

  We neighbours don’t expect our sleep to be unbroken:

  It’s a small nuisance to be occasionally woken,

  But to be kept sleepless all night is a disaster.

  Send your pupils home, loud-mouthed schoolmaster.

  Are you willing to take

  As much to shut up as you earn for the row you make?

  70

  “Bad times! Bad morals!” good old Cicero

  Exclaimed over a hundred years ago

  When Catiline was plotting wicked war

  Against the State, and father and son-in-law

  Clashed, and the blood of our self-wounded nation

  Drenched the poor earth. Why trot the trite quotation

  Out now, Caecilianus? Why complain?

  What’s wrong? Our government is mild, the sane

  Sword’s in its sheath, and we’re assured a lease

  Of unobstructed happiness and peace.

  If you think “times” are “bad,” by all means moan,

  But don’t accuse our morals—blame your own.

  81

  Readers and listeners like my books,

  Yet a certain poet calls them crude.

  What do I care? I serve up food

  To please my guests, not fellow cooks.

  85

  When Paulus has “a sudden chill”

  His guests lose more weight than their host.

  He merely plays at being ill,

  But our lost meal gives up the ghost.

  88

  When you were chasing my good will

  You sent me gifts. You caught me. Then

  The gifts stopped. You should send them still.

  The ill-fed boar breaks from his pen.

  BOOK TEN

  8

  She longs for me to “have and hold” her

  In marriage. I’ve no mind to.

  She’s old. If she were even older,

  I might be half inclined to.

  15

  Crispus, you’re always saying you’re the friend

  Who loves me best. But your behaviour offers

  No evidence for it. When I asked, “Please lend

  Five thousand,” you refused me though your coffers

  Are crammed to bursting. And though fellaheen

  Sweat on your profitable Nile estate

  Have I had one ear of spelt from you, one bean?

  Have you ever given me in the chilly season

  A short-cut toga? Or sent silver-plate,

  Even half a pound of it? I see no reason

  Why I should count you as a friend—apart

  From the informality with which you fart.

  16

  Aper the archer’s rich wife, struck

  Through the heart by his own shaft, was killed.

  All sports consist of skill and luck:

  She was unlucky, he is skilled.

  19

  Marius doesn’t entertain, or send

  Presents, or stand as surety, or lend—

  He hasn’t got the money for it. Yet

  A mob still courts this unrewarding “friend.”

  Clients of Rome, how stupid can you get?

  43

  Seven wives you’ve had—all dead

  And buried in one field.

  Of whom can it be said

  His land gives richer yield?

  47

  Of what does the happy life consist,

  My dear friend, Julius? Here’s a list:

  Inherited wealth, no need to earn,

  Fires that continually burn,

  And fields that give a fair return,

  No lawsuits, formal togas worn

  Seldom, a calm mind, the freeborn

  Gentleman’s health and good physique,

  Tact with the readiness to speak

  Openly, friends of your own mind,

  Guests of an easy-going kind,

  Plain food, a table simply set,

  Nights sober but wine-freed from fret,

  A wife who’s true to you and yet

  No prude in bed, and sleep so sound

  It makes the dawn come quickly round.

  Be pleased with what you are, keep hope

  Within that self-appointed scope;

  Neither uneasily apprehend

  Nor morbidly desire the en
d.

  54

  Your tables may, for all I know,

  Be priceless; but that doesn’t show

  Under a cloth. Fool! Anyone’s able

  To own a covered “antique” table.

  55

  Marulla’s hobby is to measure

  Erections. These she weighs at leisure

  By hand and afterwards announces

  Her estimate in pounds and ounces.

  Once it’s performed its exercise

  And done its job and your cock lies

  Rag-limp, again she’ll calculate,

  Manually, the loss in weight.

  Hand? It’s a grocer’s balance-plate!

  59

  If an epigram takes up a page, you skip it:

  Art counts for nothing, you prefer the snippet.

  The markets have been ransacked for you, reader,

  Rich fare—and you want canapes instead!

  I’m not concerned with the fastidious feeder:

  Give me the man who likes his basic bread.

  61

  Here, six years old, by Destiny’s crime