Here is the one you read and ask for:
Martial, known the world around
for witty books of epigrams,
whom you, devoted reader, crowned
with fame—while he has life and breath—
such as few poets get in death.
You want to be handsome, Cotta, and yet great—
but handsome men are always second-rate.
Gemellus wants to marry Maronilla.
He burns, implores, brings gifts, won’t be put off.
Is she so pretty? No, there’s none more homely.
What makes her so appealing then? Her cough.
When faithful Arria gave her spouse the sword
she’d drawn from her own flesh, she said, “Believe me,
Paetus, the wound I made gives me no pain;
it’s that which you will give yourself that grieves me.”
You’ll read some good things here, some fair, more worse.
There’s no way else to make a book of verse.
Titus would have me practice law.
He says, “The field is splendid.”
A field is splendid, Titus, if
a farmer keeps it tended.
Aelia, I recall you had four teeth.
One cough knocked two out; one, the other two.
Now you can safely cough the whole day long.
A third cough can do nothing more to you.
What folly is this? In front of crowds of guests,
you gobble every mushroom on the plate.
What curse, Caecilianus, suits such greed?
May you eat mushrooms such as Claudius ate.
You ask to dinner none but those you’ve bathed with.
The baths yield all your guests. I used to brood,
Cotta, about why I was not invited.
I know now: you disliked me in the nude.
You see that shag-haired fellow, Decianus,
who frightens even you with his grim brow,
who talks of heroes—Curii, Camilli?
Don’t trust his looks. He played the bride just now.
Last night, Procillus, after I had drunk
four pints or so, I asked if you would dine
with me today. At once, you thought the matter
was settled, based on statements blurred by wine—
a risky precedent. Good memory
is odious in one who drinks with me.
Whoever thinks Acerra stinks of last night’s wine
is wrong. He drinks till light begins to shine.
Rumor reports that you recite my books
in public, Fidentinus, as your own.
Call them mine, and I’ll send you them for nothing.
Buy me out if you want them yours alone.
Diaulus was a surgeon; he’s an undertaker now—
starting to practice medicine the best way he knows how.
Sabidius, I don’t like you. Why? No clue.
I just don’t like you. That will have to do.
Gellia doesn’t weep for her dead father
when she’s alone, but tears pour on command
if someone comes. Who courts praise isn’t mourning—
he truly grieves who grieves with none at hand.
You always sin with doors flung wide, unguarded;
your intrigues, Lesbia, are unconcealed.
A watcher thrills you much more than a lover;
you take no joy in joys that aren’t revealed.
Yet whores drive watchers off with bolts and curtains;
few chinks expose Summemmian brothel rooms.
Learn modesty from Chione or Ias;
even filthy street-whores hide in tombs.
Is my critique too stringent, to your thought?
I don’t say “Don’t get fucked,” just “Don’t get caught.”
You take a dump in gold (poor gold!) and aren’t ashamed of it.
Bassa, you drink from glass; it therefore costs you more to shit.
The book that you recite from, Fidentinus, is my own.
But when you read it badly, it belongs to you alone.
Spite, do you scowl to read of praise, though due?
Then envy all, while no one envies you.
When you say, “I’m in haste, so get it done with,”
my passion droops and falters instantly.
Tell me to wait: held back, I’ll just go faster.
If you’re in a hurry, Hedylus, don’t rush me.
Diaulus was a doctor lately; now he’s a mortician:
he does as undertaker what he did as a physician.
If you can spare some time for being loved
(for you have friends on every side, it’s true),
Fuscus, make room for me, if space remains.
Do not refuse me just because I’m new:
your old friends all were new once. See if you
can’t make a newfound chum an old friend, too.
Flaccus, you ask what kind of girl I want?
One not too hard to get, but not too easy.
I like a girl between the two extremes:
one who will neither satiate nor tease me.
The dealer priced a boy at a hundred grand.
I laughed, but Phoebus paid it instantly.
My cock is grieved and grumbles to himself,
applauding Phoebus and berating me.
But his cock earned two million for him. Score
as much for me, cock: next time I’ll pay more.
The dole at Baiae matches that in Rome.
Why amidst pleasures does such hunger dwell?
Give me the murky baths of Lupus and Gryllus:
why dine so badly, Flaccus, to bathe well?
Laevina, no less chaste than ancient Sabines
and sterner than her mate (who was quite dire),
on trusting Lakes Lucrinus and Avernus
and warming in the Baian spas, caught fire,
ran off with a youth, and left her spouse bereft:
arriving, Penelope; Helen when she left.
You’d have me recite my poems. I decline.
You want to recite yours, Celer, not hear mine.
You’re lovely, yes, and young, it’s true,
and rich—who can deny your wealth?
But you aren’t lovely, young, or rich,
Fabulla, when you praise yourself.
I’ll drink six drafts for Laevia and seven for Justina,
five for Lycis, four for Lyde, and for Ida, three.
Let all my girls be numbered by the pouring of Falernian,
and since not one of them has come, let you, Sleep, come to me.
You think yourself a poet, Fidentinus,
based on my verse, and want it widely known?
So Aegle thinks she has her teeth because
she purchased Indian ivory and bone;
so too Lycoris, blacker than ripe mulberries,
when powdered with white lead thinks she looks fair.
And you, the same way you’ve become a poet,
when you’ve gone bald, will have a head of hair.
None in all Rome would’ve wished to touch your wife
for free—if you permitted it—not ever.
Now that you’ve posted guards, Caecilianus,
you’ve drawn a crowd of fuckers. You’re so clever.
He was your lover, Paula. It’s a fact you could deny.
Look, he’s now your husband. Can you still call it a lie?
Charinus has good health, and yet he’s pale.
Charinus doesn’t drink much, yet he’s pale.
Charinus can digest well, yet he’s pale.
Charinus gets some sun, and yet he’s pale.
Charinus paints his face, and yet he’s pale.
Charinus licks a cunt, and yet he’s pale.
Manneia, your lapdog licks your lips with his tongue.
It’s no surprise that a dog likes eating dung.
Though Quirinalis doesn’t want a mate,
he does want sons. He’s found a way to get them.
He fucks his slave girls, filling his estate
and house in town chock-full of homegrown knights:
a real paterfamilias, by his lights.
Cinna, you’re always murmuring in one’s ear—
even what’s safe to chatter in a crowd.
You laugh, complain, blame, judge, and weep in one’s ear;
you sing in one’s ear, keep still, and shout out loud.
This malady is so ingrained in you,
you often whisper praise of Caesar, too.
Bassa, I never saw you close to men;
no gossip linked you to a lover here.
A crowd of your own sex was always with you
at every function, no man coming near.
I have to say, I thought you a Lucretia,
but you (for shame!) were fucking even then.
You dare to link twin cunts and, with your monstrous
clitoris, pretend to fuck like men.
You’d suit a Theban riddle perfectly:
where there’s no man, there’s still adultery.
You blast my verses, Laelius; yours aren’t shown.
Either don’t carp at mine or show your own.
Aegle, when you were fucked, your singing sucked.
Now you’re a vocalist, but can’t be kissed.
You shout down lawyers, Aelius, without cease,
but not for free. You’re paid to hold your peace.
Lycoris, the painter of your Venus tried,
I’d say, to show he’s on Minerva’s side.
Wine born, Ovidius, in Nomentan fields,
after a lengthy lapse of time occurs,
puts off its name and nature in old age,
and the old jar’s called whatever it prefers.
Rufus, you often add more water
to your wine. If friends insist,
you’ll sip an ounce of wine, half-drowned.
Has Naevia pledged a night of bliss
and you would keep your fucking sure,
your mischief clear? You sigh, keep still,
and groan: she’s turned you down. Then drink
full cups of unmixed wine to kill
your bitter grief. Why should you keep
yourself deprived? You have to sleep.
You have a house (and may it stand and prosper
for many years) that’s lovely to behold,
but over the Tiber, while my garret views
Vipsanian laurels. Here I have grown old.
Gallus, I’d have to move to call each morning.
That’s hard, though were it farther still, I’d go.
But you have little need for one more client,
while it means much to me to tell you no.
I’ll greet you often at dinner, face to face.
Mornings, my book will greet you in my place.
“Write shorter epigrams” is your advice.
Yet you write nothing, Velox. How concise!
Your wisdom is as famed as your devotion;
your faith and honor, Regulus, are unswerving.
Who wonders that you’re sent this book with incense
does not know how to give to the deserving.
Not knowing you, I’d “Lord” and “Patron” you.
I’ve got your number now: “Priscus” will do.
Reader, if you would spend good hours badly,
wasting free time with what I wrote in play
as a young man and boy once, you may seek it
(rubbish I hardly recognize today)
from Quintus Pollius Valerianus,
who will not let my trifles fade away.
Each time we meet, you say right off,
“May I send a boy to get your book
of epigrams? I’ll send it back
at once, after I’ve had a look.”
Lupercus, spare the boy; my home,
At the Pear Tree, is far. There I
live three flights up—and steep ones, too.
What you desire is closer by.
Surely you stroll down Argiletum:
facing Caesar’s Forum, where
a shop has doorposts crammed with lists
of all the poets—seek me there.
Ask for Atrectus (he’s the owner).
From cubby one or two, he’ll hand
you Martial, smoothed and purple-clad,
for five denarii, on demand.
You say, “You’re not worth such expense”?
Lupercus, you’re a man of sense.