You wish, Malisianus, to seem more chaste
than a shamefaced virgin, but your cheek is worse
than one who—right in Stella’s home!—recites
books in the meter of Tibullus’ verse.
Why, Hyllus, withhold today what yesterday
you gave, so lately kind and now so cold?
Yet now you plead your beard and years and hair.
What a long night, if one night makes you old!
Why mock me? Hyllus, tell me in what way
did yesterday’s boy become a man today?
Thais, you turn down none. Should that not bother you,
feel shame at this : there’s nothing you won’t do.
Claudia Peregrina weds my Pudens.
Bless your torches, Hymen! Let them shine!
So aptly nard is mixed with cinnamon,
and Theseus’ honeycombs with Massic wine.
So well weak vines are joined to elms; the lotus
loves water thus, while myrtle loves the shore.
Fair Harmony, dwell always in their bed,
and Venus bless the couple evermore.
Let her still love him when he’s old someday;
may she seem young to him, even when she’s gray.
Caecilianus, when you asked me lately
to lend you a thousand for a week, I said,
“I’m broke.” But now “because a friend is coming,”
you ask for a dish and serving tools instead.
Are you a fool? Am I, my friend? When I’ve
denied you one grand, will I give you five?
Rumor alleged you weren’t your stepmom’s stepson,
Gallus, while she was still your father’s spouse.
But none could prove it while he was alive.
Now that he’s gone, she’s living in your house.
Though Cicero be called from the shades below
and Regulus himself defend you, none
could clear you: she who won’t stop being a stepmom
after the father’s death was never one.
You tell me to write verse about Lycisca
to make her blush and make her angry, too.
Paulus, what a wicked man you are:
you want to have her sucking only you.
Caerellia says she’s old, though she’s a doll.
Gellia says she’s young, though she’s a hag.
Collinus, one can’t stomach either one:
one makes you laugh; the other makes you gag.
Segius claims there are no gods, the skies
are bare. He proves it, too: while he denies
the gods exist, he sees his fortune rise.
New to the marriage bed, not yet accustomed
to a husband, Cleopatra plunged within
a bright pool, fleeing embraces. But the water
revealed her, hiding. Under it, her skin
still shone. So lilies under glass are counted;
so see-through crystal won’t let roses hide.
I jumped in, dove, and seized reluctant kisses:
further embrace the limpid pool denied.
She’s buried every friend she’s had in life—
I wish Lycoris would befriend my wife.
I haven’t paid you morning calls all year.
Postumus, shall I say how much I’ve lost?
Sixty sesterces, maybe thirty. Sorry,
I buy my toga at a higher cost.
Often you praise my little books, Augustus.
Envy denies it. Is it then less true?
You’ve honored me not just with words, but gifts
that could be granted me by none but you.
See! Envy chews his blackened nails once more.
Give further, Caesar: make him really sore.
Their number, my dear Pudens, hurts my books;
their frequency leaves readers cloyed and tired.
Rare things delight: roses cost more in winter;
the earliest apples are the most desired;
haughtiness makes a grasping mistress dearer;
young men avoid the always open door.
Persius in one book scores more than Marsus
in his whole Amazoniad can score.
So too, when you re-read a book of mine,
pretend I’ve only one: then it will shine.
A bee, enclosed within a drop of amber,
both hides and shines, appearing to be frozen
in honey, an apt reward for all her pains:
one might think it’s the death she would have chosen.
You’ve bookcases of verse you’ve labored over.
Why do you publish nothing? “Once I’m dead,
my heirs will do it.” When, Sosibianus?
Already it’s high time that you were read.
Who calls your toga “snowy” doesn’t lie,
soiled as it may be, Attalus, to the eye.
Your hair is black, your beard, white, Olus. Why?
You dye your hair; your beard you cannot dye.
Galla, say no. Some torment makes love stronger.
But, Galla, don’t keep saying no much longer.
Why wrap your neck in wool when you recite?
To wrap it round our ears would be more right.
I never said you’re a pansy, Coracinus.
I’m not so rash and bold, nor prone to lie.
If I’ve said you’re a pansy, Coracinus,
may I make Pontia’s flask irate, may I
enrage Metilius’ drinking-cup. I swear
by Syrian tumors sent from Cybele,
by Phrygian frenzies. What, then, did I say?
Something slight and paltry, you’ll agree,
a well-known fact, and one that you cannot
deny yourself. I said that you lick twat.
This is Vesuvius, green just now with vines;
here fine grapes loaded brimming vats. These heights
were loved by Bacchus more than Nysa’s slopes;
on this mount, satyrs lately danced their rites.
This home of Venus pleased her more than Sparta;
this spot the name of Hercules made proud.
All lie engulfed in flames and dismal ashes:
the gods themselves regret it was allowed.
This plaque of yours is glazed with the device
of Phaethon. Why wish to fire him twice?
One doesn’t fathom epigrams, believe me,
Flaccus, who labels them mere jokes and play.
He’s trifling who writes of savage Tereus’ meal
or yours, queasy Thyestes, or the way
Daedalus fit his boy with melting wings
or Polyphemus grazed Sicilian flocks.
My little books shun bombast, and my Muse
won’t rave in puffed-up tragedy’s long frocks.
“Yet all admire, praise, honor those.” Indeed,
they praise those, I confess, but these they read.
Why call me “old man,” Thais? Though you mock,
no man’s too old for you to suck his cock.
You didn’t own six grand, Caecilianus,
yet rode a litter carried by six men.
Now that blind Fortune’s granted you two million,
coins burst your purse—and you’re on foot again.
What wish suits one whose merits are so rare?
I pray the gods will give you back your chair.
You’d have me call you kind, Gargilianus,
for sending gifts to widows and old men?
No one is viler, more obscene than you,
who dare to call your ruses “presents” when
they’re like sly hooks cajoling greedy fish,
like baits that trap dumb beasts through trickery.
If you can’t tell a gift from quid pro quo,
I’ll teach you how they differ: give to me.
You mourn your mate in private; it appears,
Galla, that you’re ashamed you have no tears.
As a snake crawled through weeping poplar boughs,
across the beast’s path flowed an amber drip.
Amazed to be held fast in the thick sap,
it stiffened, swiftly bound in ice’s grip.
Don’t, Cleopatra, vaunt your royal tomb:
a viper lies in a more splendid room.
Caerellia, a mother, bound for Baiae
from Bauli, drowned, destroyed by a wild sea.
What fame you’ve squandered, waters! Once, though ordered
by Nero, you refused this infamy.
Philaenis always weeps from just one eye.
How can that be? She has just one—that’s why.
You always serve such fine wine, Papylus,
but rumor makes us pass it up. They say
this flask has widowed you four times. I don’t
believe it—but my thirst has gone away.
His father left him just dry rope
when he drew his final breath.
Who’d have thought Ammianus could
regret his father’s death?
I’ve long searched all of Rome, Safronius Rufus,
for a girl who would say no. No girl says no,
as if it were a sin or something shameful
or not allowed. No girl says no. And so
is no one chaste? Yes, thousands. Chaste girls choose
neither to give their favors nor refuse.
Quintus, you’d have me give my books to you.
I’ve none, but Tryphon’s shop has a supply.
“Should I pay cash for trash and buy your verse?
I’m no such fool,” you tell me. Nor am I.
Nigrina, paragon of Latin brides,
happy in spirit, happy in your mate,
you’re pleased to mix your own wealth with your spouse’s,
glad ally and copartner in his fate.
Evadne burned on her husband’s pyre; no less fame
conveyed Alcestis to the stars above;
but you top both: this sure pledge while you live
means that you needn’t die to prove your love.
You sent six grand; I’d asked for twelve. To score
the twelve I want, I’ll ask for twenty-four.
I never asked the gods for wealth:
my small means brought serene delight.
Sorry, but leave now, poverty!
Why this new prayer? I want to see
Zoilus hang himself for spite.
You’ve bought the farm in Tibur where you always were my guest.
I’ve bilked you, Matho: sold you what you already possessed.
Fabulla, when she’d read my verse complaining
that no girl says no—though her lover pled
once, twice, and thrice with her—ignored his plea.
Fabulla, give your promise now. I said
“say no,” but not “say no relentlessly.”
Naevolus, when you’re free of cares, you’re churlish,
but troubled, you’re the best of men. You scorn
us all when you’re at ease, don’t answer greetings;
to you, no one’s born free—or even born.
Worried, you offer gifts, invite a guest,
greet him as “lord” and “patron.” Stay distressed.
No one in all of Rome can offer
firsthand proof that Thais fucks,
though many long and beg for it.
Is she so chaste, then? No, she sucks.
We drink from glasses, Ponticus, you from stone—
so we can’t see your wine’s unlike our own.
Your Bassa always sets a baby near,
Fabullus, calling it her “pet” and “dear,”
yet—here’s the kicker—tots don’t warm her heart.
So what’s her motive? Bassa tends to fart.