Matrons, boys, and modest girls,
to you my page is dedicated.
You who are overfond of bolder
mischief, wit unexpurgated,
may read my four licentious books.
The fifth book jests with Caesar, who
may read the verse without a blush—
and in Minerva’s presence, too.
Myrtale tends to reek of excess drink.
To fool us she chews bay leaves and combines
neat wine with the sly herbs instead of water.
So, Paulus, when she’s flushed, with veins like vines,
every time you see her come your way,
“Myrtale’s drunk on laurel,” you may say.
I felt unwell. But, Symmachus, you came
at once and brought a hundred students, too.
A hundred hands, chilled by the north wind, touched me.
I had no fever then. But now I do.
While speaking, Gellia, about your forebears,
their ancestors, and mighty names, you said
a knight like me was a base match. You’d have none
but a senator; a cop is what you wed.
If you and I, dear Martial, could
enjoy our days, secure from strife,
spending our leisure idly, both
at liberty to relish life,
we wouldn’t know the halls and homes
of mighty men, no bitter courts,
no gloomy Forum, no proud busts,
but riding, chatting, books, and sports,
the portico, the shade, the baths,
the fountain—daily, these would be
our haunts, our work. Now neither lives
his life. We feel our good days flee,
numbered and spent. Knowing the way
to live, why should a man delay?
Crispus didn’t leave his wife a cent.
Who was his heir? Himself. It all was spent.
A lawyer slanders my verse. I don’t know who—
but, lawyer, you’ll be sorry when I do.
To you, my parents Fronto and Flaccilla,
I commend this girl, my darling and delight.
Don’t let the dark shades and the huge-mouthed hellhound
fill my small Erotion with fright.
She would have known the chill of six midwinters
had she survived by just as many days.
Now let her lisping mouth prattle my name to
her old patrons, as she romps and plays.
Let no hard turf hide her soft bones. Earth, do
not press her harshly; she was light on you.
Faustinus, one I flattered in my book
pretends he owes me nothing. What a crook!
Sly thieves will smash your coffer and steal your cash;
impious flames will wreck your family home;
your debtor won’t repay your loan or interest;
your barren fields will yield less than you’ve sown;
a crafty mistress will despoil your steward;
a wave will swamp your ships piled high with stores.
But what you give to friends is safe from Fortune:
only the wealth you give is always yours.
Laecania’s teeth are snowy; those of Thais, black with rot.
The reason? Thais has her own; Laecania’s were bought.
Bassa, you say you’re beautiful and young.
Whoever says such things is neither one.
I just like kisses snatched when you’re unwilling;
your anger, not your beauty, turns me on.
To ask you, Diadumenus, I beat you.
Now both your love and fear of me are gone.
He swears he never dines in. That’s no line.
If not invited, Philo doesn’t dine.
I’ll always cherish what you’ve done for me.
Why don’t I speak of it? Because you do.
Whenever I tell someone of your bounty,
he cries at once: “He told me of it, too!”
Some things two can’t do well; just one suffices.
You must keep mum if you want me to gush.
Believe me, Postumus, the greatest gifts
are canceled when the giver just won’t hush.
Bassus, why write of Medea or Thyestes?
What’s Niobe or Andromache to you?
Deucalion’s your best theme (drown your pages)
or Phaethon, if you’d rather ( fire will do).
When I call you “lord,” don’t swagger, Cinna. Why?
I often give your slave the same reply.
You say you’ll live tomorrow, always tomorrow.
When will it get here? Where is it abiding?
How far off, Postumus? Where will you find it?
Is it in Parthia or Armenia, hiding?
Already it’s as old as Priam or Nestor.
To buy tomorrow, how much would you pay?
Will you live then? Today is late already.
He’s wise who did his living yesterday.
In sending you no silver and no gold,
my purpose, eloquent Stella, is to please.
A lavish giver wants a big return—
my earthenware will put you at your ease.
Callistus, pour me a double of Falernian.
Chill it, Alcimus, with summer snows.
Sleek my damp hair with ample oil of cardamom,
and weight my brows with garlands made of rose.
The Mausoleum of Caesar, so close by,
says, “Live it up, for even gods can die.”
Pontilianus, though often hailed, you never
greet first. If that’s your way, farewell forever.
I sent you hair from northerners up yonder
to show you, Lesbia, that yours is blonder.
Why, Theodorus, don’t I send
my books, though you demand and plead
repeatedly? My reason’s good:
so you won’t give me yours to read.
Asia and Europe cover Pompey’s sons,
but Libyan earth, if any, hides his plot.
Why wonder that he’s scattered through the world?
Wreckage so vast can’t lie in just one spot.
A law forced Laelia into wedded life—
so, Quintus, she’s rightly called your lawful wife.
By drinking poison often, Mithridates
from all pernicious toxins gained immunity.
So, Cinna, since you always dine so poorly,
you face down death by famine with impunity.
Eleven times you rose at dinner, Zoilus,
to change the outfit you were dining in,
so that your sweat-drenched clothing wouldn’t cling
or subtle drafts disturb your rested skin.
Why don’t I sweat at dinner, as a rule?
Having one outfit keeps me mighty cool.
If poor, Aemilianus, poor you’ll stay.
None but the rich get wealthier today.
Why did you promise me two hundred grand
if you can’t give me ten? Perhaps you can
but just don’t want to? Isn’t that more shameful?
Gaurus, go to hell, you petty man!
I flee you, Dindymus, when chased; I chase you when you flee.
It’s not your wanting me I want; it’s your not wanting me.