Lupercus, in a comedy
the actors number only three,
but four men win your Paula’s heart
(she even loves the walk-on part).
The hair she swears is hers Fabulla bought.
So, Paulus, is that perjury or not?
Laberius, you claim that you can write
excellent verse. Why don’t you, since you can?
If anyone who can write good verse doesn’t,
I’ll think he’s an extraordinary man.
While an ant wandered in the shade of poplars,
a drop of amber trapped the tiny beast,
so she who was despised while still alive
has been made precious now that she’s deceased.
You whose sickle frightens men, whose cock
scares queers, guard this secluded plot with care.
Keep old thieves from your orchard, but let in
a boy or lovely girl with flowing hair.
Cinnamus, you’d have us call you Cinna.
Isn’t that barbarous beyond belief !
So, if your name were Furius before,
we likewise ought to call you Fur, you thief.
In Spanish soil rests pious Saloninus;
no better soul’s seen Styx’s home before.
It’s wrong to mourn; since you survive him, Priscus,
part of him lives, the part he valued more.
I asked you for a hundred grand in loan
after you’d asked what help you could bestow.
For ten days you ask questions, waver, stall,
and torture us both. Please, Phoebus, just say no.
You’re marrying your lover, Proculina,
taking as spouse your partner in transgression
so that the law can’t brand you with adultery.
That isn’t marrying; it’s a confession.
“Stand up!” you always tell my penis, Lesbia.
A cock’s no finger, rising on demand.
Although you urge with coaxing hands and words,
your face dictates the opposite command.
Carisianus never plays—
he wears a toga on holidays.
If you had promptly given me six thousand
when you said “Take it home; it’s yours today,”
I’d feel I owed you for two hundred thousand.
Instead, you gave it after much delay,
seven or nine months later. Want the truth?
Paetus, your six grand was thrown away.
Sabellus the bugger, once the gladdest man,
is now the saddest, Matho. What bad luck!
Escapes or deaths of slaves, thefts, fires, bereavements
plague him. Poor man, he’s even forced to fuck.
Load me with kisses, Diadumenus.
You ask “How many?” You would bid me count
the waves, the shells that dot Aegean shores,
the bees that wander the Cecropian mount,
the cheers and claps that fill the theater
when Caesar’s face comes suddenly into view.
Not the sum Lesbia gave to witty Catullus
when begged: he who can count them wants too few.
With nose and penis both so large in size,
you smell it, Papylus, each time you rise.
Lycoris, once no woman could outshine you.
Now Glycera’s the one none can outdo.
She’ll be like you; you cannot be like her.
Time does that: her I want; I wanted you.
Reciting with one’s throat wrapped up in fleece
shows one can neither speak nor hold one’s peace.
You’ve played enough, you wanton cunts: get married.
Chaste love you are allowed and nothing but.
Is this chaste love? Laetoria weds Lygdus.
She’ll act worse as a wife than as a slut.
The Blues won’t run, despite the constant lash—
yet, Catianus, still they’re earning cash.
When togaed crowds, Pomponius, shout “Bravo!”
your dinner, not your speech, has moved them so.
When paying court to good men, Telesinus,
a pauper, wore a shabby, threadbare gown.
But since he started seeing filthy queers,
he buys up silver, tables, land cash down.
Want to get rich, Bithynicus? Get a clue:
chaste kisses bring small gain—or none—to you.
Lupercus, since you dine so much without me,
I’ll pay you back by being troublesome.
I’m angry: call, send, beg me all you please—
“What will you do?” What will I do? I’ll come.
Here lies Pantagathus, whose life was brief,
taken in boyhood, to his master’s grief.
With steel just skimming skin, he had the skill
to shave rough cheeks and trim each straying strand.
Be light and kind, earth, as you should; you still
cannot be lighter than his artful hand.
Andragoras bathed and dined with us with cheer;
next day, Faustinus, he was found stone dead.
What caused his sudden death, you ask? He dreamed
Doctor Hermocrates approached his bed.
Because you smell of Niceros’ lead boxes,
black with cinnamon and cassia wood
and all the spice nest of the splendid phoenix,
you laugh at us who don’t smell, Coracinus.
I’d rather smell of nothing than smell good.
You think you’ve cheated gossip, Charidemus,
because your legs and chest are rough with hair?
Trust me: remove the hair from your whole body
and swear an oath you pluck your buttocks bare.
“What for?” You know what many folks have said—
make them assume you’re sodomized instead.
You craft false locks from ointment, Phoebus, hiding
with painted curls your bald and dirty head.
You needn’t call a barber for a haircut:
a sponge can give a better shave instead.
That it’s not cold makes Baccara grieve and gripe
thanks to his many woolen cloaks. He prays
for murky fog and wind and snow; he hates
when temperatures turn mild on winter days.
You hard-heart, when has my cloak, which a breeze
can lift from my shoulders, ever done you wrong?
How much more natural and more humane
to wear your woolen cloaks all August long!
Rome praises, loves, recites my little books.
I’m carried in each hand or pocket. See!
Someone blushes, pales, gapes, yawns, or hates it.
That’s what I want: my verse now pleases me.
Salanus, a father, lost his only son.
Send presents, Oppianus. Why delay?
Oh, what a wicked shame! What evil Fates!
Which vulture now will make this corpse his prey?
When Gellianus the auctioneer was selling
a girl just now, of none-too-good report,
the kind who sits in the middle of Subura,
for quite a while the bids had fallen short.
Wanting to prove that she was clean, he pulled
her near, against her will, and kissed her two,
three, four times. What resulted from that kissing?
One who’d just bid six hundred then withdrew.
Lupus, you’re sad, though lucky. Don’t disclose it.
Fortune will call you thankless if she knows it.
Rufus, just now a man inspected me
with care, as purchasers or trainers do.
He fixed me with his eye, pointed his finger,
and said, “Aren’t you the very Martial who
is known for naughty jests by all but those
who have the ear of a Batavian?”
I smiled a little smile and nodded slightly,
admitting that I was the very one.
“Then why,” he asked me, “is your cloak so bad?”
“Because I’m a bad poet,” I replied.
Rufus, lest this befall a poet often,
send me a better cloak to save my pride.
Philippus, borne by eight, is fit, but lazy.
Avitus, if you think he’s sane, you’re crazy.
When shall I drink you, snow-cooled Setine wine,
in plentiful cups without a doctor’s ban?
Unworthy of such a boon is one who’d rather
be heir to Midas—foolish, thankless man!
May one who hates me own vast fields of wheat,
rivers of gold—and drink warm water, neat.
Gellia has one lover—that is true.
What makes it even worse: she’s wife to two.
Our leader’s sacred ban forbids adultery. You
should be delighted, Zoilus: you don’t screw.