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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.
Caecilianus, who desired to meddle with your wife, even gratis, while permission was given; but now, since you have set a watch upon her, the crowd of gallants is innumerable. You are a clever fellow!
Hardly drinks, Charinus, still he’s pale. A fine digestion too, Charinus, still he’s pale. He takes the sun, Charinus, still he’s pale. He dyes his skin, Charinus, still he’s pale. Eats pussy, yet, Charinus, still he’s pale.
— Is the reason a trifling one? I have just buried my wife, says he. Oh great crime of destiny! oh heavy chance! Is she dead, she so wealthy, Secundilla, dead, who brought you a dower of a million sesterces? I would not have had this happen to you, Saleianus.
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Book III: 26 To Candidus
without your neck, and hands, and legs without your breasts, and ass, and hips, and Chloe, not to labour over details, I could live without the whole of you.
When is it coming, tell me, that tomorrow? How far off, and where, and how will you find it? In Armenia, or Parthia, is it concealed then? Your tomorrow’s as old as Nestor or Priam. How much would it cost you, tell me, to buy? Tomorrow? It’s already too late to live today:
He who lived yesterday, Postumus, he is wise.
and your bald and dirty skull is covered with dyed locks. There is no need to have a hairdresser for your head. A sponge, Phoebus, would do the business better.
only the poets of old, and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price
to pay for your praise
I am not surprised; you are wise: Priscus will not marry you; and he is wise.
the things that bring a happy life: wealth left to you, not laboured for; rich land, an ever-glowing hearth; no law, light business, and a quiet mind; a healthy body, gentlemanly powers; a wise simplicity, friends not unlike; good company, a table without art; nights carefree, yet no drunkenness; a bed that’s modest, true, and yet not cold; sleep that makes the hours of darkness brief: the need to be yourself, and nothing more;
not fearing your last day, not wishing it.
how Philenus became a father, he who never did anything to gain the name? Gaditanus can tell you, he who, without writing anything,
claims to be a poet.
and cries that she absolutely has to be covered; but, with tears and moans, sighs nothing is worth that, and declares she’s reconciled to dying instead. He begs her, live, not lose her years of youth, and lets be done what he can’t do now himself. The female doctors leave, males take their place, her knees are raised. O weighty remedy!
but may I die if I could in four years dally with you,
Thelesilla, once.
if I recall, were thirty-four. Their sweets were mixed with bitters, yet still the delightful times were more. If pebbles marking good and bad were piled in two heaps, here and there, the white ones would surpass the black. To shield your heart from biting care and shun some kinds of bitterness, don’t grow too close to any friend:
your joy and grief will both be less
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Book XII: 65 To Phyllis
During a whole night of pleasure,
the beauteous Phyllis had shown herself kind to me in every way;
and, as I was thinking in the morning what present to make her,
whether a pound of Cosmus' or Niceros' perfumes,
or a piece of fine Spanish wool, or ten yellow coins of Domitian,
she threw her arms round my neck,
and caressing me with a long kiss,
like those of amorous doves,
proceeded to ask me for — a jar of wine.
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Arm ben ik steeds geweest, dat wil ik wel bekennen,
Maar heel de wereld leest mijn werk: dat is óók iets!
Gij bulkt van 't geld, fokt paarden voor de rennen,
Maar verder zijt gij, vriend, toch eigenlijk maar niets.
Zo zijn wij beiden. Wat ik ben kunt gij niet wezen,
Maar wat gij zijt, dàt kan gemaklijk ieder zijn.
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Cesar, if you happen to light upon my little books,
put aside the frown that rules the world.
Even the triumphs of emperors are wont to
tolerate jests
and a warlord is not ashamed to be matter
for a quip.
Read my verses, I beg, with the expression
with which
you watch Thymele and jesting Latinus.
A censor can permit harmless jollity.
My page is wanton, but my life is virtuous.