MARCUS VALERIUS MARTIALIS

EPIGRAMS

 

(tr. Robert R. Schnorr)

Some of these poems are good, some are medium, many are poor stuff;

Avitus, read and believe: no book is made otherwise.

 

Sunt bona, sunt quaedam mediocria, sunt mala plura

quae legis hic: aliter non fit, Avite, liber. (I,16)

 

Mine was the book, Fidentine, till you ravished it for your recital.

You've been making it yours: take it, recital and all.

 

Quem recitas meus est, o Fidentine, libellus:

sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus. (I,38)

 

Though you never recite, you would like to pass for a poet.

Pass for whatever you like; never, though,--never!--recite.

 

Nil recitas et vis, Mamerce, poeta videri.

quidquid vis esto, dummodo nil recites. (II,88)

 

Epigrams should, I suppose, please their readers by saying it briefly:

Why--though your lines are concise--why do they fill a whole book?

 

Disticha qui scribit, puto, vult brevitate placere.

quid prodest brevitas, dic mihi, si liber est? (VIII,29)

 

Dull are the topics you want me to treat in my epigrams, Mister;

Livelier verses you want . . . Whose is the fault, Sir, I ask--

Do you expect me to bring Hyblean and Hymettos honey,

When you feed Attic bees nothing but Corsican thyme?

 

Vivida cum poscas epigrammata, mortua ponis

lemmata. Qui fieri, Caeciliane, potest?

mella iubes Hyblaea tibi vel Hymettia nasci,

et thyma Cecropiae Corsica ponis api! (XI,42)

 

tr. T. W. M(elluish)

Once a surgeon, Dr. Baker

Then became an undertaker,

Not so much his trade reversing

Since for him it's just re-hearsing.

Chirurgus fuerat, nunc est vispillo Diaulus.

coepit quo poterat clinicus esse modo. (I,30)

Gouty-footed Colonel J.

Counsel's services enlists;

When the moment comes to pay

Gout has doubled up his fists.

Litigat et podagra Diodorus, Flacce, laborat.

sed nil patrono porrigit: haec cheragra est. (I,98)

That fellow Singer, it is said,

Against me wrote a song.

But when a man is never read

To say he writes is wrong.

Versiculos in me narratur scribere Cinna.

Non scribit, cuius carmina nemo legit. (III,9)

Upon the platform Croker

All muffled up appears,

But how we'd like that choker

To muffle up our ears!

Quid recitaturus circumdas vellera collo?

conveniunt nostris auribus ista magis. (IV,41)

 

 

It's not a case of poisoned cup,

Assault, or slitting throats;

I've had to have my neighbor up

For stealing my three goats.

You dwell on Punic faith and fury,

Pontic wars and Cannaes,

But this they're asking on the jury,

"Prove he stole the nannies."

And now with gestures various

You've told in ringing notes

Of Sulla, Mucius, Marius,

Please mention my three goats.

Non de vi neque caede nec veneno,

sed lis est mihi de tribus capellis:

vicini queror has abesse furto.

hoc iudex sibi postulat progari:

tu Cannas Mithridaticumque bellum

et periuria Punici furoris

et Sullas Mariosque Muciosque

magna voce sonas manuque tota.

Iam dic, Postume, de tribus capellis. (VI,19)

Thus, Prince, of all my goods bereft,

With not a farthing in my coffers,

One course alone to me is left,

To sell your presents. Any offers?

Aera domi non sunt, superest hoc, Regule, solum

ut tua vendamus munera: numquid emis?

 

 

tr. Gilbert Highet

To bring yourself to be happy

Acquire the following blessings:

A nice inherited income,

A kindly farm with a kitchen,

No business worries or lawsuits,

Good health, a gentleman's muscles,

A wise simplicity, friendships,

A plain but generous table,

Your evening sober but jolly,

Your bed amusing but modest,

And nights that pass in a moment;

To be yourself without envy,

To fear not death, nor to wish it.

Vitam quae faciant beatiorem,

iucundissime Martialis, haec sunt:

res non parta labore sed relicta;

non ingratus ager, focus perennis;

lis numquam, toga rara, mens quieta;

vires ingenuae, salubre corpus;

prudens simplicitas, pares amici;

convictus facilis, sine arte mensa;

nox non ebria sed soluta curis;

non tristis torus et tamen pudicus;

somnus qui faciat breves tenebras:

quod sis esse velis nihilque malis;

summum nec metuas diem nec optes. (X,47)