The HyperTexts
Marcus Valerius Martial: English Translations of Epigrams, Poems, Quotations and Observations
Marcus Valerius Martialis (better known today as Martial) was born around 40
AD and died around 104 AD. He was a Latin poet from Hispania (the Iberian
Peninsula, or modern-day Spain). Martial is best known for his twelve books of epigrams, published in Rome
between AD 86 and 103, during the reigns of the emperors Domitian, Nerva and
Trajan. In these short, witty, often scathing and sometimes deliciously raunchy
poems, Martial lampooned "civilization" and the boorish/scandalous activities of his
contemporaries. He wrote more than 1,500 epigrams, most of them in elegiac
couplets, and is generally considered to be the father of the modern epigram.
Martial has been described as "colorful" and as "Rome's wiseacre poet."
Martial has been a possible or probable influence on epigrammatists such
as Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Thomas More, Shakespeare, John Donne, Ben Jonson,
Robert Herrick, Matthew Prior, Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, Voltaire, Dr.
Samuel Johnson, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, William Wordsworth, Lord Byron,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Emily Dickinson, Walter Savage Landor, Robert Frost and J.
V. Cunningham.
compiled by Michael R. Burch
There is no glory in outstripping donkeys.—Martial
Lie lightly on her, turf and dew ...
She put so little weight on you.
—Martial, translator unknown
The lines above appear in a poem Martial wrote for a slave girl,
Erotion, who died six days short of her sixth birthday. The image of earth lying
"lightly" on the grave of a girl who died before her time would later be used by
Robert Herrick in his poem "Another: Upon a Child" and by Oscar Wilde in
the
marvelous elegy, "Requiescat," he wrote for his sister Isola who died at age
ten. Two translations of the full Martial poem appear on this page.
Another: Upon a Child
by Robert Herrick
Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies:
Pray be silent, and not stir
Th' easy earth that covers her.
Whoever makes great presents, expects great presents in return.—Martial
Readers and listeners praise my books;
You swear they're worse than a beginner's.
Who cares? I always plan my dinners
To please the diners, not the cooks.
—Martial, translated by R. L. Barth
You ask me why I've sent you no new verses?
There might be reverses.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me to recite my poems to you?
I know how you'll "recite" them, if I do.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere?
You're not there.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me why I love fresh country air?
You're not befouling it there.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You ask me why I love fresh country air?
You're not befouling it, mon frère.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
You’ll find good poems, but mostly poor and worse,
my peers being “diverse” in their verse.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
2.
Some good poems here, but most not worth a curse:
such is the crapshoot of a book of verse.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sunt bona, sunt quaedam mediocria, sunt mala plura
quae legis hic: aliter non fit, Auite, liber.
He undertook to be a doctor
but turned out to be an undertaker.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Chirurgus fuerat, nunc est uispillo Diaulus:
coepit quo poterat clinicus esse modo.
1.
The book you recite from, Fidentinus, was my own,
till your butchering made it yours alone.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
2.
The book you recite from I once called my own,
but you read it so badly, it’s now yours alone.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
3.
You read my book as if you wrote it,
but you read it so badly I’ve come to hate it.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Quem recitas meus est, o Fidentine, libellus:
sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus.
Recite my epigrams? I decline,
for then they’d be yours, not mine.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ut recitem tibi nostra rogas epigrammata. Nolo:
non audire, Celer, sed recitare cupis.
I do not love you, but cannot say why.
I do not love you: no reason, no lie.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare:
hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.
You’re young and lovely, wealthy too,
but that changes nothing: you're a shrew.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bella es, nouimus, et puella, uerum est,
et diues, quis enim potest negare?
Sed cum te nimium, Fabulla, laudas,
nec diues neque bella nec puella es.
You never wrote a poem,
yet criticize mine?
Stop abusing me or write something fine
of your own!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If fame is to come only after death, I am in no hurry for it.—Martial
He starts everything but finishes nothing;
thus I suspect there's no end to his fucking.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My poems are naughty, but my life is pure.—Martial
You dine in great magnificence
while offering guests a pittance.
Sextus, did you invite
friends to dinner tonight
to impress us with your enormous appetite?
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Coq au vin
by Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you merely an éclair to the greedy?
2.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you tart Amaro to the greedy?
Amaro is an after-dinner liqueur thought to aid the digestion after a large meal.
3.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but are you an aperitif to the greedy?
4.
Hosts always invite you to dinner, Phoebe,
but they’re pimps to the seedy.
Ad cenam invitant omnes te, Phoebe, cinaedi.
mentula quem pascit, non, puto, purus homo est.
To read my Book the Virgin shy
May blush (while Brutus standeth by),
But when he's gone, read through what's writ,
And never stain a cheek for it.
—Martial, translation by Robert Herrick
Conceal a flaw, and the world will imagine the worst.—Martial
Why do you maim your slave, Ponticus, by cutting out his tongue?
Do you not know that the public says what he cannot?
—Martial, translator unknown
The bee enclosed and through the amber shown
Seems buried in the juice which was his own.
—Martial, translator unknown
Take while you can; brief is the moment of profit.—Martial
Tomorrow you will live, you always cry;
In what fair country does this morrow lie,
That 'tis so mighty long ere it arrive?
Beyond the Indies does this morrow live?
'Tis so far-fetched, this morrow, that I fear
'Twill be both very old and very dear.
"Tomorrow I will live," the fool does say:
Today itself's too late—the wise lived yesterday."
—Martial, translation by Abraham Cowley
Fortune gives too much to many, enough to none.—Martial
You alone own prime land, dandy!
Gold, money, the finest porcelain—you alone!
The best wines of the most famous vintages—you alone!
Discrimination, taste and wit—you alone!
You have it all—who can deny that you alone are set for life?
But everyone has had your wife—
she is never alone!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You gave me nothing during your life, but you promise to provide for me at
your death. If you are not a fool, you know what I wish for!—Martial
To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father,
I commend my little lost angel, Erotion, love’s daughter,
who died six days short of completing her sixth frigid winter.
Protect her now, I pray, should the chilling dark shades appear;
muzzle hell’s three-headed hound, less her heart be dismayed!
Lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade,
her devoted patrons. Watch her play childish games
as she excitedly babbles and lisps my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was surely no burden to you!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Martial wrote this touching elegy for a little slave girl, Erotion, who
died six days before her sixth birthday. The poem has been nominated as
Martial’s masterpiece by L. J. Lloyd and others. Erotion means “little love” and
may correspond to our term “love child.” It has been suggested she may have been Martial’s child by a female slave. That
could explain why Martial is asking his parents’ spirits to welcome, guide and
watch over her spirit. Martial uses the terms patronos (patrons) and
commendo (commend); in Rome a freed slave would be commended to a patron. A
girl freed from slavery by death might need patrons as protectors on the
“other side,” according to Greek and Roman views of the afterlife, where the
afterworld houses evil shades and is guarded by a monstrous three-headed dog, Cerberus. Martial is
apparently asking his parents to guide the girl’s
spirit away from Cerberus and the dark spirits to the heavenly Elysian fields
where she can play and laugh without fear. If I am correct, Martial’s poem is
not just an elegy, but a prayer-poem for protection, perhaps of his own daughter.
Albert A. Bell supports this hypothesis with the following arguments: (1)
Martial had Erotion cremated, a practice preferred by the upper classes, (2) “he
buried her with the full rites befitting the child of a Roman citizen,” (3) he
entrusted her [poetically] to his parents, and (4) he maintained her grave
for years.
To you, my departed parents, with much emotion,
I commend my little lost darling, my much-kissed Erotion,
who died six days short of completing her sixth bitter winter.
Protect her, I pray, from hell’s hound and its dark shades a-flitter;
and please don’t let fiends leave her maiden heart dismayed!
But lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade
with her cherished friends, excitedly lisping my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was such a slight burden to you!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Eros was the ancient Greek god of erotic love (or lust) and Cupid was his Roman
equivalent. However, the ancients were more likely to berate Eros/Cupid for
toying with their affections, than to praise him. Modern poets have been known
to feel the same way...
Preposterous Eros
by
Michael R. Burch
“Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga
Preposterous Eros shot me in
the buttocks, with a Devilish grin,
spent all my money in a rush
then left my heart effete pink mush.
Epigram I.90
Bassa, I never saw you hang with guys—
Nobody whispered that you had a beau.
Girls surrounded you at every turn;
They did your errands, with no attendant males.
And so, I guess I naturally assumed
That you were what you seemed: a chaste Lucretia.
But hell no. Why, you
shameless little tramp,
You were an active humper all the time.
You improvised, by rubbing cunts together,
And using that bionic clit of yours
To counterfeit the thrusting of a male.
Unbelievable. You’ve managed to create
A real conundrum, worthy of the Sphinx:
Adultery without a co-respondent.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in The Barefoot Muse)
Gifts are hooks.—Martial
Epigram III.65
The breath of a young girl, biting an apple,
The scent that wafts from Corycian saffron,
The smell of the white vine, flowering with first clusters,
The odor of fresh grass, where sheep have grazed,
Fragrance of myrtle, spice-reaping Arab, rubbed amber,
A fire glowing pale with eastern incense,
The earth just lightly touched with summer rain,
A garland that has circled someone’s hair
Wet with spikenard.
Diadumenus, cruel child,
All these things breathe forth from your perfect kisses:
Can you not give them freely, unbegrudging?
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in The Barefoot Muse)
There is no living with thee, nor without thee.—Martial
Epigram IX.67
I had this really horny broad all night,
A girl whose naughty tricks are unsurpassed.
We did it in a thousand different ways.
Tired of the same old thing, I asked to buttfuck—
Before I finished speaking, she said Yes.
Emboldened, I then blushed a bit, and laughed,
And asked for something even dirtier.
The lusty wench agreed without a blink.
Still, that girl was pure in my eyes, Aeschylus—
But she won’t be for you.
To get the same,
You’ll have to grant a nasty stipulation.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in The Barefoot Muse)
To the ashes of the dead glory comes too late.—Martial
Epigram I.77
Charinus has good
health, and still he’s pale;
Charinus drinks with
care, and still he’s pale;
Charinus digests
well, and still he’s pale;
Charinus takes the
sun, and he’s still pale;
Charinus uses rouge,
and he’s still pale;
Charinus eats out
cunt, and still he’s pale.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in TRINACRIA)
To be able to look back upon one's past life with satisfaction is to live twice.—Martial
Epigram I.83
Your little puppy
licks your mouth and lips—
Manneia, I no longer
find it strange
That dogs are tempted
by the smell of turds.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in TRINACRIA)
Laugh, if thou art wise.—Martial
Epigram II.31
I’ve often fucked
Chrestina. And you ask
How well she puts out? Listen, Marianus—
There’s not a trick left in the book of kinks.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in TRINACRIA)
Lawyers are men who hire out their words and anger.—Martial
Epigram II.42
Zoilus, why do you pollute the bath
By plunging your ass into it? A tip—
Want to make it filthier? Do this:
Submerge your head within the bath as well.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in TRINACRIA)
Too late is tomorrow's life; live for today.—Martial
Epigram II.61
While the light bloom of youth
Still played upon your cheeks
Your foul tongue licked men’s groins.
Now that your sorry head
Raises morticians’ gorges
And loathing in a hangman
Your mouth’s found a brand-new job.
Raging with swollen envy
You yap out endless slurs.
Let that noxious tongue
Go back to cleaning crotches—
Cocksucking was less vile.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in TRINACRIA)
Be content to be what you are, and prefer nothing to it, and
do not fear or wish for your last day.—Martial
Epigram X.63
Phoebus, all faggots ask you home to dine—
Who feeds on dick is dirty, I opine.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in TRINACRIA)
Virtue extends our days: he lives two lives who relives his past with
pleasure.—Martial
Epigram XI.99
I’ve noticed when you get up from the couch
You’re buttfucked, Lesbia, by your wretched skirts.
Your left and right hand try to yank them—ouch!—
You weep and moan and pull. I’m sure it hurts.
Your skirts are caught between those massive buns
As big as two Gibraltars—a tight fit.
You want to solve this problem? Listen, hon:
Don’t rise up, and what’s more, don’t even sit.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in TRINACRIA)
The mode of death is sadder than death itself.—Martial
Epigram XI.81
Aegle was once in bed with double action—
The eunuch Dindymus and some old geezer.
She lay between while they both got her hot.
Neither guy could make a go of it;
One lacked equipment, the other was senescent,
So Aegle burned without real satisfaction.
What could she do? She fell down on her knees
And prayed to Venus for herself and them:
“Make Grandpa young, make Dindymus a man!”
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(fist published in TRINACRIA)
He who refuses nothing will soon have nothing to refuse.—Martial
Epigram XII.61
(Qui Legit, caveat)
Poor Ligurra! You are sore afraid
I’ll write some pungent epigram to whack you—
A vivid little squib, or verses made
To flame your envy-driven ass. In fact you
Dream about being worthy to shed blood
As the chosen target of my lance.
Forget it, pal—you’re just a piece of crud.
Lions hunt bulls, not butterflies and ants.
If you want fame, go find somebody fitter:
A sot-brained rapper from the ghetto slums
Who’ll chalk you up in toilets, where a shitter
Can read about you with the other bums.
Me go after you? Please understand:
Your brow’s too low to take my high-class brand.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in TRINACRIA)
To have nothing, Nestor, is not poverty.—Martial
Epigram IX.27
Chrestus, your balls are depilated
And your cock is as smooth as a vulture’s neck.
Your scalp is slicker than a hooker’s butt
And there isn’t a bit of stubble on your legs.
Relentless tweezers have plucked your pale lips clean.
Still, you prate on about our hairy ancestors
And all those sturdy old republican virtues
That we read of history books.
You also sound off in no uncertain terms
About the vices of this age—
You rail against our frivolous theatrics.
But if, in the midst of all this sermonizing,
Some faggot schoolboy comes along
Fresh from his dancing-master, and fancy free,
A prancing gymnast whose swollen schlong
Has been released from its restraining jockstrap,
You’ll wink at him, call him over,
And I’m ashamed to say, Chrestus, what you do then
With your virtuous old republican tongue.
Translation by Joseph S. Salemi
(first published in The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature)
Brief Encounters: Other Roman, Italian and Greek Epigrams
• No wind is favorable to the man who lacks direction.—Seneca the Younger, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Little sparks ignite great flames.—Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch
• The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch
• He who follows will never surpass.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Nothing enables authority like silence.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
• My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes!—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
• It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Fools call wisdom foolishness.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
• One true friend is worth ten thousand kin.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Not to speak one’s mind is slavery.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
• I would rather die standing than kneel, a slave.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Fresh tears are wasted on old griefs.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Improve yourself by other men's writings, attaining less painfully what they gained through great difficulty.—Socrates, translation by Michael R. Burch
• Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel, or a house when it's time to change residences, even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.―Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their whores for exotic positions.
—Thomas Campion, Latin epigram, loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Related Pages: Martial Translations,
Translations of Roman, Latin and Italian Poets
The HyperTexts