Fall 1999: Week 10

EPIGRAMMATA M. VALERII MARTIALII

EPIGRAMS OF MARCUS VALERIUS MARTIAL

LIB. I. 15

O mihi post nullos, Iuli, memorande sodales,
   si quid longa fides canaque iura valent,
bis iam paene tibi consul tricensimus instat,
   et numerat paucos vix tua vita dies.
non bene distuleris videas quae posse negari,
   et solum hoc ducas, quod fuit, esse tuum.
exspectant curaeque catenatique labores,
   gaudia non remanent, sed fugitiva volant.
haec utraque manu complexuque assere toto:
   saepe fluunt imo sic quoque lapsa sinu.
non est, crede, mihi, sapientis dicere ‘vivam’:
   sera nimis vita est crastina: vive hodie.

Book 1. #15

>Julius, whom I must needs name second to none of my cronies if long-standing loyalty and ancient ties count for anything, already a sixtieth consul is almost upon you, and yet your life scarce numbers a few days. You will be wrong to put off what you see can be denied you; you should reckon only the past as yours. Cares and toils, linked one to another, wait our turn, but joys never linger; they take wings and fly. Grasp them with both hands, take them for yours, hug them close; even so they often slip away from the bosom’s depth. Believe me, the wise man does not say "I shall live." Tomorrow’s life is too late. Live today.

LIB. I. 23

Invitas nullum nisi cum quo, Cotta, lavaris
   et dant convivam balnea sola tibi.
mirabar quare numquam me, Cotta, vocasses:
   iam scio me nudum displicuisse tibi.

Book 1. #23

>You never invite anybody, Cotta, unless you have bathed with him; only the baths give you a guest. I used to wonder why you had never asked me to dinner. Now I know that you didn’t like me in the nude.

LIB. I. 57

Qualem, Flacce, velim quaeris nolimve puellam?
   nolo nimis facilem difficilemque nimis.
illud quod medium est atque inter utrumque probamus:
   nec volo quod cruciat nec volo quod satiat.

Book 1. #57

You ask me, Flaccus, what sort of girl I want or don’t want? I don’t want one too easy or too hard to get. I like a medium, something between the two. I don’t want to be teased, nor yet to be glutted.

LIB. II. 56

Gentibus in Libycis uxor tua, Galle, male audit
   immodicae foedo crimine avaritiae.
sed mera narrantur mendacia: non solet illa
   accipere omnino. quid solet ergo? dare.

Book 2. #56

Among the peoples of Libya, Gallus, your wife has a bad reputation; she is charged with immoderate greed, an ugly charge. But the stories are pure lies. She doesn’t take at all. What does she do then? Give.

LIB. IV. 44

Hic est pampineis viridis modo Vesbius umbris,
   presserat hic madidos nobilis uva lacus:
haec iuga quam Nysae colles plus Bacchus amavit,
   hoc nuper Satyri monte dedere choros.
haec Veneris sedes, Lacedaemone gratior illi,
   hic locus Herculeo nomine clarus erat.
cunta iacent flammis et tristi mersa favilla:
   nec superi vellent hoc licuisse sibi.

Book 4. #44

This is Vesuvius, but lately green with shade of vines. Here the noble grape loaded the vats to overflowing. These slopes were more dear to Bacchus than Nysa’s hills, on this mountain not long ago Satyrs held their dances. This was Venus’ dwelling, more pleasing to her than Lacedaemon, this spot the name of Hercules made famous. All lies sunk in flames and drear ashes. The High Ones themselves would rather this had not been in their power.

LIB. V. 45

Dicis formosam, dicis te, Bassa, puellam.
   istud quae non est dicere, Bassa, solet.

Book 5. #45

You say you are beautiful, Bassa, you say you are a girl. That is usually said by somebody who is neither, Bassa.

LIB. VII. 96

Conditus hic ego sum Bassi dolor, Urbicus infans,
   cui genus et nomen maxime Roma dedit.
sex mihi de prima deerant trieteride menses,
   ruperunt tetricae cum male pensa deae.
quid species, quid lingua mihi, quid profuit aetas?
   da lacrimas tumulo, qui legis ista, meo:
sic ad Lethaeas, nisi Nestore serior, undas
   non eat, optabis quem superesse tibi.

Book 7. #96

Here I am buried, Bassus’ sorrow, Urbicus, an infant, to whom most mighty Rome gave race and name. Six months were wanting to my first three years, when the stern goddesses unkindly broke my threads. What availed me my beauty, my talk, my tender age? You that read these lines, give tears to my tomb. So may one whom you wish to survive you go no down to Lethe’s waters save past the age of Nestor.

LIB. VIII. 43

Effert uxores Fabius, Chrestilla maritos,
   funereamque toris quassat uterque facem.
Victores committe, Venus: quos iste manebit
   exitus, una duos ut Libitina ferat.

Book 8. #43

Fabius buries his wives, Chrestilla her husbands; each of them brandishes a funeral torch over the marriage bed. Venus, match the winners; the end awaiting them will be one bier to carry the pair.