(By Strabo)

Marcus Valerius Martialis, known to you & me as "Martial" was born 40AD in Bilbilis, Spain and died there at a ripe old age in 104AD.

He was a true Spaniard, with stubborn hair, bristly legs & stubbled cheeks. He headed off to Rome to make his fortune, but when to his utter dismay he found that this involved a thing called "working!!!" he was content to instead sponge off of rich patrons, including Seneca. Seneca was involved in the failed plot to assassinate Nero - which resulted in the execution of this whole group of patrons - much to Martial's annoyance since it lost him an easy meal ticket.

It was a bit of a drag being the 'client' of a 'patron' because it meant that you had to get out of bed very early in the morning to greet your patron and follow them around all day on their business, dragging your best toga through the mud in winter or getting it all hot and sweaty in summer. At the end of the day you might get tossed a coin or an invite to dinner, hardly a satisfactory state of affairs for an idle parasite & layabout.

But, with his poetic flatteries, Martial soon won new patrons including the emperor Domitian - and Martial's nauseating toadying flattery of Domitian while he lived, is only rivaled by his total abuse of him after he was assassinated. Martial didn't have much luck picking his patrons, who seemed to have had the nasty habit of getting killed.

Martial was a typical roman poet braggart proclaiming in his Book One that he was 'known the world over,' and the reason for his success is obvious - his epigrams are short, funny and rude. What more could one want in a poem?

Martial's dearest wish was to be placed as a poet second only to Catullus. No doubt Catullus' dearest wish was to be placed as a poet second only to Horace. And Horace wanted to be placed as far away from both of them as possible.

Anyway, Martial writes about the goings-on of Rome, but is careful to state that he is NOT satirizing any REAL people, even under ficticious names - heck, that kind of thing can get yourself killed you know! So, without further ado, here are the epigrams of Martial, attacking various spongers, slaves, doctors, perverts, and above all, the rich - but any resemblence to someone you know is entirely coincidental!



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I.xxvii
You see the fellow with the shaggy hair,
Ranting about old heroes and their might,
Whose gloomy frown gives all the girls a scare?
Don't trust his looks- he was a bride last night.

I.xxx
Diaulus was once a physician,
But later became a mortician.
Bedrest, as before,
Heprescribes, only more-
An exceedingly minor transition.

I. xxxviii
They're mine, but when a fool like you recites
My poems I resign the author's rights.

II. xv
Hormus, it's thoughtful of you, not stuck up,
Not to drink healths. Who'd risk sharing your cup?

II.lii
Spatale's a full-breasted lady,
So buxom and so bosomy
That when she buys a bathing ticket,
The cashier makes her pay for three.

II. lxvii
Why did you cut out your slave's tongue,
Ponticus, and then have him hung
Crucified? Don't you realize, man,
Though he can't speak, the rest of us can?

II. lxxx
Fannius, fleeing from a foe
Committed suicide.
What folly! To escape from death,
Fannius up and died.

II. lxxxvii
Sextus, you claim that pretty girls all burn,
With passionate love of you, and simmer
Infatuated by a boob whose face
Reminds me of an underwater swimmer.

III. ix
Cinna writes verses against me. So I've heard.
But- do you write, if no one reads a word?

III. xviii
You say, to start with, you have laryngitis;
Stop right there, Maximus, and you'll delight us.

III. xlix
You drink the best, yet serve us third rate wine.
I'd rather sniff your cup than swill from mine.

IV.xxiv
Lycoris seems to have a longer life
Than all her friends. I wish she liked my wife.

III. xii
Last night, Fabullus, I admit,
You gave your guests some exquisite
Perfume - but not one slice of meat.
Ironic contrast: to smell sweet
And yet be desperate to eat.
To be embalmed without being fed
Makes a man feel distinctly dead.

IV. ii
Alone of all the people there,
Horace wore black to watch the show.
Commoner, knights, and emperor
Shone in white, row after row.
From every quarter of the sky
A sudden, swirling snowstorm pressed,
And Horace, watching, found his cloak
Was just as white as all the rest.

III. xxv
Sabinus, our distinguished rhetorician,
Has such a subantartic disposition
That when he jumps in the hot baths of Nero,
The temperature goes promptly down to zero.

III. xc
Galla wants to, doesn't want to,
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo.
Does she, don't she, will she, won't she -
How the hell am I to know?

IV. xxi
"There are no gods, Heaven is empty space,"
So Sergius claims, and amply proves his case,
For certainly no decent deity
Would grant him all his new prosperity.

V. xlvii
Philo has never dined at home,
He'll swear, and he'll repeat.
True. When he cannot cadge a meal,
Philo just doesn't eat.

V. lxxiv
Asia and Europe each provide a grave
For Pompey's sons, and he himself lies under
Egypt, if grave he can be said to have.
Or is the world his tomb? There'd be no wonder
In that: one monument would be too small
To house so huge, so ruinous a fall.

VIII. xliii
Chrestillia digs her husband's graves
Fabius buries his wives. Each waves,
As bride or groom, the torch of doom
Over the marriage bed. Now pair
These finalists, Venus: Let them share
Victory in a single tomb.

VI. xii
The golden hair that Fabulla wears,
Whoever would have thought it -
She swears it's hers, and true she swears,
For I know where she bought it.

VI. xlvi
Pomponius, when loud applause
Salutes you from your client-guests,
Don't fool yourself: good food's the cause
Not your after dinner jests.

VIII. xxv
You came to see me only once
When I was sick in bed.
I thank you Oppian; had you come
More often, I'd be dead.

IX.v
Paula, it comes to me no surprise
You want to marry Priscus; you are wise.
But Priscus doesn't want to marry you,
Which goes to prove, I'd say that he's wise too.

IX. xxxiii
If you're passing the baths and you hear,
From within, an uproarious cheer,
You may safely conclude
Maron's there, in the nude,
With that tool which has nowhere a peer.

X. xci
Almo has eunuchs all around the house,
And he himself can't rise to the occasion,
Yet he complains that his beloved spouse
Does nothing to increase the population.

X. viii
Paula wants to marry me;
I won't, I've often told her.
She's an old woman, but I might,
If she were only older.

XI. c
Flaccus, the sort of girl I hate
Is the scrawny one, with arms so thin
My rings would fit them, hips that grate,
Spine like a saw, knee like a pin
And a coccyx like a javelin.
But all the same, I don't go in
For sheer bulk. I appreciate
Good meat, not blubber, on my plate.

VI. lxvi
A girl of none too nice renown,
The kind you often see down town,
An auctioneer had up for sale,
But bidding languished, seemed to fail,
And so, to prove her pure and sweet,
And almost good enough to eat,
While she pretended to resist,
He drew her closer to him, kissed
Her on the mouth, three times, then four,
To prove his point so much the more.
You ask what good this kissing did?
- The highest man withdrew his bid.

XI. civ
Either get out of the house or conform to my tastes, woman.
I'm no strait-laced old Roman.
I like prolonging the nights agreeably with wine: you after
one glass of water,
Rise and retire with an air of hauteur.
You prefer darkness: I enjoy lovemaking
With a witness - a lamp shining or the dawn breaking.
You wear bed-jackets, tunics, thick wollen stuff,
Whereas I think no woman on her back can be naked enough.
I love girls who kiss like doves and hang round my neck:
You give me the sort of peck
Due to your grandmother as a morning salute.
In bed, you're motionless, mute -
Not a wriggle,
Not a giggle -
As solemn as a priestess at a shrine
Proffering incense and pure wine.
Even modest Penelope, when Ulysses snored,
Kept her hand on the sceptre of her lord.
You refuse to be buggered, but it's a known fact
That Gracchus', Pompey's and Brutus, wives were willing partners in the act,
And that before Ganymede mixed Jupiter his tasty bowl
Juno filled the dear boy's role.
If you want to be uptight - all right,
By all means play Lucretia by day. But I need a Lais at night.


XI. lxvi
You inform and you blackmail,
You're a pimp and a cheat;
Off a stable of wrestlers
You manage to eat.
You're a cee-essing, all-around
Son of a bitch,
And I wonder, Vacerra,
How come you aren't rich!

II. xxxviii
You ask me what I get
Out of my country place.
The profit, gross or net,
Is never seeing your face.

I. lxiv
You're beautiful, oh yes, and young, and rich;
But since you tell us so, you're just a bitch.

(Translated by Rolfe Humphries & James Michie)

A man I praised, Faustinus, in a book
Claims that he owes me nothing. What a crook.