In these festive days of the scythe-bearing old man, when the dice-box rules supreme, you will permit me, I feel assured, cap-clad Rome,1 to sport in
unlaboured
verse.
Martial - Book XI - Epigrams
Martial, Epigrams. Book 11. Mainly from Bohn's Classical Library (1897)
BOOK XI.
I. TO HIS BOOK.
Whither, my book, whither are you going so much at your ease, clad in a holiday dress of fine linen? Is it to see Parthenius? 1 certainly. Go, then, and return unopened; for he does not read books, but only memorials; nor has he time for the muses, or he would have time for his own. Or do you esteem yourself sufficiently happy, if you fall into hands of less note? In that case, repair to the neighbouring portico of Romulus; that of Pompeius does not contain a more idle crowd, nor does that of Agenor's daughter,1 or that of the inconstant captain 3 of the first ship. Two or three may be found there who will shake out the worms that infest my trifles; but they will do so only when they are tired of the betting and gossip about Scorpus and Incitatus. 4
1 See B. v. Ep. 6, and B. iv. Ep. 45.
2 Europa. See B. ii. Ep. 14.
3 Jason.
4 Charioteers.
II. TO HIS READERS.
You stern brows and severe looks of rigid Catos, you daughters of rustic Fabricii, you mock-modest, you censors of morals, aye, and all you proprieties opposed to the joys of darkness, flee hence! Hark! my verses exclaim, "Io, Saturnalia! " we are at liberty, and, under your rule, Nerva, rejoice. Fastidious readers may con over the rugged verses of Santra. 1 We have nothing in common; the book before you is mine.
1 A Roman grammarian of whom nothing remains.
III. ON HIS OWN WRITINGS.
It is not the idle people of the city only that delight in my Muse, nor is it alone to listless ears that these verses are addressed, but my book is thumbed amid Getic frosts, near martial standards, by the stern centurion; and even Britain is said to sing my verses. Yet of what advantage is it to me? My purse benefits nothing by my reputation. What immortal pages could I not have written and what wars could I not have sung to the Pierian trumpet, if, when the kind deities gave a second Augustus2 to the earth, they had likewise given to you, O Rome, a second Maecenas.
2 The emperor Nerva,
IV. INVOCATION TO THE GODS IN FAVOUR OF TRAJAN.
You sacred altars, and Phrygian Lares, whom the Trojan hero preferred to snatch from the flames, rather than possess the wealth of Laomedon; you, O Jupiter, now first represented in imperishable gold; you, his sister, and you, his daughter; the offspring solely of the supreme Father; you, too, Janus, who now repeat the name of Nerva for the third time in the purple Fasti, I offer to you this prayer with pious lips: "Preserve, all of you, this our emperor; preserve the senate; and may the senators exhibit in their lives the morals of their prince, the prince his own. "
V. TO TRAJAN.
You have as much reverence for justice and equity, Caesar, as Numa had; but Numa was poor. It is an arduous task to preserve morality from the corruption of riches, and to be a Numa after surpassing so many Croesuses. If the great names of old, our ancient progenitors, were to return to life, and liberty were granted them to leave the Elysian groves, unconquered Camillus would worship you as Liberty herself; Fabricius would consent to receive money if you were to offer it; Brutus would rejoice in having you for his emperor; to you the blood-thirsty Sulla would offer his power when about to resign it; Pompey, in concord with Caesar, as a private citizen, would love you; Crassus would bestow upon you all his wealth; and even Cato himself were he recalled from the infernal shades of Pluto, and restored to the earth, would join the party of Caesar.
VI. TO ROME, ON THE SATURNALIA.
In these festive days of the scythe-bearing old man, when the dice-box rules supreme, you will permit me, I feel assured, cap-clad Rome,1 to sport in unlaboured verse. You smile: I may do so then, and am not forbidden. Depart, pale cares, far away from hence; let us say whatever comes uppermost without disagreeable reflection. Mix cup after cup, my attendants, such as Pythagoras 2 used to give to Nero; mix, Dindymus, mix still faster. I can do nothing without wine; but, while I am drinking, the power of fifteen poets will show itself in me. Now give me kisses, such as Catullus would have loved; and if I receive as many as he describes, I will give you the 'Sparrow'3 of Catullus.
1 The slaves wore caps at the Saturnalia; at other times their heads were bare.
2 A favourite of Nero.
3 His most famous poem.
VII. TO PAULA.
You will certainly, Paula, no longer say to your stupid husband, whenever you wish to run after some distant gallant, "Caesar has ordered me to come in the morning to his Alban villa; Caesar has sent for me to Circeii. Such stratagems are now stale. With Nerva as emperor, you ought to be a Penelope; but your licentiousness and force of habit prevent it. Unhappy woman! what will you do? will you pretend that one of your female friends is ill? Your husband will attach himself as escort to his lady. He will go with you to your brother, and your mother, and your father, what tricks will your ingenuity then devise? Another adultress might say, perhaps, that she is hysterical, and wishes to take a sitting-bath in the Sinnessan lake. How much better will it be, Paula, whenever you wish to go and take your pleasure, to tell your husband the truth.
VIII. ON THE KISSES OF HIS FAVOURITE.
The fragrance of balsam extracted from aromatic trees; the ripe odour yielded by the teeming saffron; the perfume of fruits mellowing in their winter repository; or of the flowery meadows in the vernal season; or of silken robes of the Empress from her Palatine wardrobes; of amber warmed by the hand of a maiden; of a jar of dark Falernian wine, broken and scented from a distance;1 of a garden that attracts the Sicilian bees; of the alabaster jars of Cosmus, and the altars of the gods; of the chaplet just fallen from the brow of the luxurious;----but why should I mention all these things singly? not one of them is enough by itself; mix all together, and you have the perfume of the morning kisses of my favourite. Do you want to know the name? I will only tell you of the kisses. You swear to be secret? You want to know too much, Sabinus.
1 Such fragrance being more grateful from a distance.
IX. ON A PORTRAIT OF MEMOR, A TRAGIC POET.
Memor, distinguished by the chaplet of Jove's oak, the glory of the Roman stage, breathes here, restored by the pencil of Apelles.
X. ON TURNUS.
Turnus has consecrated his vast genius to satire. Why did he not devote it in the manner of Memor? He was his brother. 1
1 He did not wish to rival Memor. Turnus is mentioned in B. vii. Ep. 95.
XI. TO HIS SLAVE.
Away, boy, with these goblets, and these embossed vases of the tepid Nile, and give me, with steady hand, cups familiar to the lips of our sires, and pure from the touch of a virtuous attendant. Restore to our table its pristine honour. It becomes you, Sardanapalus, to drink out of jewelled cups, you who would convert a master-piece of Mentor into a convenience for your mistress.
XII. ON ZOILUS.
Though the rights of a father of even seven children be given you, Zoilus, no one can give you a mother, or a father.
XIII. EPITAPH ON PARIS THE ACTOR.
Whoever you are, traveller, that tread the Flaminian way, pass not unheeded this noble tomb. The delight of the city, the wit of the Nile,1 the art and grace, the sportiveness and joy, the glory and grief of the Roman theatre, and all its Venuses and Cupids, lie buried in this tomb, with Paris.
1 Paris was bom in Egypt.
XIV. ON A HUSBANDMAN, A DWARF.
O you heirs, bury not the dwarf husbandman, for the least quantity of earth will lie heavy on him.
XV. ON HIS BOOK.
There are some of my writings which may be read by the wife of a Cato, and the most austere of Sabine women. But I wish the present little book to laugh from one end to the other, and to be more free in its language than any of my books; to be redolent of wine, and not ashamed of being greased with the rich unguents of Cosmus; a book to make sport for boys, and to make love to girls; and to speak, without disguise, of that by respecting which men are generated, the parent indeed of all; which the pious Numa used to call by its simple name. Remember, however, Apollinaris, that these verses are for the Saturnalia, and not to be taken as a picture of my morals.
XVI. TO HIS READERS.
Reader, if you are exceedingly staid, you may shut up my book whenever you please; I write now for the idlers of the city; my verses are devoted to the god of Lampsacus, and my hand shakes the castanet, as briskly as a dancing-girl of Cadiz. Oh! how often will you feel your desires aroused, even though you were more frigid than Curius and Fabricius. You too, young damsel, will read the gay and sportive sallies of my book not without emotion, even though you should be a native of Patavium. Lucretia blushes, and lays my book aside; but Brutus is present. Let Brutus retire, and she will read.
XVII. TO SABINUS.
It is not every page in my book that is intended to be read at night; you will find something also, Sabinus, to read in the morning.
XVIII. TO LUPUS.
You have given me, Lupus, an estate in the suburbs, but I have a larger estate on my window-sill. Can you say that this is an estate,----can you call this, I say, an estate, where a sprig of rue makes a grove for Diana; which the wing of the chirping grasshopper is sufficient to cover; which an ant could lay waste in a single day; for which the leaf of a rose-bud would serve as a canopy; in which herbage is not more easily found than Cosmus's perfumes, or green pepper: in which a cucumber cannot lie straight, or a snake uncoil itself. As a garden, it would scarcely feed a single caterpillar; a gnat would eat up its willow bed and starve; a mole would serve for digger and ploughman. The mushroom cannot expand in it, the fig cannot bloom, the violet cannot open. A mouse would destroy the whole territory, and is as much an object of terror as the Calydonian boar. My crop is carried off by the claws of a flying Progne, and deposited in a swallow's nest; and there is not room even for the half of a Priapus, though he be without his scythe and sceptre. The harvest, when gathered in, scarcely fills a snail-shell; and the wine may be stored up in a nut-shell stopped with resin. You have made a mistake, Lupus, though only in one letter; instead of giving me a praedium, I would rather you had given me a prandium. 1
1 Praedium=farm, estate, prandium=dinner.
XIX. TO GALLA.
Do you ask, Galla, why I am unwilling to marry you? You are a prude; and my passions frequently commit solecisms.
XX. TO HIS STRICTER READERS.
O captious reader, who peruses with stern countenance certain Latin verses of mine, read six amorous lines of Augustus Caesar:----"Because Antonius kisses Glaphvra, Fulvia wishes me in revenge to kiss her. I kiss Fulvia! What if Manius were to make a similar request! ! Should I grant it? I should think not, if I were in my senses. Either kiss me, says she, or fight me. Nay, my purity is dearer to me than life, therefore let the trumpet sound for battle! " ---- Truly, Augustus, you acquit my sportive sallies of licentiousness, when you give such examples of Roman simplicity.
XXI. ON LYDIA.
Lydia is as widely developed as the rump of a bronze equestrian statue, as the swift hoop that resounds with its tinkling rings, as the wheel so often struck from the extended springboard 1, as a worn-out shoe drenched by muddy water, as the wide-meshed net that lies in wait for wandering thrushes, as an awning that does not belly to the wind in Pompey's theatre, as a bracelet that has slipped from the arm of a consumptive catamite, as a pillow widowed of its Leuconian stuffing, as the aged breeches of a pauper Briton, and as the foul throat of a pelican of Ravenna 2. This woman I am said to have embraced in a marine fishpond; I don't know; I think I embraced the fishpond itself.
Not translated in the Bohn translation, perhaps to save schoolmasters from having to explain 'catamite' (cinaedus); this from Ker's Loeb edition.
1 A difficult line; it might perhaps mean "so often struck by the acrobat in his flight". The nature of a petaurum has never been clearly known.
2 Described Plin. N. H. x. 66.
XXII. ON AN ABANDONED DEBAUCHER.
[Not translated in the Bohn; translated in Ker but too disgusting to repeat here]
XXIII. AGAINST SILA.
Sila is ready to become my wife at any price; but I am unwilling at any price to make Sila my wife. As she insisted, however, I said, "You shall bring me a million of sesterces in gold as a dowry"----What less could I take? "Nor, although I become your husband, will I associate with you even on the first night, or at any time share a couch with you. I will also embrace my mistress without restraint; and you shall send me, if I require her, your own maid. Any favourite, whether my own or yours, shall be at liberty to give me amorous salutes even while you are looking on. You shall come to my table, but our seats shall be so far apart, that my garments be not touched by yours. You shall salute me but rarely, never without invitation; and then not in the manner of a wife, but in that of a grandmother. If you can submit to this, and if there is nothing that you refuse to endure, you will find in me a gentleman, Sila, ready to take you to wife.
XXIV. TO LABULLUS.
While I am attending you about, and escorting you home, while lending my ear to your chattering, and praising whatever you say and do, how many verses of mine, Labullus, might have seen the light! Does it seem nothing to you, that what Rome reads, what the foreigner seeks, what the knight willingly accepts, what the senator stores up, what the barrister praises, and rival poets abuse, are lost through your fault? Is this right, Labullus? Can any one endure, that while you thus augment the number of your wretched clients, you proportionately diminish the number of my books? In the last thirty days, or thereabouts, I have scarcely finished one page. See what befalls a poet who does not dine at home.
XXV. ON LINUS.
[Not translated in the Bohn or in Ker's Loeb]
XXVI. TO TELESPHORUS.
Charm of my life, Telesphorus, sweet object of my cares, whose like never before lay in my arms, give me, fair one, kisses redolent of the fragrance of old Falernian, give me goblets of which your lips have first partaken. If, in addition to this, you grant me the pleasure of true affection, I shall say that Jove is not more happy at the side of Ganymede.
XXVII. TO FLACCUS.
You are a man of iron, Flaccus, if you can show amorous power for a woman, who values herself at no more than half a dozen jars of pickle, or a couple of slices of tunny fish, or a paltry sea-lizard; who does not think herself worth a bunch of raisins; who makes only one mouthful of a red herring, which a servant maid fetches in an earthenware dish; or who, with a brazen face and lost to shame, lowers her demand to five skins for a cloak. Why! my mistress asks of me a pound of the most precious perfume, or a pair of green emeralds, or sardonyxes; and will have no dress except of the very best silks from the Tuscan street; nay, she would ask me for a hundred gold pieces with as little concern as if they were brass. Do you think that I wish to make such presents to a mistress? No, I do not: but I wish my mistress to be worthy of such presents.
XXVIII. ON NASICA.
Nasica, a 'madman', attacked the Hylas of Euctus the physician, and _____ed him.
In these festive days of the scythe-bearing old man, when the dice-box rules supreme, you will permit me, I feel assured, cap-clad Rome,1 to sport in unlaboured verse. You smile: I may do so then, and am not forbidden. Depart, pale cares, far away from hence; let us say whatever comes uppermost without disagreeable reflection. Mix cup after cup, my attendants, such as Pythagoras 2 used to give to Nero; mix, Dindymus, mix still faster. I can do nothing without wine; but, while I am drinking, the power of fifteen poets will show itself in me. Now give me kisses, such as Catullus would have loved; and if I receive as many as he describes, I will give you the 'Sparrow'3 of Catullus.
1 The slaves wore caps at the Saturnalia; at other times their heads were bare.
2 A favourite of Nero.
3 His most famous poem.
VII. TO PAULA.
You will certainly, Paula, no longer say to your stupid husband, whenever you wish to run after some distant gallant, "Caesar has ordered me to come in the morning to his Alban villa; Caesar has sent for me to Circeii. Such stratagems are now stale. With Nerva as emperor, you ought to be a Penelope; but your licentiousness and force of habit prevent it. Unhappy woman! what will you do? will you pretend that one of your female friends is ill? Your husband will attach himself as escort to his lady. He will go with you to your brother, and your mother, and your father, what tricks will your ingenuity then devise? Another adultress might say, perhaps, that she is hysterical, and wishes to take a sitting-bath in the Sinnessan lake. How much better will it be, Paula, whenever you wish to go and take your pleasure, to tell your husband the truth.
VIII. ON THE KISSES OF HIS FAVOURITE.
The fragrance of balsam extracted from aromatic trees; the ripe odour yielded by the teeming saffron; the perfume of fruits mellowing in their winter repository; or of the flowery meadows in the vernal season; or of silken robes of the Empress from her Palatine wardrobes; of amber warmed by the hand of a maiden; of a jar of dark Falernian wine, broken and scented from a distance;1 of a garden that attracts the Sicilian bees; of the alabaster jars of Cosmus, and the altars of the gods; of the chaplet just fallen from the brow of the luxurious;----but why should I mention all these things singly? not one of them is enough by itself; mix all together, and you have the perfume of the morning kisses of my favourite. Do you want to know the name? I will only tell you of the kisses. You swear to be secret? You want to know too much, Sabinus.
1 Such fragrance being more grateful from a distance.
IX. ON A PORTRAIT OF MEMOR, A TRAGIC POET.
Memor, distinguished by the chaplet of Jove's oak, the glory of the Roman stage, breathes here, restored by the pencil of Apelles.
X. ON TURNUS.
Turnus has consecrated his vast genius to satire. Why did he not devote it in the manner of Memor? He was his brother. 1
1 He did not wish to rival Memor. Turnus is mentioned in B. vii. Ep. 95.
XI. TO HIS SLAVE.
Away, boy, with these goblets, and these embossed vases of the tepid Nile, and give me, with steady hand, cups familiar to the lips of our sires, and pure from the touch of a virtuous attendant. Restore to our table its pristine honour. It becomes you, Sardanapalus, to drink out of jewelled cups, you who would convert a master-piece of Mentor into a convenience for your mistress.
XII. ON ZOILUS.
Though the rights of a father of even seven children be given you, Zoilus, no one can give you a mother, or a father.
XIII. EPITAPH ON PARIS THE ACTOR.
Whoever you are, traveller, that tread the Flaminian way, pass not unheeded this noble tomb. The delight of the city, the wit of the Nile,1 the art and grace, the sportiveness and joy, the glory and grief of the Roman theatre, and all its Venuses and Cupids, lie buried in this tomb, with Paris.
1 Paris was bom in Egypt.
XIV. ON A HUSBANDMAN, A DWARF.
O you heirs, bury not the dwarf husbandman, for the least quantity of earth will lie heavy on him.
XV. ON HIS BOOK.
There are some of my writings which may be read by the wife of a Cato, and the most austere of Sabine women. But I wish the present little book to laugh from one end to the other, and to be more free in its language than any of my books; to be redolent of wine, and not ashamed of being greased with the rich unguents of Cosmus; a book to make sport for boys, and to make love to girls; and to speak, without disguise, of that by respecting which men are generated, the parent indeed of all; which the pious Numa used to call by its simple name. Remember, however, Apollinaris, that these verses are for the Saturnalia, and not to be taken as a picture of my morals.
XVI. TO HIS READERS.
Reader, if you are exceedingly staid, you may shut up my book whenever you please; I write now for the idlers of the city; my verses are devoted to the god of Lampsacus, and my hand shakes the castanet, as briskly as a dancing-girl of Cadiz. Oh! how often will you feel your desires aroused, even though you were more frigid than Curius and Fabricius. You too, young damsel, will read the gay and sportive sallies of my book not without emotion, even though you should be a native of Patavium. Lucretia blushes, and lays my book aside; but Brutus is present. Let Brutus retire, and she will read.
XVII. TO SABINUS.
It is not every page in my book that is intended to be read at night; you will find something also, Sabinus, to read in the morning.
XVIII. TO LUPUS.
You have given me, Lupus, an estate in the suburbs, but I have a larger estate on my window-sill. Can you say that this is an estate,----can you call this, I say, an estate, where a sprig of rue makes a grove for Diana; which the wing of the chirping grasshopper is sufficient to cover; which an ant could lay waste in a single day; for which the leaf of a rose-bud would serve as a canopy; in which herbage is not more easily found than Cosmus's perfumes, or green pepper: in which a cucumber cannot lie straight, or a snake uncoil itself. As a garden, it would scarcely feed a single caterpillar; a gnat would eat up its willow bed and starve; a mole would serve for digger and ploughman. The mushroom cannot expand in it, the fig cannot bloom, the violet cannot open. A mouse would destroy the whole territory, and is as much an object of terror as the Calydonian boar. My crop is carried off by the claws of a flying Progne, and deposited in a swallow's nest; and there is not room even for the half of a Priapus, though he be without his scythe and sceptre. The harvest, when gathered in, scarcely fills a snail-shell; and the wine may be stored up in a nut-shell stopped with resin. You have made a mistake, Lupus, though only in one letter; instead of giving me a praedium, I would rather you had given me a prandium. 1
1 Praedium=farm, estate, prandium=dinner.
XIX. TO GALLA.
Do you ask, Galla, why I am unwilling to marry you? You are a prude; and my passions frequently commit solecisms.
XX. TO HIS STRICTER READERS.
O captious reader, who peruses with stern countenance certain Latin verses of mine, read six amorous lines of Augustus Caesar:----"Because Antonius kisses Glaphvra, Fulvia wishes me in revenge to kiss her. I kiss Fulvia! What if Manius were to make a similar request! ! Should I grant it? I should think not, if I were in my senses. Either kiss me, says she, or fight me. Nay, my purity is dearer to me than life, therefore let the trumpet sound for battle! " ---- Truly, Augustus, you acquit my sportive sallies of licentiousness, when you give such examples of Roman simplicity.
XXI. ON LYDIA.
Lydia is as widely developed as the rump of a bronze equestrian statue, as the swift hoop that resounds with its tinkling rings, as the wheel so often struck from the extended springboard 1, as a worn-out shoe drenched by muddy water, as the wide-meshed net that lies in wait for wandering thrushes, as an awning that does not belly to the wind in Pompey's theatre, as a bracelet that has slipped from the arm of a consumptive catamite, as a pillow widowed of its Leuconian stuffing, as the aged breeches of a pauper Briton, and as the foul throat of a pelican of Ravenna 2. This woman I am said to have embraced in a marine fishpond; I don't know; I think I embraced the fishpond itself.
Not translated in the Bohn translation, perhaps to save schoolmasters from having to explain 'catamite' (cinaedus); this from Ker's Loeb edition.
1 A difficult line; it might perhaps mean "so often struck by the acrobat in his flight". The nature of a petaurum has never been clearly known.
2 Described Plin. N. H. x. 66.
XXII. ON AN ABANDONED DEBAUCHER.
[Not translated in the Bohn; translated in Ker but too disgusting to repeat here]
XXIII. AGAINST SILA.
Sila is ready to become my wife at any price; but I am unwilling at any price to make Sila my wife. As she insisted, however, I said, "You shall bring me a million of sesterces in gold as a dowry"----What less could I take? "Nor, although I become your husband, will I associate with you even on the first night, or at any time share a couch with you. I will also embrace my mistress without restraint; and you shall send me, if I require her, your own maid. Any favourite, whether my own or yours, shall be at liberty to give me amorous salutes even while you are looking on. You shall come to my table, but our seats shall be so far apart, that my garments be not touched by yours. You shall salute me but rarely, never without invitation; and then not in the manner of a wife, but in that of a grandmother. If you can submit to this, and if there is nothing that you refuse to endure, you will find in me a gentleman, Sila, ready to take you to wife.
XXIV. TO LABULLUS.
While I am attending you about, and escorting you home, while lending my ear to your chattering, and praising whatever you say and do, how many verses of mine, Labullus, might have seen the light! Does it seem nothing to you, that what Rome reads, what the foreigner seeks, what the knight willingly accepts, what the senator stores up, what the barrister praises, and rival poets abuse, are lost through your fault? Is this right, Labullus? Can any one endure, that while you thus augment the number of your wretched clients, you proportionately diminish the number of my books? In the last thirty days, or thereabouts, I have scarcely finished one page. See what befalls a poet who does not dine at home.
XXV. ON LINUS.
[Not translated in the Bohn or in Ker's Loeb]
XXVI. TO TELESPHORUS.
Charm of my life, Telesphorus, sweet object of my cares, whose like never before lay in my arms, give me, fair one, kisses redolent of the fragrance of old Falernian, give me goblets of which your lips have first partaken. If, in addition to this, you grant me the pleasure of true affection, I shall say that Jove is not more happy at the side of Ganymede.
XXVII. TO FLACCUS.
You are a man of iron, Flaccus, if you can show amorous power for a woman, who values herself at no more than half a dozen jars of pickle, or a couple of slices of tunny fish, or a paltry sea-lizard; who does not think herself worth a bunch of raisins; who makes only one mouthful of a red herring, which a servant maid fetches in an earthenware dish; or who, with a brazen face and lost to shame, lowers her demand to five skins for a cloak. Why! my mistress asks of me a pound of the most precious perfume, or a pair of green emeralds, or sardonyxes; and will have no dress except of the very best silks from the Tuscan street; nay, she would ask me for a hundred gold pieces with as little concern as if they were brass. Do you think that I wish to make such presents to a mistress? No, I do not: but I wish my mistress to be worthy of such presents.
XXVIII. ON NASICA.
Nasica, a 'madman', attacked the Hylas of Euctus the physician, and _____ed him. This fellow was, I think, sane.
Not translated in the Bohn; this adapted from Ker's Loeb edition.
XXIX. TO PHYLLIS.
[Not translated in the Bohn translation; translated in Ker but disgusting]
XXX. TO ZOILUS.
[Not translated in the Bohn translation; mostly translated in Ker but disgusting]
XXXI. ON CAECILIUS.
Caecilius, a very Atreus of gourds, tears and cuts them into a thousand pieces, just as if they were the children of Thyestes. Some of these pieces will be placed before you to begin with as a relish; they will appear again as a second course; then again as a third course. From some he will contrive a dessert; from others the baker will make mawkish patties, cakes of every form, and dates such as are sold at the theatres. By the art of the cook they are metamorphosed into all sorts of mincemeat, so that you would fancy you saw lentils and beans on the table; they are also made to imitate mushrooms and sausages, tails of tunnies and anchovies. This dextrous cook exhausts the powers of art to disguise them in every way, sometimes by means of Capellian rue. 1 Thus he fills his dishes, and side dishes, and polished plates, and tureens, and congratulates himself upon his skill in furnishing so many dishes at the cost of a penny.
1 So called from Capellius, who cultivated or sold it . Rue was used for garnishing dishes; see Ep. 52.
XXXII. TO NESTOR.
You have neither a toga, nor a hearth, nor a bed infested with vermin, nor a patched rag of marsh reeds, nor a slave young or old, nor a maid, nor a child, nor a lock, nor a key, nor a house-dog, nor a wine-cup. Yet, Nestor, you desire to be thought and called a poor man, and wish to be counted as such among the people. You are a deceiver, and do yourself too much idle honour. To have nothing is not poverty. 1
1 It is worse; it is mere beggary.
XXXIII. ON THE CHARIOTEER OF THE "GREEN" FACTION.
Since the death of Nero the charioteer of the Green Faction has often won the palm, and carried off many prizes. Go now, malicious envy, and say that you were influenced by Nero; for now assuredly the charioteer of the Green Faction, not Nero, has won these victories.
XXXIV. ON APER.
Aper has bought a house; but such a house, as not even an owl would inhabit; so dark and old is the little dwelling. But near it the elegant Maro has his country seat, and Aper will dine well, though he will not be well lodged. 1
1 Aper expects his rich neighbour to invite him frequently to dinner.
XXXV. TO FABULLUS.
You invite some three hundred guests all unknown to me, and then wonder that I do not accept your invitation, and complain, and are ready to quarrel with me. Fabullus, I do not like to dine alone.
XXXVI. ON CAIUS JULIUS PROCULUS.
O mark this day for me with a white stone, Caius Julius having been restored (how delightful! ) to my prayers. I rejoice to have despaired as though the threads of the sisters had already been snapped asunder; that joy is but little where there has been no fear. Hypnus, why do you loiter? Pour out the immortal Falernian; such fulfilment of my prayers demands an old cask. Let us drink five, six, and eight cups, answering to the letters in the names Caius, Julius, and Proculus? 1
1 See B. i. Ep. 72.
XXXVII. TO ZOILUS.
Zoilus, why do you delight in using a whole pound weight of gold for the setting of a stone, and thus burying your poor sardonyx?
