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Zusatztext “Martial! . . . concentrating on the epigram as his one form of literary expression! brought it to a pitch of technical perfection never afterwards rivaled.” — Peter Howell Informationen zum Autor Martial Klappentext Martial, the father of the epigram, was one of the brilliant provincial poets who made their literary mark on first-century Rome. His Epigrams can be affectionate or cruel, elegiac or playful; they target every element of Roman society, from slaves to schoolmasters to, above all, the aristocratic elite. With wit and wisdom, Martial evokes not "the grandeur that was Rome,” but rather the timeless themes of urban life and society.Hic est quem legis ille, quem requiris, toto notus in orbe Martialis argutis epigrammaton libellis: cui, lector studiose, quod dedisti viventi decus atque sentienti, rari post cineres habent poetae. iii Argiletanas mavis habitare tabernas, cum tibi, parve liber, scrinia nostra vacent. nescis, heu, nescis dominae fastidia Romae: crede mihi, nimium Martia turba sapit. maiores nusquam rhonchi: iuvenesque senesque et pueri nasum rhinocerotis habent. audieris cum grande sophos, dum basia iactas, ibis ab excusso missus in astra sago. sed tu ne totiens domini patiare lituras neve notet lusus tristis harundo tuos, aetherias, lascive, cupis volitare per auras: i, fuge; sed poteras tutior esse domi. BOOK ONE 1 May I present myself—the man You read, admire and long to meet, Known the world over for his neat And witty epigrams? The name Is Martial. Thank you, earnest fan, For having granted me the fame Seldom enjoyed by a dead poet While I’m alive and here to know it. 3 Frail book, although there’s room for you to stay Snug on my shelves, you’d rather fly away To the bookshops and be published. How I pity Your ignorance of this supercilious city! Believe me, little one, our know-all crowd Is hard to please. Nobody sneers as loud As a Roman: old or young, even newly-born, He turns his nose up like a rhino horn. As soon as one hears the deafening “bravos!” And begins blowing kisses, up one goes Skywards, tossed in a blanket. And yet you, Fed up with the interminable “few,” “Final” revisions of your natural song By my strict pen, being a wild thing, long To try your wings and flutter about Rome. Off you go, then! You’re safer, though, at home. iv Contigeris nostros, Caesar, si forte libellos, terrarum dominum pone supercilium. consuevere iocos vestri quoque ferre triumphi, materiam dictis nec pudet esse ducem. qua Thymelen spectas derisoremque Latinum, illa fronte precor carmina nostra legas. innocuos censura potest permittere lusus: lasciva est nobis pagina, vita proba. x Petit Gemellus nuptias Maronillae et cupit et instat et precatur et donat. Adeone pulchra est? Immo foedius nil est. Quid ergo in illa petitur et placet? Tussit. xxvii Hesterna tibi nocte dixeramus, quincunces puto post decem peractos, cenares hodie, Procille, mecum. tu factam tibi rem statim putasti et non sobria verba subnotasti exemplo nimium periculoso: misˆv mn´amona symp´otan, Procille. 4 Caesar, if you should chance to handle my book, I hope that you’ll relax the frowning look That rules the world. Soldiers are free to mock The triumphs of you emperors—there’s no shame In a general being made a laughing-stock. I beg you, read my verses with the same Face as you watch Latinus on the stage Or Thymele the dancer. Harmless wit You may, as Censor, rea...
