National Gallery of Art

Lucretia, by Rembrandt

• 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.

• 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?

• 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.

• 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.

Martial

Martial (c. 38-102 A.D.) was a Roman poet born in what is now modern Spai. He is best known for his 12 books of epigrams, published in Rome between 86 and 103. In many of the 1,561 epigrams he produced, a majority satirize his acquaintances, often exploring their lascivious behavior in short epigrams. So successful was he in utilizing this form that he work is considered the paradigm for the modern epigram. While perhaps not as evident in translation, Martial demonstrates a sublime control over the prosodic formal prosodic elements of his work, only rivaled by the colorful language he used to depict the victims in his poems.