floor-length gowns, a shawl that flatters—a thousand things that blind you to what matters.140
The other way to go is free and clear;
in Coan silk her torso may appear
as if it's naked, so a gimpy leg
or ugly foot are features you can peg.
Why lose your money and deceive yourself145
when merchandise is not yet on the shelf?
The playboy sings,
“The hunter tracks down hares /
through blinding snow, / but he no longer cares /
once they're brought low,”
and then analogizes:
“My passion is quite similar; it rises150
above the easy prey to chase the birds
in flight.”
Could you conceive that any words
of poetry would ever help to free
your heart of longing, angst, or agony?
And wouldn't it be better to inquire155
as to nature's limits on desire—
both joys that it allows itself to feel
and aches from want—so you can tell the real
from ether? When your throat is burning up,
would you drink only from a gilded cup?160
When you are famished, is your only wish
to taste the most exotic fowl or fish?
When your groin's throbbing, and you have in hand
some servant boy or girl at your command,
and you can feel it's time to make your thrust,165
would you prefer to burst from pent-up lust?
Not me! I like a lover who combines
low standards and convenience. If she whines,
“A little later,” “Buy me something more,”
or “Maybe when my husband's out the door,”170
as Philodemus says, then she is fit
or eunuch priests since his prerequisite
is she not cost a lot and never stall
whenever she is called. She should be tall
and fair, yet never try to look endowed175
with greater gifts than nature has allowed.
When lying on our sides, she looks to me
like Ilia, or maybe she could be
Egeria—since any name will do.
I never have misgivings when we screw180
for fear her husband's coming back to town
from business in the boonies to break down
the door as mongrels yap, the building shakes
with yelling, knocks, and clatter, and she wakes
up pale as death and scurries off. The maid,185
her co-conspirator, then grows afraid
of being beaten and begins her screaming;
her guilty mistress worries he'll be scheming
to steal the dowry while I save my hide.
Barefoot and nearly naked, I decide190
I should escape; I'm dreading litigation,
a pummeling or loss of reputation.
Whenever someone's nailed, his fate is cruel
(even if Fabius can bend a rule).
All singers share this fault: among their friends
they won't perform, but music never ends
when everybody thinks it should be through.
Sardinia's Tigellius would do
that sort of thing. If Caesar, who could sway5
a man with force, had asked for him to play
while pleading friendship and their fathers' bond,
he would have failed to make the man respond.
He'd belt out “Io Bacche” just for fun
from egg hors d'oeuvres until the fruit was done—10
first in falsetto, then he would descend
to measures at the lyre's lowest end.
He vacillated. Often he would flee
as if escaping from the enemy;
more often he would creep along so slowly15
it appeared that he was bearing holy
offerings for Juno. He was prone
to keep two hundred slaves, but then might own
as few as ten. He would give grand accounts
of kings and tetrarchs, then he would announce,20
“A table with three legs, an oyster shell
that's filled with spotless salt, and, to repel
the icy cold, a toga (though it may be coarse) are all I ask for.”
So let's say
you gave this fellow who embodied thrift25
a million in sesterces as a gift.
Although he was “content” with simple ways,
his pockets would be empty in five days.
Throughout the night he would remain awake,
then snore throughout the day without a break.30
There never was a person so askew!
Somebody
