Martial

 

Here is the one you read and ask for:
Martial, known the world around
for witty books of epigrams,
whom you, devoted reader, crowned
with fame—while he has life and breath—
such as few poets get in death. (1.1, trans. McLean)

One doesn’t fathom epigrams, believe me,

             Flaccus, who labels them mere jokes and play.
He’s trifling who writes of savage Tereus’ meal
            or yours, queasy Thyestes, or the way
Daedalus fit his boy with melting wings
            or Polyphemus grazed Sicilian flocks.
My little books shun bombast, and my Muse
            won’t rave in puffed-up tragedy’s long frocks.
“Yet all admire, praise, honour those.” Indeed,
            they praise those, I confess, but these they read. (4.49, trans. McLean)

Aulus loves Thestylus but is every bit as hot for Alexis, and now I think he’s fallen for my own Hyacinthus. Go ahead and doubt that he cares for actual poets, when my Aulus is so keen on the poets’ younger boyfriends. (8.63, trans. Nisbet)