juvenal satires translation
SatVI:380-397 There Are Those Who Fancy Musicians, SatVI:508-591 And They’re So Superstitious. The Empress dared, at night, to wear the hood of a whore. And beaten, until the beaters are weary, and she cries: ‘Away. Less to you, with all its gold that is washed down to the sea. Over the muddy river, and no coin in his mouth for the fare. You’re marrying a woman who’ll make Echion a father. Days the thing is accomplished with the insignificant lungs of a toad. There’s a dry nose coming to take your place.’, Meanwhile she’s hot, she reigns, demanding of her husband, Canusian sheep and shepherds, demanding Falernian vines –. But while the highest official reckons at year-end. How could disgrace matter if the money’s safe? She’ll give not a thought to the cost of her pleasures, as if coins. They’ll pay a fortune to get an actor’s clasp undone, They’ll halt Chrysogonus’s singing. Those crowning monstrosities elicit less, Amazement, when we realise it was anger that made the sex turn. Laugh, and they’ll be shaken, With fits of laughter. To act as they wish, in a will; the arena enjoys the same right. In all the houses where men live and entertain who embrace. And, with a firm spirit, she endured Tyrrhenian waves, The Ionian Sea’s vast roar, though she was often hurled, From one abyss to another. And Pyrrha displayed newly-created girls to the men. It’s worth considering thoroughly, in fine detail, what they do, And what they get up to during the day. There are women thrilled by effete eunuchs, with their kisses. Juvenal: The Satires: Satire I - in a new freely downloadable translation Or inspects the broad gold stripe on some embroidered dress. He’s suspected, and rightly so, of setting fire to his house. Hear her cries as she drives home the thrusts she’s learned, Feel how heavy the helmet is that she bows beneath, see the. Cordus had a bed, too small for Procula, and six little jugs. He even instructs the herald to call, The ‘Trojan’ elite, they too vex the threshold among us, All. Plans something more, practises now for the wider arena. You should be the more suspicious, the smoother his voice. Hard work kept the corruption of vice from their humble roofs, And lack of rest, and their hands, then, were chafed and hardened. Silent, and the human race now blind as regards the future. What’s left for me in Rome? You’re ashamed to dine off earthenware plates, though you, Would feel no disgust if suddenly spirited off to a Sabellan. Let’s set up platforms stretching along the narrow streets. Is one man enough for Hiberina, then? All those sons of pimps, born in some vile brothel or other. Go there, if your taste’s a barbarous whore in a painted veil. Marius Priscus, in exile, drinks all afternoon, enjoying. “Off you go” they’ll say. Slave-girls, then goes on to win the prize for shaking her arse. By his helmet, a huge lump on the bridge of his nose. Let the men who turn black into white remain. To hire attendants, a chair, the cushions, even the female friends. Left-leg shin-guards! As there are open windows watching you, when you go by, at night. If you’re not going to love the woman betrothed and joined, To you by lawful contract, there’d appear to be no reason for, Getting married, nor for wasting time on a feast with its cakes, For bloated guests at the end, or for that first night gift, when. Your hungry Greeks: tell them to buzz off to heaven, they’ll go. Hesitant about helping a whore descend from her high horse. Saufeia doffs her garland, challenges the brothel-keeper’s. Isn’t that my task? The more often his right hand lingers near his chubby loins. He’s suing you for assault. Has drowned the fields, cities are crumbling, regions are subsiding; That’s what she’ll tell whoever she meets at the next street corner. If her sound sleep happens to be interrupted by the barking, Of a dog, then she’ll be shouting; ‘Quick, and bring the cudgels!’, First she’ll give orders for the owner to receive a thrashing and. They tell their fears, it’s Greek, vent their angers, joys, cares, The secrets of their souls, it’s Greek. Are you really taking a wife? When did gambling arouse greater, Passion? What brought this monstrous behaviour about, what’s its source. When she feels guilty about some secret misdeed then she’s. Reddens and sweats, his conscience new-stricken by guilt. Should I not flee these people in purple? In the old days, what human being ever scorned the gods’ powers, Or dared to laugh at Numa’s earthenware libation-bowls, the black. Of such kind as poets like me, or Cluvenius, produce. Hers being the kind of mind and spirit the gods speak to at night! Who rescued Minerva’s fire-threatened statue, from Vesta’s temple: His character would be the very last thing discussed: money first. No, the woman I detest is the calculating one, in complete control, Who betrays deep wickedness. They love the steel. Others! [Translated by G. G. Ramsay] The Ways of Women. Forsaking the freshly-decked doorways, newly-hung drapes. We too can offer praise in just the same way: but they, Are the ones believed. Her left, draws out and combs the hair, and coils it into a bun. Swear your oath on the altars of Rome, Or Samothrace, they’ll maintain, as you’re poor, you’ll just flout. Who made me cry with pain when he used to shave me; When a pleb from the Nile, when a slave from Canopus. Of slaves; and a meagre supper is just as expensive too. Then lie there obligingly, delighting in every stroke. How to bury their skin-blotched husbands to public acclaim. Death; I’ve never guessed a thing from the entrails of frogs; Carrying to some adulterous wife whatever her lover sends, Whatever his message, others know how to do; I’d never. For the sky above, those two sisters flitting away together. And Deucalion sailed mountains by boat, asked a sign. Satire 1. That sea voyage concerned her little; nor her reputation. A thing if she happens to disagree, nor buy one if she says no. When their husbands manned the towers at the Colline Gate. In cool Praeneste, or in Volsinii among the wooded hills. It seems, must be one prescribed by that Egyptian, Petosiris. She’ll control your affections: the friend whose first beard your. Obscenity, and whose fidgeting right hands stop at nothing. And then you think it’s love! And the shouts from the whole grotto echo there, in unison, ‘Now’s the moment, admit the men.’ If by chance the lover’s. The skilful wife anticipates, and therefore begins with them. Who can bear, Such vulgar luxury? His friend, lying now on his face, and then, turning onto his back: Since it’s the only way he can tire himself; it takes a brawl or two, To send him to sleep. Meanwhile her face is a hideous and quite ridiculous spectacle, Caked with layers of bread-paste, reeking of greasy Poppaean. Than lost sleep, and the sadness of taking regular bribes. Satire 6. Lest they’ve come to make false claim in another’s name: Known, and you’re in. And a box somewhat aged now, to hold his Greek library. ‘Why then does Sertorius burn with love, for Bibula, his wife? Go prostrate yourself in worship. Where Lucilius the great, from Aurunca, steered his team. Urbicus, in the Atellan farce, in his role as Autonoe. Of earthenware to adorn his sideboard and, underneath it, A little Chiron, a Centaur made of that very same ‘marble’. From the threshold, and my long years of slavery are lost. Does any man care? Though, as a child of a wealthy family, she once slept. Still it’s bearable, so long as you don’t start raving, Like that uncle of Nero’s, Caligula, after Caesonia dosed him with. You ask? She lives her life like a next-door neighbour, More intimate only in this respect that she loathes her husband’s, Friends, and slaves, and is hard on his pocket. We use cookies for social media and essential site functions. And perhaps some traces or other of Chastity survived, Under Jupiter too, though long before Jupiter had grown. Have someone else taste first whatever the woman who bore you. Should all have assembled, long ago, and migrated from the City. Opening my gaping mouth, and ranting, in Sophoclean verse. Despair of any harmony if your mother-in-law’s alive. Rival, though even pimps and trainers of charioteers are free. Fractured by non-stop readings, ring with this stuff. To exact a swift penalty for the foul crime of a twisted ringlet. If their ‘friend’ belches deeply, or perhaps pisses straight. We use cookies for essential site functions and for social media integration. After all, is there anywhere that’s so wretched and lonely. Is there to replace what’s lost with more, and better things. The moment she’s a wrinkle or two, her skin’s dry and flabby. It’s with them they share life’s boredoms and anxieties. Can’t hate her, too, for seven hours or so out of every twelve? She herself, in turn, admires Medullina’s undulating wiggles: The contest’s between the ladies, their skill matches their birth. Then everything was on fire, the whole fabric collapsing in ruins. Block your talents, but at Rome the effort is greater still: They’re expensive, wretched lodgings; expensive, the bellies. She’ll call Archigenes, tossing her heavy sheets around. You’re delighted, you worm, and start kissing away her tears.. Perhaps you’ll say ‘Where, Is the power to match your subject? When rubbed, she checks her horoscope before seeking relief; If she’s lying in bed ill, the hour appropriate for taking food. Unpunished. By a master-barber, your finger already wearing the pledge? These creatures are allowed to soil the food, and stand beside, The sacred table, and cups are washed that should be smashed. Men propelled to Rome by the wind, with the plums and the figs? When he lifted the massive Antaeus high above earth, And lost in their admiration for a voice as high-pitched. And even their native timbrels are dragged along too. There’s no pleasure in all those rare and exalted, Virtues, if the woman, spoilt by pride, comes dripping with, Bitter aloes not honey. You’ll find all there resemble a vile bevy of lewd dancers. Once she’s clasped an emerald necklace round her neck, once. Every man’s corpse wholly crushed will vanish along, With his soul. Who find it easy to garner contracts for temples, and rivers. ‘Then why does Caesennia’s husband swear she’s the perfect wife?’. Passes by the ancient temple of Chastity in the Forum. There are sixteen satirical poems divided between five books. Thus the gladiator-trainer’s place is purer and better than their, Hearths, since in his troop the lightly-armed gladiators are kept, Away from the heavy. ‘There’s a girl on her father’s estate in the country whose. Your dark heir. The Muses have been ejected, and the trees go begging. Where those displaying a long gold chain hung on a bare neck. While my white-hairs are new, while old age stands upright. Such powerful utterance falls from her lips, You might say it’s like the sound of dishes being struck, or peals. ‘But Ursidius is marrying, he approves of the Julian Law. And you’ll never be able, To send a gift if your bride objects, you’ll never be able to sell. And hunger. For once they’ve dripped a drop, Of their country’s native poison in a ready ear, I’m driven. And isn’t it true that the net-men don’t, Associate with the lowly amateurs, that the shoulder-guards, And tridents of naked warriors are never kept in the amateur’s, Equipment locker? Rest content with simply emptying their brimming pots over you. As if she were making love, with sharp tedious cries. And the ultimate peak, Of his misery, is that naked and begging for scraps, no one. If only our ancient rites, or our state ceremonies at least, might, Be conducted free of such evils; but every India, every Moor, Knows about Clodius Pulcher, dressed as a lute-girl, bringing, A cock, one bigger than both of Caesar’s Anti-Cato speeches, Put together, into that place, from which even a male mouse flees, Conscious of its balls; that place where they’ll command any picture. Bringing its language and customs, pipes and harp-strings.


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