Satire 4.23-52 (Persius)

Cut for obscenity.




ut nemo in sese temptat descendere, nemo,
sed praecedenti spectatur mantica tergo!
quaesieris 'nostin Vettidi praedia?' 'cuius?'
'diues arat Curibus quantum non miluus errat.'
'hunc ais, hunc dis iratis genioque sinistro,
qui, quandoque iugum pertusa ad compita figit,
seriolae ueterem metuens deradere limum
ingemit "hoc bene sit" tunicatum cum sale mordens
cepe et farratam pueris plaudentibus ollam
pannosam faecem morientis sorbet aceti?'
at si unctus cesses et figas in cute solem,
est prope te ignotus cubito qui tangat et acre
despuat: 'hi mores! penemque arcanaque lumbi
runcantem populo marcentis pandere uuluas.
tum, cum maxillis balanatum gausape pectas,
inguinibus quare detonsus gurgulio extat?
quinque palaestritae licet haec plantaria uellant
elixasque nates labefactent forcipe adunca,
non tamen ista filix ullo mansuescit aratro.'
caedimus inque uicem praebemus crura sagittis.
uiuitur hoc pacto, sic nouimus. ilia subter
caecum uulnus habes, sed lato balteus auro
praetegit. ut mauis, da uerba et decipe neruos,
si potes. 'egregium cum me uicinia dicat,
non credam?' uiso si palles, inprobe, nummo,
si facis in penem quidquid tibi uenit, amarum
si puteal multa cautus uibice flagellas,
nequiquam populo bibulas donaueris aures.
respue quod non es; tollat sua munera cerdo.
tecum habita: noris quam sit tibi curta supellex.

No one tries, no one, to delve into himself!
But the knapsack on the back of the man ahead,
We gawk at. “Know Vettidius' place?” you ask.
“Whose?” “Rich man in Cures—plows so much land,
A kite couldn't overfly it?” “Him, you say!
Him, with his angry gods and adverse Genius!
Who, when the yoke's hung up at the beaten crossroads,
Afraid to scrape the old clay off a jug,
Groans, 'Be this well!' as he chews a salt-coated onion,
And, while the slave-boys praise their porridge pots,
Slurps up the scummy dregs of dying vinegar!”
But if you, oiled, relax and sun your skin,
There's a stranger near who'll tap you lying down
And harshly spit: “These fashions—weeding prick
And privates, to show the crowd your withered pussy!
When you comb the perfumed shag rug on your jaws,
Why's the weevil on your loins stick out clean-shaven?
Let five trained athletes pluck at these young sprouts
And shake your scalded buttocks with hooked tweezers;
No plow could tame that wilderness of yours.”
We strike, and in turn expose our thighs to darts.
We live by this agreement; so we've learned.
Deep in your groin you have a hidden wound,
But your belt covers it with a broad gold band.
As you prefer; give words, deceive your nerves,
If you can. “When the neighbors say I'm great,
May I not believe it?” If you turn pale at a coin,
You vile man, if you do whatever comes
Bitter into your prick, and if, secured,
You scourge the well-mouth stone with many a lash,
In vain you lend the crowd your thirsty ears.
Spit back what you're not; let the workman take his gifts;
Live with yourself; you'll know how short your goods come.