The Wit of Martial
I Told You I Was ill
Greetings from Istanbul, where after a day of touring I’m now languishing with a stomach bug and missing a Bosporus boat trip with friends. A photo must suffice.
My condition brought to mind Martial, the wittiest poet of the first century AD. One of his hundreds of clever, biting, and funny epigrams is addressed to his physician friend Symmachus. I translate:
I lay in bed, my friend, and you rushed round, A hundred eager pupils thronging you. A hundred wind-chilled hands on mine I found; I didn’t have a fever - now I do.
Languebam: sed tu comitatus protinus ad me
venisti centum, Symmache, discipulis.
centum me tetigere manus Aquilone gelatae:
non habui febrem, Symmache, nunc habeo.
Nice on, Armand. My favourite is probably I. 47-:
Nuper erat medicus, nunc est vispillo Diaulus:
quod vispillo facit, fecerat et medicus.
Diaulus used to be a doctor, they say;
now, he’s an undertaker, be that as it may.
So, what he now does to spirit folk away
he also did - and often - back in the day.