Nescit, crede mihi, quid sint epigrammata, Flacce,
     qui tantum lusus illa iocosque vocat.
ille magis ludit qui scribit prandia saevi
     Tereos aut cenam, crude Thyesta, tuam,
aut puero liquidas aptantem Daedalon alas
     pascentem Siculas aut Polyphemon ovis.
a nostris procul est omnis vesica libellis,
     Musa nec insano syrmate nostra tumet.
‘illa tamen laudant omnes, mirantur, adorant’.
     confiteor: laudant illa, sed ista legunt.

Trust me, Flaccus, he doesn’t know what epigrams are
Who calls them “jokes” and “games”.
The one who’s playing is the one who writes about savage
Tereus’ lunch, or your dinner, blood-stained Thyestes,
Or Daedalus, fitting fleet wings to his boy,
Or Polyphemus, herding Sicilian sheep.
All bombast is far away from my poems,
Nor does my Muse swell with crazed pomposity.
“But everyone praises them, admires them, adores them!”
Sure, that’s what they praise – but they read mine.

Qui legis Oedipoden caligantemque Thyesten,
     Colchidas et Scyllas, quid nisi monstra legis?
quid tibi raptus Hylas, quid Parthenopaeus et Attis,
     quid tibi dormitor proderit Endymion?
exutusve puer pinnis labentibus? aut qui
     odit amatrices Hermaphroditus aquas?
quid te vana iuvant miserae ludibria chartae?
     hoc lege, quod possit dicere vita ‘Meum est.’
non hic Centauros, non Gorgonas Harpyiasque
     invenies: hominem pagina nostra sapit.
sed non vis, Mamurra, tuos cognoscere mores
     nec te scire: legas Aetia Callimachi.

You read your Oedipus and your blind Thyestes,
Your Medeas and your Scyllas, and what are you reading about but monsters?
Hylas, snatched by nymphs, what’s he to you? What’s Parthenopaeus? What’s Attis?
Endymion, the sleeper – he’s nothing to you,
Nor’s the boy whose wings fell off mid-flight, or that
Hermphroditus, who hates the loving waters?
How do empty jests on wretched paper help you?
This is what you should read: stuff of which Life can say “That’s me!”
You won’t find Centaurs, or Gorgons, or Hydras:
My page savours of the human experience.
But you, Mamurra, aren’t interested in testing your character,
You won’t ‘know thyself’: you should read Callimachus’ Aetia.