By Charles M. Sumid Copyright 2025 Written 1973

D. IUNII IUUENALIS SATURA XVIII

Credimus? An qui amant ipsi sibi somnia fingunt?

Femina Romulidum calamo scribente papyro

Mandare ingenium gaudet, quae publica verba

Vendicat, et clauso quae pectore sensit, aperte

Profert, nec dubitat Messalae intrare penates

Cum pugillari, versusque reponere cistis.

—Cerinthum celebrat, iuvenem quem perdite amat—sic

Clamant defensores, et carmina laudant.

Cur haec mirari debes? Minor admiratio

Prodigio. Quanto rarius in sexu muliebri

Ingenium summum; etiam rarius Urbis alumna

Quae Phoebum capiat, Parnassiadesque sorores.

Nec nos inuidere decet; nam Lesbia uates

Mascula uerba canens, fama super aethera notam

Lusit et in tacito commisit furta cubili

Cum Catullo et multis—quis non audivit amicos?

Nunc vero Sulpicia, Servi doctissima proles,

Induitur virtute patris, non more puellae,

Sed quasi rhetoricis studiis data, vel quasi Graecis

Invigilans chartis, non lanificam diem ducens.

Num credis? Potius crede hanc componere sucis

Vultum, vel speculi torqueri lumen in usu,

Ut placeant facies nimium laudata Cerintho.

Sed non; illa, ferox, non celat corde calorem,

Sed profert, turba spectante, ardescit amoris

Impatiens, nescitque modum servare pudori.

Audistis? Pudor est muliebris magna supellex.

Cum Vesta et Pallade atque ipsa Iunone decorum

Servent quo sine nec Phoebus sua carmina laudet.

“O Iuno, numquam thalamos ornare voluptas,

Non mihi lanificae maneat nomen.” Quid? Qualis

Haec virgo? Virgo? Quae scribere versibus audet

Se Veneris simulacris teneri atque cupidine vinci?

Roma, quae quondam rigidos producebat Catones,

Nunc tales animas suffert, moresque scelesto

Imperio patitur. Discant nunc verba puellae

Sulpiciae! Cunctas doceat quo fallere pacto

Custodes, matres, patres, vel fallere amicos.

Quid dicet Cato, prisca si templa revisat?

Quid Numa, qui leges castas moresque dicabat?

Nil mirum labefacta ruunt si moenia gentis

Romanae, et fama tantum crescente superbae,

Dum tales vivunt, dum talia carmina ludunt.

Scribe domi et serva! Quid publicat illa Cerintho

Quae melius tegitur? Num gaudia vera cubantis

Si centum linguae narrent, si fama per Urbem

Volvitur, et pueri digitum intenduntque, notantque?

“Nec mihi crediderim, si quis laudaverit olim

Ingenium nostrum, vel si mea carmina donat

Phoebus apollinea laude et me laurea cingit.”

Sic loquitur, sic illa putat. Mirabimur ergo

Moribus eversis iam pridem et legibus aegris

Talia proferri, tali quoque tempore legi?

Ipsa lupanaria castiora puto, quae nomina vera

Non dant flagitiis, sed tecta nocte recondunt.

Utilis ignoratio si femina nescit

Sidera rimari, varias discernere plantas,

Gramina quae prosunt, quaenam animantia ferro

Cedunt, vel melius saxis, quibusve coluntur

Ritibus altaria divum, quae nomina mensae,

Tot species frumenti, atque omnis regula iuris.

Utilis ignoratio, Sulpicia, tibique beata

Si nescis scribere! Si calamum nescisque papyrum,

Si nescis versus componere, vel Maeonidas

Fingere res, atque heroum describere bella!

Quid dicam? Mirorne magis quod femina scribit,

An quod materiam sumpsit sibi carmine dignam?

Non divum laudes, non Caesaris acta canendo

Percurrit, non gesta patrum, non proelia Troum,

Sed modulata sonos de pectore, simplice voce

Exprimit affectus puros sine fraude loqüendo.

Ah! Haec sinceritas solum laudanda videtur.

Non habitus quaerit Sulpicia, non simulatas

Historias memorat, solum quod sensit amando

Exprimit, et proprias flammas sine tegmine monstrat.

Si culpanda quidem, culpanda est carmine aperto;

Si laudanda tamen, sincero pectore laudem

Accipiat, diramque Iuvenalis voce querelam

Despiciat, dubia qui sola in nocte notavit

Tantum flagitium: MULIER QUAE SCRIBERE TEMPTAT.

SULPICIA THROUGH JUVENAL’S LENS

JUVENAL’S SATIRE XVIII (English Translation)

Should we believe it? Or do lovers fashion their own dreams?

A woman of Rome delights in committing her genius

To writing reed and papyrus, who lays claim to public words,

And what she has felt in her closed heart, openly

She proclaims, and doesn’t hesitate to enter Messala’s household

With her writing tablets, and to store her verses in book-boxes.

“She celebrates Cerinthus, the youth whom she desperately loves”—thus

Cry her defenders, and they praise her poems.

Why should you marvel at this? Less admiration

For a prodigy. How much rarer in the female sex

Is exceptional talent; even rarer a daughter of the City

Who might captivate Phoebus and the Parnassian sisters.

Nor should we begrudge this; for the Lesbian poetess,

Singing masculine words, known by fame above the heavens,

Played and committed her secret affairs in a silent bedroom

With Catullus and many others—who hasn’t heard of her friends?

But now Sulpicia, most learned offspring of Servius,

Is clothed in her father’s virtue, not in the manner of a girl,

But as if devoted to rhetorical studies, or as if

Keeping vigil over Greek manuscripts, not spending her day at wool-working.

Do you believe it? Rather believe that she adorns her face

With cosmetics, or that she strains her gaze in the use of a mirror,

So that her excessively praised face might please Cerinthus.

But no; she, fierce one, does not conceal the heat in her heart,

But proclaims it, with the crowd watching, she burns

Impatient with love, and knows not how to maintain the measure of modesty.

Have you heard? Modesty is the great treasure of women.

With Vesta and Pallas and Juno herself, it preserves

That propriety without which not even Phoebus would praise her songs.

“O Juno, never is there pleasure in adorning the marriage chamber,

Let not the name of wool-worker remain for me.” What? What kind of

Virgin is this? Virgin? Who dares to write in her verses

That she is held by the images of Venus and conquered by desire?

Rome, which once produced rigid Catos,

Now tolerates such souls, and endures customs

Under a criminal empire. Let girls now learn the words

Of Sulpicia! Let her teach them all by what pact to deceive

Their guardians, mothers, fathers, or to deceive their friends.

What would Cato say, if he were to revisit the ancient temples?

What would Numa say, who dedicated chaste laws and customs?

No wonder if the undermined walls of the Roman

Race collapse, proud only with growing reputation,

While such women live, while they play with such poems.

Write at home and keep it private! Why does she publish for Cerinthus

What is better concealed? Do the true joys of one lying in bed

Increase if a hundred tongues tell of them, if fame throughout the City

Rolls, and boys point their fingers and take note?

“Nor would I believe myself, if someone should one day praise

My talent, or if Phoebus bestows my poems

With Apollonian praise and girds me with laurel.”

Thus she speaks, thus she thinks. Shall we wonder then

That with customs long since overturned and laws ailing

Such things are brought forth, and at such a time are read?

I think the brothels themselves are more chaste, which do not give

Real names to shameful acts, but conceal them under the cover of night.

Useful is ignorance if a woman does not know

How to examine the stars, to distinguish various plants,

Which grasses are beneficial, which animals yield

To iron, or better to stones, or with what rituals

The altars of the gods are worshipped, what are the names for the table,

So many types of grain, and every rule of law.

Useful is ignorance, Sulpicia, and blessed for you

If you don’t know how to write! If you don’t know reed pen and papyrus,

If you don’t know how to compose verses, or to fashion

Maeonian matters, and to describe the wars of heroes!

What shall I say? Do I marvel more that a woman writes,

Or that she has taken for herself material worthy of poetry?

Not running through the praises of the gods, not singing the deeds of Caesar

She recounts, not the exploits of our fathers, not the battles of Troy,

But having composed sounds from her heart, with a simple voice

She expresses pure affections by speaking without deceit.

Ah! This sincerity alone seems worthy of praise.

Sulpicia seeks no pretense, she does not recount simulated

Histories, she expresses only what she felt in loving,

And shows her own flames without a covering.

If indeed she is to be blamed, she is to be blamed for her open verse;

If, however, she is to be praised, let her receive praise

For her sincere heart, and let her despise the dire complaint

From Juvenal’s voice, who noted in the doubtful night

This great disgrace alone: A WOMAN WHO ATTEMPTS TO WRITE.