Vacerra, thou approv'st of none
For Poets, but are dead and gone.
Pardon; for so much do not I
Esteeme thy praises as to dy.
[tr. May (1629)]

I ask’t thee oft, what Poets thou hast read,
And lik'st the best? Still thou reply'st, The dead.
I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be;
Then sure thou't like, or thou wilt envie me.
[tr. Herrick (1648)]

The ancients all your veneration have:
You like no poet on this side of the grave.
Yet, pray, excuse me; if to pleases you, I
Can hardly think it worth my while to die.
[tr. Hay (1755)]

Vacerra! you admire only the ancients; your praise is restricted to the deceased poets. Pardon me, Vacerra, if I do not think your praise of so much value as to die for it.
[tr. Amos (1858)]

You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old, and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, it I think death too high a price to pay for your praise.
[tr. Bohn's Classical (1859)]

The ancients only you admire, Vacerra;
No poet wins your favor till he dies.
I ask your pardon, but I don't think your praise
is worth so much that I will die for it.
[ed. Harbottle (1897)]

You admire, Vacerra, the ancients alone, and praise none but dead poets. Your pardon, pray, Vacerra: it is not worth my while, merely to please you, to die.
[tr. Ker (1919)]

You puff the poets of other days,
The living you deplore.
Spare me the accolade: your praise
Is not worth dying for.
[tr. Fitts (1967)]

Rigidly classical, you save
Your praise for poets in the grave.
Forgive me, it's not worth my while
Dying to earn your critical smile.
[tr. Michie (1972)]

You admire only the ancients, Vacerra, and praise no poets except dead ones. I crave your pardon, Vacerra; your good opinion is not worth dying for.
[tr. Shackleton Bailey (1993)]

There are poets you praise,
But I notice they’re all dead.
I’d rather find another way
to please you, friend, instead.
[tr. Matthews (1995)]

Vacerra, you admire the ancients only
and praise no poets but those here no more.
I beg that you will pardon me, Vacerra,
but pleasing you is not worth dying for.
[tr. McLean (2014)]

Deceased authors thou admir'st alone,
And only praisest poets dead and gone:
Vacerra, pardon me, I will not buy
Thy praise so dear, as for the same to die.
[tr. Fuller]

You praise long-dead authors rapturously;
the living ones you savage or ignore,
but since your praise can’t grant immortality
I really don’t think it’s worth dying for.
[tr. Clark]

You pine for bards of old
and poets safely cold.
Excuse me for ignoring your advice,
but good reviews from you aren’t worth the price.
[tr. Juster]

Unless they’re dead, no poets seem
To fully satisfy;
Forgive me if, for some esteem,
I’m not prepared to die.
[tr. Mitchell]

Wilt not admit fame standing at thy doore?
And take the fruit of all thy paines before?
Fame to the Urne comes late; let those Books live
With thee, which after life to thee must give.
[tr. May (1629), 1.26]

Dost doubt t'admit Fame standing at thy gate?
Thy labour's just reward to bear, dost hate?
That which will after, in thy time let live:
Too late men praise unto our ashes give.
[tr. Killigrew (1695)]

Fame at your portal waits; the door why barr'd?
Why loth to take your labour's just reward?
Let works live with you, which will long survive;
For honours after death too late arrive.
[tr. Hay (1755), 1.26]

Admit fair fame, who dances at thy door;
And dain to reap thyself thy toil's reward.
The strains that shall survive thee, give to soar;
Nor to thine ashes leave the late record.
[tr. Elphinston (1782), 2.34]

Do you hesitate to let in Fame when standing for admittance before your threshold, and does it grieve you to reap the rewards of your own diligence? May your poems, which will survive you, begin to live by your means. The glory which is shed upon ashes arrives full late.
[tr. Amos (1858), 1.26 "Posthumous Works"]

Do you hesitate to admit Fame, who is standing before your door; and does it displease you to receive the reward of your labour? Let the writings, destined to live after you, begin to live through your means. Glory comes too late, when paid only to our ashes.
[tr. Bohn's Classical (1859)]

If after thee thy verses are to live,
Let them begin whilst thou'rt alive. Too late
The glory that illumines but they tomb.
[ed. Harbottle (1897)]

Do you hesitate to admit Fame that stands before your doors, and shrink from winning the reward of your care? Let writings that will live after you by your adi also begin to live now; to the ashes of the dead glory comes too late.
[tr. Ker (1919)]

Nay, doth it irk you that reward is nigh?
Why bar out fame who standeth at the gate?
Give birth to what must live, before you die,
For honour paid to ashes comes too late.
[tr. Pott & Wright (1921)]

Fame stands before your threshold, let her in;
Are you ashamed your meed of praise to win?
Your books will long outlive you in their fame;
Come then, begin, for ashes have no name.
[tr. Francis & Tatum (1924), #14]

Tell me why you hesitate;
Fame is standing at your door.
Take the prize she long has offered,
Long has held for you in store!
Let works that will survive you after
You have trod the path so dread
Live now, while you still are living.
Fame comes too late to the dead.
[tr. Marcellino (1968)]

Fame is at the door,
and you keep her waiting.
You can't bring yourself to accept
the reward of your worry?
Hurry!
Let those pages begin to live -- show your face.
They will live on after you're gone in any case.
[tr. Bovie (1970)]

Do you hesitate to let Fame in when she stands at your door? Are you reluctant to take the reward for your pains? Your pages will live after you; let them also begin to live through you. Glory comes late to the grave.
[tr. Shackleton Bailey (1993)]

He unto whom thou art so partial,
O reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it --
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.