In speech past master and in fair pleasantries.Of hendecasyllabics hundreds threeTherefore expect thou, or return forthrightLinens whose loss affects me not for worthBut as mementoes of a comrade mine.For napkins Saetaban from Ebro-landFabúllus ent me a free giftie givenAlso Veránius: these perforce I loveE'en as my Veraniólus and Fabúllus.
FABULLUS IS INVITED TO A POET'S SUPPERThou'lt sup right well with me, Fabúllus mine,In days few-numbered an the Gods design,An great and goodly meal thou bring wi' theeNowise forgetting damsel bright o' blee,With wine, and salty wit and laughs all-gay.An these my bonny man, thou bring, I sayThou'lt sup right well, for thy Catullus' purseSave web of spider nothing does imburse.But thou in countergift more loves shalt takeOr aught of sweeter taste or fairer make:I'll give thee unguent lent my girl to scentBy every Venus and all Cupids sent,Which, as thou savour, pray Gods interposeAnd thee, Fabúllus, make a Naught-but-nose.
TO CALVUS, ACKNOWLEDGING HIS POEMSDid I not liefer love thee than my eyes(Winsomest Calvus!), for that gift of thineCertès I'd hate thee with Vatinian hate.Say me, how came I, or by word or deed,To cause thee plague me with so many a bard?The Gods deal many an ill to such a client,Who sent of impious wights to thee such crowd.But if (as guess I) this choice boon new-foundTo thee from "Commentator" Sulla come,None ill I hold it—well and welcome 'tis,For that thy labours ne'er to death be doom'd.Great Gods! What horrid booklet damnableUnto thine own Catullus thou (perdie!)Did send, that ever day by day die heIn Saturnalia, first of festivals.No! No! thus shall't not pass wi' thee, sweet wag,For I at dawning day will scour the boothsOf bibliopoles, Aquinii, Caesii andSuffenus, gather all their poison-trashAnd with such torments pay thee for thy pains.Now for the present hence, adieu! begoneThither, whence came ye, brought by luckless feet,Pests of the Century, ye pernicious Poets.
An of my trifles peradventure chanceYou to be readers, and the hands of you Without a shudder unto us be offer'd
TO AURELIUS—HANDS OFF THE BOY!To thee I trust my loves and me,(Aurelius!) craving modesty.That (if in mind didst ever longTo win aught chaste unknowing wrong)Then guard my boy in purest way.From folk I say not: naught affrayThe crowds wont here and there to runThrough street-squares, busied every one;But thee I dread nor less thy penisFair or foul, younglings' foe I ween is!Wag it as wish thou, at its will,When out of doors its hope fulfil;Him bar I, modestly, methinks.But should ill-mind or lust's high jinksThee (Sinner!), drive to sin so dread,That durst ensnare our dearling's head,Ah! woe's thee (wretch!) and evil fate,Mullet and radish shall pierce and grate,When feet-bound, haled through yawning gate.
TO AURELIUS AND FURIUS IN DEFENCE OF HIS MUSE'S HONESTYI'll . . . you twain and . . . Pathic Aurelius! Fúrius, libertines!Who durst determine from my versiclesWhich seem o'er softy, that I'm scant of shame.For pious poet it behoves be chasteHimself; no chastity his verses need;Nay, gain they finally more salt of witWhen over softy and of scanty shame,