Unto 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