TO THE FREQUENTERS OF A LOW TAVERNSalacious Tavern and ye taverner-host,From Pileate Brothers the ninth pile-post,D'ye claim, you only of the, mentule boast,D'ye claim alone what damsels be the bestTo swive: as he-goats holding all the rest?Is't when like boobies sit ye incontinent here,One or two hundred, deem ye that I fearTwo hundred . . . . at one brunt?Ay, think so, natheless all your tavern-frontWith many a scorpion I will over-write.For that my damsel, fro' my breast took flight,By me so lovèd, as shall loved be none,Wherefor so mighty wars were waged and won,Does sit in public here. Ye fain, rich wights,All woo her: thither too (the chief of slights !) All pitiful knaves and by-street wenchers fare,And thou, (than any worse), with hanging hair,In coney-breeding Celtiberia bred,Egnatius! bonnified by beard full-fed,And teeth with Spanish urine polishèd.

A COMPLAINT TO CORNIFICIUSCornificius! 'Tis ill with thy Catullus,'Tis ill (by Hercules) distressfully:Iller and iller every day and hour.Whose soul (as smallest boon and easiest)With what of comfort hast thou deign'd console?Wi' thee I'm angered! Dost so prize my love?Yet some consoling utterance had been wellThough sadder 'twere than Simonídean tears.

ON EGNATIUS OF THE WHITE TEETHEgnatius for that owns he teeth snow-white,Grins ever, everywhere. When placed a wightIn dock, when pleader would draw tears, the whileHe grins. When pious son at funeral pileMourns, or lone mother sobs for sole lost son,He grins. Whate'er, whene'er, howe'er is done,Of deed he grins. Such be his malady,Nor kind, nor courteous-so beseemeth me—Then take thou good Egnatius, rede of mine!Wert Thou Corrupt Sabine Or A Tiburtine,Stuffed Umbrian or Tuscan overgrownSwarthy Lanuvian with his teeth-rows shown,Transpadan also, that mine own I touch,Or any washing teeth to shine o'er much,Yet thy incessant grin I would not see,For naught than laughter silly sillier be.Thou Celtiber art, in Celtiberia born,Where man who's urined therewith loves a-mornHis teeth and ruddy gums to scour and score;So the more polisht are your teeth, the moreArgue they sipping stale in ampler store.

THREATENING RAVIDUS WHO STOLE HIS MISTRESSWhat thought of folly Rávidus (poor churl!)Upon my iambs thus would headlong hurl?What good or cunning counsellor would fainUrge thee to struggle in such strife insane?Is't that the vulgar mouth thy name by rote?What will'st thou? Wishest on any wise such note?Then shalt be noted since my love so liefFor love thou sued'st to thy lasting grief.

ON MAMURRA'S MISTRESSThat Ametina, worn-out whore,Me for a myriad oft would bore,That strumpet of th' ignoble nose,To leman, rakehell Formian chose.An ye would guard her (kinsmen folk)Your friends and leaches d'ye convoke:The girl's not sound-sens'd; ask ye naught