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 CORNIFICIUS
Cornificius! '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.