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 naughtOf her complaint: she's love-distraught.

ON A STRUMPET WHO STOLE HIS TABLETSCome, Hendecasyllabics, many as mayAll hither, every one that of you be!That fulsome harlot makes me laughing-stockAnd she refuses at our prayer restoreOur stolen Note-books, an such slights ye bear. Let us pursue her clamouring our demands."Who's she?" ye question: yonder one ye sightMincingly pacing mime-like, perfect pest,With jaws wide grinning like a Gallic pup.Stand all round her dunning with demands, "Return (O rotten whore!) our noting books.Our noting books (O rotten whore!) return!"No doit thou car'st? O Mire! O Stuff O' stews!Or if aught fouler filthier dirt there be.Yet must we never think these words suffice. But if naught else avail, at least a blushForth of that bitch-like brazen brow we'll squeeze.Cry all together in a higher key"Restore (O rotten whore!) our noting books,Our noting books (O rotten whore!) restore !" Still naught avails us, nothing is she moved.Now must our measures and our modes be changedAn we would anywise our cause advance."Restore (chaste, honest Maid!) our noting books!"

To MAMURRA'S MISTRESSHail, girl who neither nose of minim sizeOwns, nor a pretty foot, nor jetty eyes,Nor thin long fingers, nor mouth dry of slaverNor yet too graceful tongue of pleasant flavour,Leman to Formian that rake-a-hell.What, can the Province boast of thee as belle?Thee with my Lesbia durst it make compare?O Age insipid, of all humour bare!

CATULLUS TO HIS OWN FARMO Farm our own, Sabine or Tiburtine,(For style thee "Tiburs" Who have not at heartTo hurt Catullus, whereas all that haveWage any Wager thou be Sabine classed)But whether Sabine or of Tiburs truerTo thy suburban Cottage fared I fainAnd fro' my bronchials drave that cursèd coughWhich not unmerited on me my maw,