All 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 MISTRESS
Hail, 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 FARM
O 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,A-seeking sumptuous banquetings, bestowed.For I requesting to be Sestius' guestRead against claimant Antius a speech,Full-filled with poisonous pestilential trash.Hence a grave frigid rheum and frequent coughShook me till fled I to thy bosom, whereRepose and nettle-broth healed all my ills.Wherefore recruited now best thanks I giveTo thee for nowise punishing my sins:Nor do I now object if noisome writsOf Sestius hear I, but that cold and coughAnd rheum may plague, not me, but Sestius' self Who asks me only his ill writs to read.ON ACME AND SEPTUMIUSTo Acmé quoth Septumius who his fere Held on his bosom-" Acme', mine! next year, Unless I love thee fondlier than before,And with each twelve month love thee more and more,As much as lover's life can slay with yearning,Alone in Lybia, or Hind's clime a-burning,Be mine to encounter Lion grisly-eyed!"While he was speaking Love on leftward side(As wont) approving sneeze from dextral sped.But Acmé backwards gently bending head,And the love-drunken eyes of her sweet boyKissing with yonder rosy mouth, "My joy,"She murmured, "my life-love Septumillus mine!Unto one master's hest let's aye incline,As burns with fuller and with fiercer fireIn my soft marrow set, this love-desire!"While she was speaking, Love from leftward side(As wont) with sneeze approving rightwards hied.Now with boon omens wafted on their way,In mutual fondness, love and loved are they.Love-sick Septumius holds one Acmé's love,Of Syrias or either Britains high above,Acmé to one Septumius full of faithHer love and love-liesse surrendereth.Who e'er saw mortals happier than these two?