The tale let's trouble till no more we know,Nor envious wight despiteful shall misween usKnowing how many kisses have been kissed between us.
TO FLAVIUS: MIS-SPEAKING HIS MISTRESSThy Charmer (Flavius!) to Catullus' earWere she not manner'd mean and worst in witPerforce thou hadst praised nor couldst silence keep.But some enfevered jade, I wot-not-what,Some piece thou lovest, blushing this to own.For, nowise 'customed widower nights to lieThou 'rt ever summoned by no silent bedWith flow'r-wreaths fragrant and with Syrian oil,