Nor fro' the poor rich boons furthermore prithee require.What while first to myself the pure-white garment was given,Whenas my flowery years flowed in fruition of spring,Much I disported enow, nor 'bode I a stranger to GoddessWho with our cares is lief sweetness of bitter to mix:Yet did a brother's death pursuits like these to my sorrowBid for me cease: Oh, snatcht brother! from wretchedest me.Then, yea, thou by thy dying hast broke my comfort, 0 brother;Buried together wi' thee lieth the whole of our house;Perisht along wi' thyself all gauds and joys of our life-tide,Douce love fostered by thee during the term of our days.After thy doom of death fro' mind I banishèd whollyStudies like these, and all lending a solace to soul;Wherefore as to thy writ :—"Verona's home for CatullusBringeth him shame, for there men of superior markMust on a deserted couch fain chafe their refrigerate limbs:"Such be no shame (Manius!): rather 'tis matter of ruth.Pardon me, then, wilt thou an gifts bereft me by grievingThese I send not to thee since I avail not present. For, that I own not here abundant treasure of writings