So might I save thee flung by spuming billows of ocean,Shipwreckt, rescuing life snatcht from the threshold of death;Eke neither Venus the Holy to rest in slumber's refreshmentGrants thee her grace on couch lying deserted and lone,Nor can the Muses avail with dulcet song of old writersEver delight thy mind sleepless in anxious care;Grateful be this to my thought since thus thy friend I'm entitled,Hence of me seekest thou gifts Muses and Venus can give:But that bide not unknown to thee my sorrows (0 Manius!)And lest office of host I should be holden to hate, Learn how in Fortune's deeps I chance myself to be drownèd,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 writingsHas for its cause, in Rome dwell I; and there am I homed,There be my seat, and there my years are gathered to harvest;Out of book-cases galore here am I followed by one. This being thus, nill I thou deem 'tis spirit malignantActs in such wise or mind lacking of liberal mood That to thy prayer both gifts be not in plenty supplièd:Willingly both had I sent, had I the needed supply.Nor can I (Goddesses!) hide in what things Allius sent meAid, forbear to declare what was the aidance he deigned:Neither shall fugitive Time from centuries ever obliviousVeil in the blinds of night friendship he lavisht on me.But will I say unto you what you shall say to the manyThousands in turn, and make paper, old crone, to proclaimAnd in his death become noted the more and the more,Nor let spider on high that weaves her delicate webbingPractise such labours o'er Allius' obsolete name. For that ye weet right well what care Amathúsia two-facedGave me, and how she dasht every hope to the ground,Whenas I burnt so hot as burn Trinacria's rocks or