The Poems and Fragments of Catullus Part 7

XLII.

1.

Come all hendecasyllables whatever, Wheresoever ye house you, all whatever.

I the game of an impudent adultress?

She refuse to return to me the tablets Where you syllable? O ye can't be silent. 5 Up, have after her, ask renunciation.

Would ye know her? a woman, you shall eye her Strutting loftily, whiles she laughs a loud laugh Vast and vulgar, a Gaulish hound beseeming.

Form your circle about her, ask her, urge her. 10

'Hark, adulteress, hand the note-book over.

Hark, the note-book, adultress, hand it over.'

2.

What? you scorn us? O ugly filth, detested Trull, whatever is all abomination.

Nay then, louder. Enough as yet it is not. 15 If this only remains, perhaps the dog-like Face may colour, a bra.s.sy blush may yield us.

Swell your voices in higher harsher yellings,

'Hark, adulteress, hand the note-book over; Hark, the note-book; adultress, hand it over.' 20

Look, she moves not at all: we waste the moments.

Change your quality, try another issue.

Such composure a sweeter air may alter.

'Pure and virtuous, hand the note-book over.'

XLIII.

Hail, fair virgin, a nose among the larger, Feet not dainty, nor eyes to match a raven, Mouth scarce tenible, hands not wholly faultless, Tongue most surely not absolute refinement, Bankrupt Formian, your declar'd devotion. 5 Thou the beauty, the talk of all the province?

Thou my Lesbia tamely think to rival?

O preposterous, empty generation!

XLIV.

O thou my Sabine farmstead or my Tiburtine, For who Catullus would not harm, avow, kind souls, Thou surely art at Tibur; and who quarrel will Sabine declare thee, stake the world to prove their say:

But be'st a Sabine, be'st a very Tiburtine, 5 At thy suburban villa what delight I knew To spit the tiresome cough away, my lungs' ill guest, My belly brought me, not without a sad weak sin, Because a costly dinner I desir'd too much.

For I, to feast with Sestius, that host unmatch'd, 10 A speech of his, pure poison, every line deep-drugg'd, His speech against the plaintiff Antius, read through.

Whereat a cold chill, soon a gusty cough in fits, Shook, shook me ever, till to thy retreat I fled, There duly dosed with nettle and repose found cure. 15 So, now recruited, thanks superlative, dear farm, I give thee, who so lightly didst avenge that sin.

And trust me, farm, if ever I again take up With s.e.xtius' black charges, I'll rebel no more; But let the chill things d.a.m.n to cold, to cough, not me 20 That read the volume--no, but him, the man's vain self.

XLV.

1.

While Septimius in his arms his Acme Fondled closely, 'My own,' said he, 'my Acme,

If I love not as unto death, nor hold me Ever faithfully well-prepar'd to largest Strain of fiery wooer yet to love thee, 5

Then in Libya, then may I alone in Burning India face a sulky lion.'

Scarce he ended, upon the right did eager Love sneeze amity; 'twas before to leftward.

2.

Acme quietly back her head reclining 10 Towards her boy, with a rosy mouth delightful Kissed his pa.s.sionate eyes elately swimming,

Then 'Septimius, O my life' she murmur'd, 'So may he that is in this hour ascendant

Rule us ever, as in me burns a greater 15 Fire, a fiercer, in every vein triumphing.'

Scarce she ended, upon the right did eager Love sneeze amity; 'twas before to leftward.

3.

So, that augury joyous each possessing, Loves, is lov'd with an even emulation. 20

Poor Septimius, all to please his Acme, Recks not Syria, recks not any Britain.

In Septimius only faithful Acme Makes her softnesses, holds her happy pleasures.

When did mortal on any so rejoicing 25 Look, on union hallow'd as divinely?

XLVI.

Now soft spring with her early warmth returneth, Now doth Zephyrus, health benignly breathing, Still the boisterous equinoctial heaven.

Leave we Phrygia, leave the plains, Catullus, Leave Nicaea, the sultry soil of harvest: 5 On for Asia, for the starry cities.

Now all flurry the soul is out a-ranging, Now with vigour aflame the feet renew them.

Farewell company true, my lovely comrades.

You so joyfully borne from home together, 10 Now o'er many a weary way returning.

XLVII.

Porcius, Socration, the greedy Piso's Tools of thievery, rogues to famish ages,

So that filthy Priapus ousts to please you My Veranius even and Fabullus?