CATULLUS: THE POEMS
A. S. Kline © 2001 All Rights Reserved
Contents
1. The Dedication: to Cornelius
3. The Death of Lesbia’s Sparrow
5. Let’s Live and Love: to Lesbia
9. Back from Spain: to Veranius
10. Home Truths for Varus’s girl: to Varus
11. Words against Lesbia: to Furius and Aurelius. 15
12. Stop Stealing the Napkins! : to Asinius Marrucinus
14. What a Book! : to Calvus the Poet
16. A Rebuke: to Aurelius and Furius
17. The Town of Cologna Veneta
22. People Who Live in Glass Houses: to Varus. 25
24. Furius’s Poverty: to Iuventius
25. My Things Back Please: to Thallus
28. Patronage: to Veranus and Fabullus
33. A Suggestion: to Vibennius
36. Burnt-Offering: to Volusius’s Droppings
37. Free for All: to the Regulars and Egnatius
38. A Word Please: to Cornificius
40. You want Fame? : to Ravidus
41. An Unreasonable Demand: to Ameana. 44
42. The Writing Tablets: to the Hendecasyllables
47. Preferment: to Porcius and Socration
49. A Compliment: to Marcus Tullius Cicero
50. Yesterday: to Licinius Calvus
51 An Imitation of Sappho: to Lesbia
53. Laughter in Court: to Gaius Licinius Calvus. 56
54. Oh Caesar! : of Otho’s head
55. Where are You? : to Camerius
57. You Two! : to Caius Julius Caesar
58. Lament for Lesbia: to Marcus Caelius Rufus. 61
61. Epithalamion: for Vinia and Manlius
64. Of the Argonauts and an Epithalamium for Peleus and Thetis
66. The Lock of Hair: Berenice
67. Of Someone’s Adulterous Door
76. Past Kindness: to the Gods
81. Strange Taste: to Iuventius
88. Incest in the Family: to Gellius
93. Indifference: to Gaius Julius Caesar
95. Smyrna: to Gaius Helvius Cinna
96. Beyond The Grave: to Gaius Licinius Calvus. 123
99. Stolen Kisses: to Iuventius
100. A Choice: to Marcus Caelius
101. Ave Atque Vale: An Offering to the Dead
113. Fruitful: to Gaius Helvius Cinna
116. The Last Word: to Gellius
of wit, just polished off with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius: since you were accustomed
to consider my trifles worth something
even then, when you alone of Italians
dared to explain all the ages, in three learned
works, by Jupiter, and with the greatest labour.
Then take this little book for your own: whatever
it is, and is worth: virgin Muse, patroness,
let it last, for more lives than one.
whom she plays with, holds to her breast,
whom, greedy, she gives her little finger to,
often provoking you to a sharp bite,
whenever my shining desire wishes
to play with something she loves,
I suppose, while strong passion abates,
it might be a small relief from her pain:
might I toy with you as she does
and ease the cares of a sad mind!
that golden apple was to the swift girl,
that loosed her belt, too long tied.
and such of you as love beauty:
my girl’s sparrow is dead,
sparrow, the girl’s delight,
whom she loved more than her eyes.
For he was sweet as honey, and knew her
as well as the girl her own mother,
he never moved from her lap,
but, hopping about here and there,
chirped to his mistress alone.
Now he goes down the shadowy road
from which they say no one returns.
Now let evil be yours, evil shadows of Orcus,
that devour everything of beauty:
you’ve stolen lovely sparrow from me.
O evil deed! O poor little sparrow!
Now, by your efforts, my girl’s eyes
are swollen and red with weeping.
that she was the fastest of craft,
not to be challenged for speed
by any vessel afloat, whether
driven by sail or the labour of oars.
The threatening Adriatic coast won’t deny it,
nor the isles of the Cyclades,
nor noble Rhodes, nor fearful Bosphorus,
nor the grim bay of the Black Sea
where, before becoming a boat, she was
leafy wood: for on the heights of Cytorus
she often hissed to the whispering leaves.
The boat says these things were well known to you,
and are, Amastris and box-wood clad Cytorus:
she says from the very beginning she stood
on your slope, that she dipped her oars
in your water, and carried her owner from there
over so many headstrong breakers,
whether the wind cried from starboard
or larboard, or whether Jupiter struck at the sheets
on one side and the other, together:
and no prayers to the gods of the shore were offered
for her, when she came from a foreign sea
here, as far as this limpid lake.
But that’s past: now hidden away here
she ages quietly and offers herself to you,
Castor and his brother, heavenly Twins.
and all the words of the old, and so moral,
may they be worth less than nothing to us!
Suns may set, and suns may rise again:
but when our brief light has set,
night is one long everlasting sleep.
Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more,
another thousand, and another hundred,
and, when we’ve counted up the many thousands,
confuse them so as not to know them all,
so that no enemy may cast an evil eye,
were tasteless and inelegant,
you’d want to tell, and couldn’t be silent.
Surely you’re in love with some feverish
little whore: you’re ashamed to confess it.
Now, pointlessly silent, you don’t seem to be
idle of nights, it’s proclaimed by your bed
garlanded, fragrant with Syrian perfume,
squashed cushions and pillows, here and there,
and the trembling frame shaken,
quivering and wandering about.
But being silent does nothing for you.
Why? Spread thighs blab it’s not so,
if not quite what foolishness you commit.
How and whatever you’ve got, good or bad,
tell us. I want to name you and your loves
to the heavens in charming verse.
would be enough and more to satisfy me.
As many as the grains of Libyan sand
that lie between hot Jupiter’s oracle,
at Ammon, in resin-producing Cyrene,
and old Battiades sacred tomb:
or as many as the stars, when night is still,
gazing down on secret human desires:
as many of your kisses kissed
are enough, and more, for mad Catullus,
as can’t be counted by spies
nor an evil tongue bewitch us.
and let what you know leads you to ruin, end.
Once, bright days shone for you,
when you came often drawn to the girl
loved as no other will be loved by you.
Then there were many pleasures with her,
that you wished, and the girl not unwilling,
truly the bright days shone for you.
And now she no longer wants you: and you
weak man, be unwilling to chase what flees,
or live in misery: be strong-minded, stand firm.
Goodbye girl, now Catullus is firm,
he doesn’t search for you, won’t ask unwillingly.
But you’ll grieve, when nobody asks.
Woe to you, wicked girl, what life’s left for you?
Who’ll submit to you now? Who’ll see your beauty?
Who now will you love? Whose will they say you’ll be?
Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?
But you, Catullus, be resolved to be firm.
my three hundred thousand friends,
have you come home to your own house
your harmonious brothers, and old mother?
You’re back. O happy news for me!
I’ll see you safe and sound and listen
to your tales of Spanish places that you’ve done,
and tribes, as is your custom, and
hang about your neck, and kiss
your lovely mouth and eyes.
O who of all men is happier
than I the gladdest and happiest?
out of the Forum, where I’m seen idling:
to a little whore I immediately saw,
not very inelegant, not unattractive,
who, when we came there, met us
with varied chatter, including, how might
Bithynia stand now, what’s it like, and where
might the benefit have been to me in cash.
I told her what’s true, nothing at all,
while neither the praetors nor their aides,
return any the richer, especially since
our Praetor, Memmius, the bugger,
cared not a jot for his followers.
‘But surely,’ they said, you could have bought
slaves they say are made for the litter there.’
I, so the girl might take me to be wealthy,
said ‘no, for me things weren’t so bad,
that coming across one bad province,
I couldn’t buy eight good men.’
But I’d no one, neither here nor there,
who might even raise to his shoulder
the shattered foot of an old couch.
At this she, like the shameless thing she was, said
‘I beg you, my dear Catullus, for the loan of them,
just for a while: I’d like to be carried
to Serap’s temple.’ ‘Wait’ I said to the girl,
‘what I just said was mine, isn’t actually in
my possession: my friend Cinna, that’s Gaius,
purchased the thing for himself.
Whether they’re his or mine, what difference to me?
I use them just as well as if I’d bought them myself.
But you are quite tasteless, and annoying,
you with whom no inexactness is allowed.’
whether he penetrates farthest India,
where the Eastern waves strike the shore
with deep resonance,
or among the Hyrcanians and supple Arabs,
or Sacians and Parthian bowmen,
or where the seven-mouthed Nile
colours the waters,
or whether he’ll climb the high Alps,
viewing great Caesar’s monuments,
the waters of Gallic Rhine,
and the furthest fierce Britons,
whatever the will of the heavens
brings, ready now for anything,
tell my girl this in a few
ill-omened words.
Let her live and be happy with her adulterers,
hold all three-hundred in her embrace,
truly love-less, wearing them all down
again and again: let her not look for
my love as before,
she whose crime destroyed it, like the last
flower of the field, touched once
by the passing plough.
your left hand too well: in wine and jest
you take neglected table-linen.
Do you think that’s witty? Get lost, you fool:
it’s such a sordid and such an unattractive thing.
Don’t you believe me? Believe Pollionus
your brother, who wishes your thefts
could be fixed by money: he’s a boy
truly stuffed with wit and humour.
So expect three hundred hendecasyllables
or return my napkin, whose value
doesn’t disturb me, truly,
it’s a remembrance of my friends.
Fabullus and Veranius sent me the gift,
napkins from Spain: they must be cherished
as my Veranius and Fabullus must be.
if the gods are kind to you, my dear Fabullus,
and if you bring lots of good food with you,
and don’t come without a pretty girl
and wine and wit and all your laughter.
I say you’ll dine well, and charmingly,
if you bring all that: since your Catullus’s
purse alas is full of cobwebs.
But accept endearments in return for the wine
or whatever’s sweeter and finer:
since I’ll give you a perfume my girl
was given by the Loves and Cupids,
and when you’ve smelt it, you’ll ask the gods
to make you, Fabullus, all nose.
most delightful Calvus, I’d dislike you
for this gift, with a true Vatinian dislike:
Now what did I do and what did I say,
to be so badly cursed with poets?
Let the gods send ill-luck to that client
who sent you so many wretches.
But if, as I guess, Sulla the grammarian
gave you this new and inventive gift,
that’s no harm to me, it’s good and fine
that your efforts aren’t all wasted.
Great gods, an amazing, immortal book!
That you sent, of course, to your Catullus,
so he might immediately die,
on the optimum day, in the Saturnalia!
No you won’t get away with this crime.
Now when it’s light enough I’ll run
to the copyists bookstalls, I’ll acquire
all of the poisonous ones.
And I’ll repay you for this suffering.
Meanwhile farewell take yourself off, there,
whence your unlucky feet brought you,
cursed ones of the age, worst of poets.
Aurelius. I ask for modest indulgence,
so, if you’ve ever had a desire in your mind
you’ve pursued chastely and purely,
keep this boy of mine modestly safe,
I don’t speak to the masses – nothing to fear
from those who pass to and fro in the streets
occupied with their business –
truly the fear’s of you and your cock
dangerous to both good and bad boys.
Shake it about as you please, and with as much
force as you please, wherever you choose, outside:
I except him from that, with modesty, I think.
But if tempests of mind, and mad passion
impel you to too much sin, you wretch,
so you fill my boy’s head with deceptions,
then let misery, and evil fate, be yours!
Of him whom, with feet dragged apart, an open door,
radishes and mullets pass through.
Aurelius the pathic, and sodomite Furius,
who thought you knew me from my verses,
since they’re erotic, not modest enough.
It suits the poet himself to be dutifully chaste,
his verses not necessarily so at all:
which, in short then, have wit and good taste
even if they’re erotic, not modest enough,
and as for that can incite to lust,
I don’t speak to boys, but to hairy ones
who can’t move their stiff loins.
You, who read all these thousand kisses,
you think I’m less of a man?
I’ll fuck you, and I’ll bugger you.
and are ready to dance, though you fear
the useless bridge-props with their
much-patched standing timber,
lest they tumble and lie in deep mud:
let a good bridge be made for you as you desire
where even leap-frogging priests are safe: but
Cologna, give me that greatest gift, a good laugh.
I want a fellow-citizen of mine to go head over heels
straight into the deep mire from your bridge,
since truly the whole pool and the putrid marsh
is the blackest and deepest of chasms.
The man’s totally dull, knows no more than
a two-year-old child, asleep in its father’s trembling arms.
Who, though he’s married a girl in her first flowering,
a girl more delicate than a pretty little kid,
needing to be tended more carefully than choicest grapes,
let’s her play as she wishes, doesn’t care a fig,
hasn’t risen to the occasion, but like an alder
in a Ligurian ditch, crippled by the axe,
feels as much of it all as if there were no woman there:
Such is his stupor he doesn’t see, or hear me, he,
who doesn’t know who he is, or whether he is or not.
Now I want to toss him headlong from your bridge,
if it’s possible suddenly to raise that stupefied dullness,
and abandon that indolent mind in the heavy bog,
as mules cast shoes into tenacious depths.
Note: Nos: 18-20 are considered spurious and are omitted here.
you desire to fuck,
not just these, but whoever my friends
were, or are, or will be in future years.
not secretly: now at the same time as you joke
with one, you try clinging to him on every side.
In vain: now my insidious cock
will bugger you first.
And, if you’re filled, I’ll say nothing:
Now I’m grieving for him: you teach
my boy, mine, to hunger and thirst.
So lay off: while you’ve any shame,
or you will end up being buggered.
is a man who’s charming, witty, urbane,
and the same man for ages has penned many verses.
I think he’s written a thousand, ten thousand, or more,
not those that are done on cheap manuscript
paper: but princely papyri, new books,
new roller ends, new red ties for the parchment,
lead-ruled and smoothed all-over with pumice.
When you read them, that lovely urbane Suffenus
turns into a goat-herd or a ditch-digger:
he’s so altered and strange.
What should we think of it? He who might just now
have been playing the fool, being witty with the thing,
the same man’s crude, crude as a bumpkin,
he mentions his poems as well, nor is there ever
likewise anything as happy as the poems he writes:
he delights in himself so, is so amazed by himself.
Of course we’re all deceived in the same way, and
there’s no one who can’t somehow or other be seen
as a Suffenus. Whoever it is, is subject to error:
we don’t see the pack on our own back.
nor beetles nor spiders nor fire,
truly have a father and step-mother,
whose teeth can chew like flints:
that’s fine for you, and your father
and your father’s wooden wife.
No wonder: since you’re all well,
good digestion, nothing to fear,
no flames, no weighty disasters,
no wicked deeds, no threat of poison,
no chance of further dangers.
And you’ve a body drier than bone
or whatever is most desiccated
by heat and cold and hunger.
Why wouldn’t you be well and happy?
You’ve no sweat, no phlegm,
or mucus, or evil cold in the head.
To this cleanliness add more cleanliness,
your arse is purer than a little salt-cellar,
and doesn’t crap ten times in a year:
and your shit’s harder than beans or pebbles.
So if you rub it and crush it between your fingers,
you can’t stain a single finger:
it all suits you so happily Furius,
don’t despise it, or consider it nothing,
and cease to beg for that hundred sestertia
you always ask for: sufficiency is riches.
not just now, for all times that have been,
or will be hereafter in later years,
rather surrender Midas’s riches
to him, who has no slaves or cash,
than allow yourself to be loved by him.
‘Why, isn’t he a decent man?’ you ask. He is:
but this decent man has no slaves or cash.
Ignore it: disparage it as you may:
he still has no slaves and no money.
or goose grease, or the little tip of the ear,
or an old man’s slack penis mouldy with spider-webs,
and that same Thallus more rapacious than a wild storm,
when the sea-goddess reveals the yawning breakwaters,
return my cloak, you pounced on,
and Spanish napkin, and Bithynian painted ware,
absurd man, that you ‘own’ openly like heirlooms.
Now, unglue them from your talons, and return them,
lest those soft little flanks and tender fingers
are shamefully written over with the mark of the lash,
and you toss immoderately, like a paltry boat
caught in a heavy sea, in a raging wind.
to the southerlies, or the westerlies,
the savage north-wind, or the easterly breeze,
but truly to fifteen thousand two hundred cash.
O terrifying and destructive wind!
of old Falernian, since Postumia,
the mistress’s, laws demand it,
she who’s juicier then the juicy grape.
But you water, fatal to wine, away with you:
far off, wherever, be off to the strict.
This wine is Bacchus’s own.
with suitable and ready packs,
Veranius, the best, and you, my Fabullus,
what possessions do you carry? Haven’t you borne
hunger and cold enough with that good-for-nothing?
Do any small gains show in the expense accounts,
considering that I, following my praetor,
repay what was spent, with small gain?
O Memmius, truly, and daily, slowly
buggered me backwards with that whole tree of his.
But, as far as I can see, your case is the same:
now you’re stuffed by no less a circumcised cock.
Seek out the noble ones, my friends!
But, to you, may the gods and goddesses bring
much evil luck, disgraces to Romulus and Remus.
unless he were shameless, greedy, a gambler?
Mamurra owns riches that Transalpine Gaul
and furthest Britain once owned.
Roman sodomite, do you see this and bear it?
And now shall the man, arrogant, overbearing,
flit through all of the beds
like a whitish dove or an Adonis?
Roman sodomite, do you see this and bear it?
You’re shameless, greedy, a gambler.
were in the furthest western isle,
so that this loose-living tool of yours
might squander two or three hundred times its worth?
What is it but perverted generosity?
Hasn’t he squandered enough, or been elevated enough?
First his inheritance was well and truly spent,
then the booty from Pontus, then
Spain’s, to make three, as the gold-bearing Tagus knows:
now be afraid for Gaul’s and Britain’s.
Why cherish this evil? What’s he good for
but to devour his rich patrimony?
Was it for this, the city’s wealthiest,
you, father-in law, son-in-law, wasted a world?
have you no sympathy now with your gentle friend?
The impious deeds of deceitful men don’t please the gods.
You neglect me and abandon me to miserable illness.
Ah, say, what should men do, in whom should they trust?
Surely you, unjustly, commanded my trust, seduced
me to love, as if it were all quite safe for me.
Now you withdraw, and all your vain actions and words
you let slip on the winds, with the airy clouds.
If you forget, the gods will remember, Faith remembers,
so that whatever you do, you’ll soon repent of your deeds.
jewel of whatever is set in the bright waters
or the great sea, or either ocean,
with what joy, what pleasure I gaze at you,
scarcely believing myself free of Thynia
and the Bithynian fields, seeing you in safety.
O what freedom from care is more joyful
than when the mind lays down its burden,
and weary, back home from foreign toil,
we rest in the bed we longed for?
This one moment’s worth all the labour.
Hail, O lovely Sirmio, and rejoice as I rejoice,
and you, O lake of Lydian waters, laugh
with whatever of laughter lives here.
my delight, my charmer:
tell me to come to you at siesta.
And if you tell me, help it along,
let no-one cover the sign at your threshold,
nor you choose to step out of doors,
but stay at home, and get ready
for nine fucks, in succession, with me.
Truly, if you should want it, let me know now:
because lying here, fed, and indolently full,
I’m making a hole in my tunic and cloak.
Vibennius the father, with sodomite son
(since the father’s right hand is dirtier,
and the son’s arse more all-consuming),
why not go into exile, to some vile place?
Seeing the father’s pillage is known
to us all, and the son’s hairy arse,
you can’t sell for a farthing.
we pure girls, and boys:
we pure boys, and girls,
we sing of Diana.
O, daughter of Latona,
greatest child of great Jove,
whose mother gave birth
near the Delian olive,
mistress of mountains
and the green groves,
the secret glades,
and the sounding streams:
you, called Juno Lucina
in childbirth’s pains,
you, called all-powerful Trivia,
and Luna, of counterfeit daylight.
Your monthly passage
measures the course of the year,
you fill the rustic farmer’s
roof with good crops.
Take whatever sacred name
pleases you, be a sweet help
to the people of Rome,
as you have been of old.
that tender poet, that friend of mine,
leave Lake Como, come now to Verona,
abandon the town there and the shore.
Because there are certain thoughts that I want
him to hear of, from his friend and yours.
So, if he’s wise, he’ll eat up the road,
though some lovely girl calls to him
asks his return, clasping both hands
round his neck, and begging delay.
Who, if the truth’s been told me now
love’s him with violent desire.
For, since the moment she read his unfinished
Lady of Dindymus, the poor little thing
has been eaten by fire to the core of her bones.
I forgive you, girl, more learned
than the Sapphic Muse: it’s truly lovely,
Caecilius’s unfinished Great Mother Cybele.
discharge my girl’s votive offering.
Since, by sacred Venus and Cupid, she promised,
that if I were given back to her,
and I left off launching wild iambics,
she’d offer the gods the choicest words,
of the worst of limping poets,
consumed with malignant wood.
And the girl thought this was the worst,
with charming laughter, to move the gods.
Now O goddess created from the blue sea,
whose is holy Idalia, Urii, Ancona,
reed-bound Cnidos, and Amathusia,
Golgos, and Adriatic Dyrrachium,
make the vow acceptable, fulfilled,
if its not lacking in wit and charm.
But meanwhile, you, enter the fire,
you, full of boorishness and crudities,
Volusian annals, papyrus droppings.
nine pillars along from the Twins’ pillars,
do you think you’re the only ones with cocks,
the only ones who’re allowed to trouble
young girls, and consider the rest of us goats?
Or, because a hundred or two of you sit in a row, you,
dullards, that I daren’t bugger two hundred together?
Think on: I’ll draw all over the front
of the tavern with your leavings.
Because my girl, who’s left my arms,
whom I loved as no other girl’s ever been loved,
for whom so many great battles were fought,
is there. You, all the rich and the fortunate, love her,
and, what’s so shameful, it’s true, all the lesser ones,
all the adulterous frequenters of by-ways:
you, above all, one of the hairy ones,
rabbit-faced offspring of Spain,
Egnatius. Whom a shadowy beard improves,
and teeth scrubbed with Iberian piss.
he’s ill, by Hercules, and it’s bad,
and worse and worse by the hour.
Where are you, for whom it’s the least and easiest thing,
to bring consolation with chatter?
I’m cross with you. So much for my friendship?
Even a little might comfort me,
sadder than Simonides’s tears.
smiles all the time. If you’re a defendant
in court, when the counsel draws tears,
he smiles: if you’re in grief at the pyre
of pious sons, the lone lorn mother weeping,
he smiles. Whatever it is, wherever it is,
whatever he’s doing, he smiles: he’s got a disease,
neither polite, I would say, nor charming.
So a reminder to you, from me, good Egnatius.
If you were a Sabine or Tiburtine
or a fat Umbrian, or plump Etruscan,
or dark toothy Lanuvian, or from north of the Po,
and I’ll mention my own Veronese too,
or whoever else clean their teeth religiously,
I’d still not want you to smile all the time:
there’s nothing more foolish than foolishly smiling.
Now you’re Spanish: in the country of Spain
what each man pisses, he’s used to brushing
his teeth and red gums with, every morning,
so the fact that your teeth are so polished
just shows you’re the more full of piss.
drives you headlong onto my iambics?
What god, badly-disposed towards you,
intends to start a mad quarrel?
Or is it to achieve vulgar fame?
Why the assault? You want to be known everywhere?
You will be, seeing you’ve wanted to love
my love, and with a long punishment.
requires ten thousand from me,
that girl with the ugly great nose,
bankrupt Formianus’s ‘friend’.
Gather round, you who care for the girl,
assemble together, doctors and friends:
the girl’s not well, don’t ask what it is:
she’s suffering from fantasy money.
and from every side, as many as are.
A base adulteress thinks I’m a joke,
and refuses to give me my tablets
once more, if you’d believe it.
We’ll follow her: ask for them back.
Which one, you may ask? The one you can see
strutting disgracefully, laughing ridiculously,
maddening, with the jaws of a Gaulish bitch.
Surround her: ask for them back:
‘Stinking adulteress, give back my letters,
give back, stinking adulteress, my letters!’
You won’t? O to the mire, the brothel,
or if anything can be more ruinous, then that!
But still don’t think that’s enough.
Call her again in a louder voice:
‘Stinking adulteress, give back my letters,
give back, stinking adulteress, my letters!’
But it’s no use: nothing disturbs her.
We’d better change methods and tactics,
if we want them to be of more use to us:
let’s see if we can’t get a blush
from that bitch’s brazen face.:
‘Honest and chaste one, give back my letters.’
feet not so lovely, eyes not of the darkest,
fingers not slender, mouth never healed,
and a not excessively charming tongue,
bankrupt Formianus’s ‘little friend’.
And the Province pronounces you beautiful?
To be compared to my Lesbia?
O witless and ignorant age!
(for they call you Tiburtine, who don’t wish to wound
Catullus: but those who wish to do so say
that whatever the bet is you’re Sabine),
but whether you’re Sabine or Tiburtine,
I willingly inhabit your suburban villa,
and shake off a bad bronchial cough,
given me by a stomach chill, my own fault,
while stuffing extravagant dinners.
For I wanted to be a guest of Sestius,
so I read the oration in Antius’s case,
full of legal poison and pestilence,
it weakened me even to the extent
of watery colds and frequent coughing,
till I fled to your bosom, and restored
my health, with rest and nettle-soup.
Refreshed by which, I give you great thanks,
who take no revenge on me for my error.
Now I don’t care, if I take up that heinous
script again, if it’s not me but Sestius himself,
wheezing and coughing, who takes a chill,
who invited me only after I’d read that vile work.
in his lap, said: ‘Acme, mine, if I
don’t love you desperately, and love forever,
continually through all the years,
as much as he who loves the most,
in empty Libya and scorched India,
I’ll fight against some green-eyed lion.’
As he spoke, Love, to left and right,
sneezed his approbation.
But Acme lifted her head slightly
and her charming red lips spoke
to her sweet boy’s intoxicated eyes:
‘So, Septimius, mea vita,
let us always serve this one lord,
that more deeply and more fiercely
the fire will burn my tender marrow.’
As she spoke, Love, to left and right
sneezed his approbation.
Now profiting from these good omens
their mutual spirits love and are loved.
Septimius sets his little Acme,
above the Syrians or Britons:
faithful Acme makes Septimius
her one darling and desire.
Who might see more blessed creatures
who a love more fortunate?
now the wild equinoctial skies
are calmed by Zephyr’s happier breezes.
The fields of Phrygia will be forsaken,
Catullus, rich farms of hot Nicaea:
we’ll flee to Asia’s bright cities.
Now restless minds long for travel,
now the glad feet stir with pleasure.
O sweet crowd of friends farewell,
who came together from far places,
whom divergent roads must carry.
of Piso, the world’s itches and famines,
that circumcised Priapus prefers you
to my Veraniolus and my Fabullus?
You, indulged with great sumptuous banquets
every day: my friends
looking for work at the crossroads?
to kiss your honey-sweet eyes,
I might kiss you three hundred
thousand times, and never be sated,
not even if my kisses were more
than the crop’s ripe ears of wheat.
that are, that have been, that will be
through all the years, Marcus Tullius,
Catullus sends you the warmest thanks,
the least of all the poets, as much
the least of all the poets, as you
are the greatest of all lawyers.
we played with my writing tablets,
harmonising in being delightful:
scribbling verses, each of us
playing with metres, this and that,
reciting together, through laughter and wine.
And I left there fired with your charm,
Calvus, and with your wit,
so that, restless, I couldn’t enjoy food,
or close my eyes quietly in sleep,
but tossed the whole bed about wildly
in passion, longing to see the light,
so I might speak to you, and be with you.
But afterwards I lay there wearied
with effort, half-dead in the bed,
I made this poem for you, pleasantly,
from which you might gather my pain.
Now beware of being rash, don’t reject
my prayers I beg, my darling,
lest Nemesis demand your punishment. She’s
a powerful goddess. Beware of annoying her.
if it’s possible more than just divine,
who sitting over against you, endlessly
sees you and hears you
laughing so sweetly, that with fierce pain I’m robbed
of all of my senses: because that moment
I see you, Lesbia, nothing’s left of me.....
but my tongue is numbed, and through my poor limbs
fires are raging, the echo of your voice
rings in both ears, my eyes are covered
with the dark of night.
‘Your idleness is loathsome Catullus:
you delight in idleness, and too much posturing:
idleness ruined the kings and the cities
of former times.’
Nonnius the tumour sits in a Magistrate’s chair,
Vatinius perjures himself for a Consulate:
Why, Catullus? Why wait to die?
while my Calvus explained the Vatinian case
quite wonderfully, said admiringly, raising his hands:
‘Great gods, what an eloquent little man!’
and it’s owner’s legs loutishly unclean,
soft and delicate is Libo’s farting:
if not with all that, then let me displease you
with Sufficio, old age renewed...
again let my worthless iambics
rile you, our one and only general.
point out where your shade might be.
You, little Camerius, I’ve looked for you,
you, in the Circus, you, in the bookshops,
you, in the sacred shrine of great Jove.
I’ve detained all the girls together
in Pompey’s Arcade, my friend,
whose faces were blank, however.
‘Worst of girls, reveal my Camerius’,
so I demanded of them.
One replied, revealing her nudity...
‘Look he’s hiding in these rosy breasts.’
But, oh it’s a labour of Hercules to bear with you:
as much as your pride denies it, my friend.
Since I’m not that bronze guardian of Crete,
not Ladas or wing-footed Perseus,
since I’m not carried by Pegasus in flight,
nor by Rhesus’s swift snowy-white team,
add to that feathered-feet and swiftness
and the collective speed of the winds,
Camerius you might have said who you were with:
but I’d be weary right down to my marrow
and devoured by excessive fatigue
if I went on searching for you, my friend.
Tell us where you’ll be in future, utter
boldly, commit yourself, trust to the light.
Do the milk-white girls hold you now?
If your tongue’s stuck in your mouth,
you’ll banish all the rewards of love.
Venus delights in copious language.
Or, if you want, fasten your lips,
while letting me share in your loves.
worth your ears and your laughter!
Cato laugh as you love Catullus:
the thing is amusing, and quite ridiculous.
I caught my girl’s little pupil thrusting away:
if only to please Dione, I sacrificed him
to my rigid succeeding shaft.
Mamurra the catamite and Caesar.
No wonder: both equally spotted,
one from Formia, the other the City,
marks that remain, not to be lessened.
diseased the same, both of these twins,
both somewhat skilled in the selfsame couch,
this one no greedier an adulterer than that,
rivals in shared little girls.
Beautifully matched the perverse buggers.
she’s Menenius’s wife, whom you’ve often seen,
snatching food, from the pyre itself, in the cemetery,
chasing the bread when it rolls from the flames,
being thumped by the half-shaven cremator.
or the depths of howling Scylla’s thighs,
create you as hard and as foul as that,
so you might show scorn for the voice of entreaty,
in its latest misfortune, out of that oh too cruel heart?
hills, the son of Urania,
who carry the tender virgin
to her man, O Hymanaee Hymen,
O Hymen Hymenaee:
crown your brow with sweet flowers
of marjoram fragrance,
put on the glad veil, here,
come, wearing the saffron shoes
on your snow-white feet:
summoned to the happy day
singing the nuptial songs
with ringing voice,
strike your feet on the ground, shake
the pine torch in your hand.
Now Vinia comes to her Manlius,
came to Paris, her Phrygian judge,
a rare girl wedded to rare fortune,
like the myrtle of Asia born
on the flowering branches,
that the divine Hamadryads
playfully tend themselves
with shining dew.
So come, suffer yourself to approach,
leave the Aonian cave among
the cliffs of Thespia,
leave the nymph Aganippe
and her cooling stream.
And call the bride to her
new husband’s loving home,
her heart bound fast with love,
as the clinging ivy enfolds the tree,
winding here and there.
And you chaste virgins too,
whose own day will come,
singing harmoniously
cry, O Hymanaee Hymen,
O Hymen Hymenaee.
That, hearing himself called
to perform his service, he may
suffer himself to approach,
the commander of wedding joys,
the true uniter-in-love.
What greater god do you love
sought out by lovers?
What divine one do men
worship more, O Hymanaee Hymen,
O Hymen Hymenaee?
You her trembling father
invokes: for you
the virgin belt’s untied:
for you the bridegroom waits,
fearful with new desire.
You give the young girl fresh
from her mother’s breast,
to the young novice’s
hands, O Hymanaee Hymen,
O Hymen Hymenaee.
Venus can take no advantage
of what good custom allows,
without you, but she can
if you’re willing. What god dare
compare with you in this?
No house bears offspring
without you, no parent can be
brightened by children: but they can
if you’re willing. What god dare
compare with you in this?
No ruler can set the boundaries
to his country: but he can
if you’re willing. What god dare
compare with you in this?
Open the lock of the door.
The virgin comes. Do you see how
the torches scatter brilliant sparks?
.....................................................
.....................................................
Noble shame holds back.
However obedient she is,
she weeps that she has to go.
Don’t weep. There’s no danger
to you Aurunculeia,
nor will bright day see
a lovelier girl than you
rise from the Ocean waves.
Such a hyacinth flower
as blooms in a rich man’s
colourful little garden.
But you linger: the day vanishes.
Let the new bride appear.
Let the new bride appear, so
she can now be viewed, and listen
to my words. See? The torches
scatter golden sparks:
let the new bride appear.
Your husband’s not fickle,
given to sinful adulteries,
chasing shameful vices,
does not wish to flee from
sleep in your tender breasts,
and as the vines slowly wind
about the trees they claim,
he’ll be wound in your
embrace. But the day vanishes:
let the new bride appear.
O bridal-bed, that for all
.....................................................
.....................................................
at the foot of the shining couch,
comes to your master,
what joy, what wandering
night, what noon
delights! But the day goes by:
let the new bride appear.
O, you boys, lift the torches:
I see the flame approach.
Come: let the song sound in harmony
‘io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.’
Don’t hold back the bold
Fescennine laughter,
don’t let this obedient concubine
abandoning his master’s love
deny the boys their nuts.
Give nuts to the boys, you idle
concubine! You’ve toyed
with the nuts long enough:
now be pleased to serve Hymen.
Concubine, give them nuts.
Girls seemed vile to you,
concubine, yesterday, till today:
now the hair-curler smooths
your beard. Wretch of a wretch,
concubine, give them nuts.
You’ll speak ill of abstaining
from your slaves, perfumed
husband, but abstain.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
We know what’s allowed to you
when you’re known to be single,
but married it’s not allowed.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
Bride, beware you don’t deny
what your man comes seeking,
lest he goes seeking elsewhere.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
Powerful in your house,
and happy in your powers,
that act without you there,
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee,
until with trembling motion
white-haired old age
nods at all and everything.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
In your saffron shoes cross
the threshold with good omens,
and enter the shining door.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
Look inside where your man
lies on a Tyrian bed
waiting for you alone.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
He no less than you
burns with fire in his heart,
but inwardly much greater.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
Page, let go the young
girl’s shapely arm: now
she reaches her husband’s bed.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
You good wives who know
the powers of old to bring
young girls to marriage.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
io Hymen Hymenaee.
Now bridegroom, you may come:
your wife waits in your bed,
her lovely face gleaming,
like a white poppy,
on a saffron field.
But, husband, let the gods
joy, you are no less
handsome, nor does Venus
neglect you. But the daylight flies:
come now, don’t delay.
He’s not lingered:
now he comes. Kind Venus
shall aid you, since you desire
openly what you desire, you
won’t forget kind love.
He who would count your joys,
many thousands, must first
tally the grains of Africa’s sands,
and the glittering stars.
Play as you wish, and quickly
give her children. It’s not right
for an ancient name to be
childless, but it should create
from the same root.
I want a young Torquatus
to stretch out his tender hand
from his mother’s lap
sweetly smiling to his father
from half-open lips.
Let him be like his father
Manlius, let that be known
by all the unknowing,
and let his face reveal,
his mother’s faithfulness.
So our praise approves
one born of a noble mother,
just as unparalleled fame echoes
from Penelope, the mother
of excellent Telemachus.
Close the doorways, virgins:
we’re satisfied with our play. But you
brave partners live truly, and
do your duty constantly,
with vigour and with joy.
so long by the heavens, barely still shows the light.
Now is the time to rise, to leave the rich banquet,
now the virgin comes, now the wedding-song is sung.
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
Do you see the unmarried girls, you young men?
Rise to meet them: the evening star shows Thessalian fire.
Such is the contest: see how they spring up so nimbly?
Don’t fear to rise, they sing to win a partner.
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
The palm’s not easily won by us men as equals:
consider, the girls need to prepare amongst themselves.
not a vain preparation: they truly know what’s what:
no wonder, since they concentrate their whole mind.
Our minds are elsewhere: our ears turn elsewhere:
so we’ll be defeated by willpower: victory needs attention.
Therefore turn your minds to it at the least:
now they begin to sing, now you must reply.
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
Hesperus what fire, they say, is crueller than yours?
Who can tear a daughter away from her mother’s arms,
from a mother’s detaining arms tear a daughter away,
and give a virgin girl to an ardent young man.
What do the enemy do that’s crueller, in capturing a city?
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
Hesperus, who shines with happier fire in the sky?
You who strengthen the bond of marriage with your flame,
with what men swear, swearing it to the parents,
not to be joined together before your own brightness rises.
What wished-for hour by the gods is more happily granted?
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
Hesperus has stolen one like us away.
.....................................................
.....................................................
And now at your rising the watchman always wakes,
thieves hide by night, who often likewise return,
Hesperus, you catch them, as your name alters, at dawn,
but the girls love to slander you with false complaints.
Why do they complain, if they secretly wish it then?
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
As the hidden flower born in the hedged garden
unknown to the beasts, untouched by the plough,
that the breezes sweeten, the sun strengthens, the rain feeds:
that many young men would choose, and many young girls:
when that same flower fades, plucked by a tender hand,
no young boy would choose it, and no young girl:
so the virgin, while she’s untouched, while she’s their love:
if she loses her flower of chastity, her body dishonoured,
she’s no longer the boy’s delight, the girls’ beloved.
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
As the vine we see, grown in the open field,
never lifting its head, never bearing sweet grapes,
its delicate stem bending downwards with the weight,
so that in a moment its tallest shoot will touch its roots:
no countryman, no farm-hand will cherish it:
but if the same plant is fastened tight, wedded to an elm,
many countrymen and farm-hands will cherish it.
So a virgin who stays untouched, and uncultivated, ages:
while taken in equal marriage, while the time is ripe,
she’s loved more by the man, less hateful to her parents.
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
And don’t you struggle with such a husband, girl.
it’s not right to struggle, you, whose father gives you away,
your father and your mother, who prepare you.
Your virginity’s not wholly yours: part is your parents:
a third your father’s, a third your mother’s,
only a third is yours: don’t fight those two,
who grant their rights to the son-in-law with the dowry.
Hymen O Hymenaee, Hymen be near, O Hymenaee!
had reached the Phrygian woods, with rapid eager steps,
had returned to a dark corner of the goddess’s grove,
goaded by mad fury, and there, his wits wander