TO LESBIA.

EER for the gods he seems to me,
And mightier, if that may be,

Who sitting face to face with thee,
Can there serenely gaze,

Can hear thee sweetly speak the while,
Can see thee, Lesbia, sweetly smile,
Joys that from me my senses wile,
And leave me in a maze.

For, ever, when thy face I view,
My voice is to its task untrue,
My tongue is paralysed, and through
Each limb a subtle flame

Runs swiftly, murmurs dim arise
Within my ears, across my eyes
A sudden darkness spreads, and sighs
And tremors shake my frame.

TO HIMSELF.

HY, oh Catullus, why
Dost thou delay to die?
See, Struma Nonius there

Sits in the Curule Chair!

Vatinius, too, that wretch forsworn,

The Consul's office makes a butt for scorn!

When such men are in power,

Why shouldst thou live an hour?

ON CALVUS.

HEN in that wondrous speech of his
My Calvus had denounced

Vatinius, and his infamies

Most mercilessly trounced,

A voice the buzz of plaudits clove,—
My sides I nearly split

With laughter, as it cried, "By Jove!
An eloquent tom-tit!"

TO CAMERIUS.

55.

BESEECH you, if 'tis not impertinent, say, In what cunning corner you're hidden away. In vain have I sought you in park and in hall, In the Temple of Jove, in the libraries all; The Circus I've traversed with no better fate, And coursed through the gardens of Pompey the Great. I stopp'd all the wenches, wherever I went,

And especially those who look'd pleased and content.

66

My friend, my Camerius, where does he hide?
Restore him, ye mischievous minxes !" I cried.
One, her bosom unbaring, made answer to me,
"He's hidden in here 'mongst the roses, you see !"
But if you were pillow'd where such roses grow,
Not Hercules' self could dislodge you, I know.

Come, out with the truth, friend! No shirking! But speak,

Where are we for you in the future to seek?

Has some milk-white damsel enchanted you? Well,
If to no one the tale of your triumph you tell,
You waste all its fruits, for love revels in this,
To be evermore babbling and boasting its bliss.
Or be dumb, if you'd rather no confidence make,
Only let me with her your affection partake.

For though I were Talus, that guardian of Crete,
Or Ladas, or Perseus, with wings to my feet,
Or wafted on Pegasus, or the snow-white
Swift coursers of Rhesus; or should I unite

In myself all the swiftness of all living things,

That have plumes at their heels, or that flutter on wings;

Or though, my Camerius, I added to those

The concentrated speed of each tempest that blows,

Yet I should be wearied and mortified too,

And utterly jaded in seeking for you.