Carmina

Perseus Latin · Perseus Latin · 544 sections

28.9
O Memmius, well and slowly did you bone me, supine, day by day, with the whole of that beam. But, from what I see, in like case you have been; for you have been crammed with no smaller a poker. Courting friends of high rank! But may the gods and goddesses heap ill upon you,
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disgraces to Romulus and Remus.
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Who can see this, who can stand it, save the shameless, the glutton, and gambler, that Mamurra Mentula should possess what long-haired Gaul had and remotest Britain had before?
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You sodomite Romulus, will you see this and bear it? Then you are shameless, a glutton and a gambler. And will he now, proud and overflowing, saunter over each one’s bed, like a little white dove or an Adonis? You sodomite Romulus, will you see this and bear it?
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Then you are shameless, a glutton and a gambler. For such a name, Generalissimo, have you been to the furthest island of the west, that this love-weary Mentula of yours should squander twenty or thirty million?
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What is it but a skewed liberality? Perhaps he spent too little, or perhaps he was washed clean? First he wasted his patrimony; second the loot from Pontus; then third the loot from Spain, which even the goldbearing Tagus knows.
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Now he is feared by Gauls and Britain. Why do you indulge this scoundrel? What can he do but devour well-fattened inheritances? Was it for such a name, † most wealthy father-in-law and son-in-law, that you have destroyed everything?
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Alfenus, unmindful and unfaithful to your comrades true, is there now no pity in you, hard of heart, for your sweet loving friend? Do you betray me now, and not hesitate to play me false now, dishonourable one? Yet the irreverent deeds of traitorous men do not please the dwellers in heaven:
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this you take no heed of, leaving me wretched among my ills. Tell me, ah, what may men do, or in whom may they have their trust? Surely you used to bid me entrust my soul to you, unfair, drawing my affections to yourself, as though all were safely mine. Yet now you withdraw yourself, and all your purposeless words and deeds
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you suffer the winds and airy clouds to bear away. If you have forgotten, yet the gods remember, Faith remembers, and in time to come will make you regret your doing.
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Sirmio! Eyelet of islands and peninsulas, which each Neptune holds whether in limpid lakes or on the wide sea, how gladly and how happily do I see you again,
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scarcely believing that I’ve left behind Thynia and the Bithynian plains, and that I gaze on you safe and sound. O what greater blessing than cares released, when the mind casts down its burden, and when wearied with the toil of travel we reach our hearth,
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and rest in the long-for bed. This and only this repays our numerous labors. Hail, lovely Sirmio, and rejoice in your master; and rejoice, you waves of the Lybian lake; laugh, you laughters echoing from my home.
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Please, my sweet Ipsithilla, my delight, my charmer: order me to come to you at noon. And if you should order this, it will be useful
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if no one makes fast the outer door [against me], and don’t be minded to go out, but stay at home and prepare for us nine continuous love-makings. In truth if you are minded, give the order at once:
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for breakfast over, I lie supine and ripe, poking through both tunic and cloak.
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O best of the thieves of the baths, Vibennius the father, and his sexually submissive son (for the father is the filthier with the right hand, the son is the greedier with the backside),
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why don’t you go into exile and to hellish shores, seeing that the father’s plunder is known to the people, and that, son, you cannot sell your hairy butt for one cent?
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We, upright maids and youths, are in Diana’s care: upright youths and maids, we sing Diana.
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O Latonia, progeny great of greatest Jove, whom your mother bore beneath Delian olive, that you might be queen of lofty mounts,
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of foliaged groves, of remote glens, and of winding streams. You are called Juno Lucina by the mother in the pangs of childbirth,
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you are named potent Trivia and Luna with an ill-got light. You, Goddess, with monthly march measuring the yearly course, glut with produce the rustic roofs of the farmer.
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Be you hallowed by whatever name you prefer; and cherish, with your good aid, as you are accustomed, the ancient race of Romulus.
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Paper, I would like you say to that sweet poet, my comrade, Caecilius, that he come to Verona, quitting New Comum’s city-walls and Larius’ shore;
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for I want him to receive certain thoughts from a friend of his and mine. Therefore, if he is wise, he’ll devour the way, although a bright-hued girl a thousand times calls him back when he goes,
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and flinging both arms around his neck asks him to delay—she who now, if truth is reported to me, is undone with immoderate love of him. For, since the time she read the beginning of his Mistress of Dindymus,
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flames have been devouring the innermost marrow of the poor little girl. I forgive you, girl, more learned than the Sapphic muse: for charmingly has the Great Mother been begun by Caecilius.
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Volusius’ Annals, defiled sheets, fulfil a vow for my girl: for she vowed to sacred Venus and to Cupid that if I were reunited to her,
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and I desisted hurling savage iambics, she would give the choicest writings of the worst poet to the slow-footed god to be burned with ill-omened wood. And the wretched girl saw herself
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vow this to the gods in jest. Now, O Creation of the pale blue sea, you who dwell in sacred Idalium and in storm-beaten Urium, and foster Ancona and reedy Amathus, Cnidos and Golgos
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and Dyrrhachium, the tavern of the Adriatic, accept and acknowledge this vow if it lacks neither grace nor charm. But meantime, off with you to the flames, crammed with boorish speech and vapid,
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Annals of Volusius, defiled sheets.
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Tavern of lust and you, its tentmates (at ninth pillar from the Cap-donned Brothers), do you think that you alone have mentules, that it is allowed to you alone to have sex with whatever may be feminine,
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and to think the rest are goats? But, because you sit, tasteless, hundred or maybe two hundred in a row, do you think I would not dare to bone you entire two hundred loungers at once! Just think it! for
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I’ll scrawl dirty pictures all over the front of your tavern. For my girl, who has fled from my embrace, she whom I loved as none will be loved, for whom I fought fierce fights, has seated herself here. All of you, good men and rich,
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and also, (O cursed shame) all of you piddling back-alley fornicators, are making love to her; and you above all, Egnatius, one of the long-haired race, the son of Celtiberia full of rabbits, whose quality is stamped by dense-grown beard,
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and teeth scrubbed with Spanish urine.
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It is ill, Cornificius, with your Catullus, it is ill, by Hercules, and most unbearably; and greater, greater ill, each day and hour!
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And you, what solace do you give, even the tiniest, the lightest, by your words? I’m angry with you. Is my love worth this? Yet one little message would cheer me, though more full of sadness than the tears of Simonides.
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Egnatius, who has shiny, white teeth, grins forever everywhere. If he is in court, when counsel excites tears, he grins. If he be at funeral pyre where one mourns a son devoted,
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where a bereft mother’s tears stream for her only son, he grins. Whatever it may be, wherever he is, whatever may happen, he grins. Such an ill habit has he—neither in good taste, I suppose, nor refined. Therefore take note from me, my good Egnatius.
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Whether you are from the city or Sabine or Tiburtine, or a thrifty Umbrian or a fat Etruscan, or a dark, toothy Lanuvian, or Transpadine (to touch upon my own folk also), or whoever of those who cleanly wash their teeth,
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still I wish you wouldn’t grin forever everywhere; for nothing is more senseless than senseless giggling. Now you’re a Celtiberian: and in the Celtiberian land early in the morning they piss and scrub their teeth and pinky gums with it,
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so that the higher the polish on your teeth, the more it proclaims that you have drunk your piss.
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What ill-set mind, poor little Ravidus, thrusts you headlong at my iambics? What god, none advocate of good for you, stirs you to a senseless quarrel?
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That you may be in the people’s mouth? What do you want? Do you want to be famous, no matter in what way? You will be, but by our long-drawn vengeance, since you wanted to love my lover.
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Ameana, a love-worn girl, asks me for a whole ten thousand, that girl with an ugly little nose, wench of the bankrupt Formian.
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You near of kin in whose care the girl is, summon both friends and doctors: for the girl is not sane, and is not accustomed to ask her mirror how she looks.
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O come, all ye hendecasyllables, as many as you are, from every part, all of you, as many soever as you be! A filthy whore thinks that I am a joke, and says she won’t return to me your
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writing tablets, if you can stand it. Let’s pursue her, and claim them back. Who is she? you ask. That one, whom you see strutting disgracefully, grinning with annoyance like a mime with a face like a Gallic puppy.
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Surround her, and claim them back. Filthy whore, give back the writing tablets; give back, filthy whore, the writing tablets. You don’t give two cents? You slime, you whorehouse, or if you could be anything even more loathsome!
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But you mustn’t think that this is enough. For if nothing else we can extort a blush on your brazened bitch’s face. We’ll yell again in heightened voice, Filthy whore, give back the writing tablets;
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give back, filthy whore, the writing tablets. But we do no good, she isn’t moved. We must change our approach and our tune, if you can make further progress—Chaste and honest, give back our writing tablets.
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Hail, girl with nose not the smallest, and with foot not lovely, and with eyes not black, and with fingers not long, and with mouth not dry and with tongue not so very elegant,
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the wench of the bankrupt Formian. And the province declares you to be lovely? With you our Lesbia is to be compared? O generation witless and unmannerly!
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O, Homestead of ours, whether Sabine or Tiburtine (for people in whose heart it is not to wound Catullus declare you Tiburtine, but those in whose heart it is, will wager anything you’re Sabine)
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but whether Sabine or more truly Tiburtine, I was glad to be within your rural country-home, and to cast off an ill cough from my chest, which—not unearned—my belly granted me, for grasping after luxurious meals.
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For, while I want to be Sestius’ guest, I read his defence against the plaintiff Antius, crammed with venom and pestilence. Hence a chill heavy rheum and fitful cough shook me continually until I fled to your asylum,
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and brought me back to health with rest and nettle-broth. Therefore, refreshed, I give you utmost thanks, that you have not avenged my fault. Nor do I pray now for anything but that, if I should retake Sestius’ abominable script,
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its chill may bring a cold and cough to Sestius himself; and he invites me [to dinner] whenever I read one of his bad books.
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Septimius, holding his lover Acme in his lap, says, My Acme, if I do not love you to death, and am not prepared to love you constantly all the years in time to come,
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as much and the most as one can who is desperately in love—alone in Libya or in torrid India may I come face to face with a grey-eyed lion. When he said this, Love, leftwards as before, with approbation rightwards sneezed.
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Then Acme slightly bending back her head, and kissed the intoxicated eyes of her sweet boy with her rose-red lips. So, she said, my life, Septimillus, we shall serve this lord alone from now on,
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as greater, keener fire burns the more amid my soft marrow. When she said this, Love, leftwards as before, with approbation rightwards sneezed. Now made complete under good auspices,
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with mutual minds they love and are loved. Poor little Septimius wants Acme alone more than [the wealth of] the Syria or Britain: in Septimius alone the faithful Acme takes delight and pleasure.
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Whoever has seen happier people, whoever a more propitious Love?
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Now spring brings back mild breezes without cold, now heaven’s equinoctial fury falls silent at Zephyr’s pleasant breezes. Let the Phrygian meadows be left behind, Catullus,
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and the teeming fields of sun-scorched Nicaea: let us fly to the glorious cities of Asia. Now my palpitating soul longs to wander, now happy in their zeal my feet grow strong. O sweet band of comrades, fare you well,
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whom various roads in different directions carry back all at once setting out far from home.
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Porcius and Socration, the two left hands of Piso, scurf and hunger of the world, has that verpus Priapus placed you before my Veraniolus and Fabullus?
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Do you spend the day luxuriously in expensive feasts? Do my comrades seek out dinner invitations the cross-roads?
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If someone let me kiss continually your honey-sweet eyes, Juventius, continually I’d kiss even to three hundred thousand kisses, nor ever should I seem on the verge of having enough,
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not even if the crop of our kisses should be thicker than dried wheat sheaves.
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Most eloquent of Romulus’ descendancy—as many as there are, who have been, O Marcus Tullius, and who will be after in other years—to you Catullus gives his greatest gratitude,
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the worst poet of all by as much as you are the best advocate of all.
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Yesterday, Licinius, in leisure much we played upon my tablets, as became us, men of fancy. Each jotting verses in turn
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played first in this meter then in that, exchanging mutual epigrams amid jokes and wine. But I departed from there, afire, Licinius, with your wit and charm, so that food was useless to my wretched self;
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nor could sleep close my eyes in quiet, but all over the bed in restless fury did I toss, longing to behold daylight that I might speak with you, and again we might be together. But afterwards, when my limbs, weakened by my restless labours,
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lay stretched in semi-death upon the bed, I made this poem for you, my delight, from which you will perceive my pain. Now beware of presumptuousness, and beware of rejecting our pleadings, I pray you, apple of my eye,
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lest Nemesis exact her dues from you. She is a forceful Goddess; beware her wrath.
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He seems to me to be equal to a god, he, if such were lawful, to surpass the gods, who sitting across from you again and again gazes on you, and listens to you
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sweetly laughing, which snatches away from sombre me my every sense: for the instant I glance on you, Lesbia, nothing is left to me [of voice], but my tongue is numbed, a keen-edged
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flame spreads through my limbs, with sound self-caused my twin ears sing, and my eyes are enwrapped with night.
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Leisure, Catullus, to you is hurtful: in leisure beyond measure do you exult and pass your life.
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Leisure first ruined rulers and prosperous cities.
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What is it, Catullus, why delay your death? Nonius the tumor is seated in the curule chair, Vatinius lies his way to the consulship: what is it, Catullus, why delay your death?
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I just had to laugh at someone in the crowded court who, when with admirable art my Calvus had set forth Vatinius’ crimes, with hands uplifted in admiration thus spoke:
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Great Gods, the fluent little Salaputian!
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Otho’s tiny little head is the master’s uncouth half-soaped legs, Libo’s light and delicate wind if not all things I wish would displease
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you and Fuficius, that warmed-over old man again you will be enraged at my undeserving iambics, Generalissimo.
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We beg, if maybe it’s not too much trouble, you’ll show us where your haunt may be. We looked for you in the smaller Campus, for you in the Circus, for you in every bookshop,
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for you in Jupiter’s holy temple. My friend, on Magnus’ promenade I grabbed every girl I saw whose looks were unruffled, and at the same time I demanded loudly,
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Give me back Camerius, you wretched girls. One of them, drawing back her naked Look! he’s hiding here between my rosey-red nipples! But bearing with you is a labor of Hercules now.
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Not if I were molded into the Cretan guard, not if I were born with Pegasean wing,
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or I Ladas, or Perseus with winged foot, or Rhesus’ swift and snowy team: add to these the feathery-footed and winged ones, ask at the same time the course of the winds: which bound up, Camerius, you name as mine;
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yet exhausted in my every marrow and with many a faintness consumed, I would be in my quest for you, my friend.
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Do you deny that you bear yourself in such great arrogance, my friend?
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Tell us where you will be, declare it boldly, give up the secret, trust it to the light. What, do the milk-white maidens detain you? If you hold your tongue closed up in your mouth, you squander Love’s every fruit:
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for Venus joys in words and talk. Yet if you wish, you may bar your palate, as long as you are a partner of true love.
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O thing ridiculous, Cato, and funny, and worthy of your ears and of your laughter. Laugh, Cato, the more you love Catullus: the thing is ridiculous and too funny.

Perseus Latin. CTS URN phi0472.phi001.perseus-eng4. Via the Perseus Digital Library / Open Greek and Latin TEI corpora. Licence: Available under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. Source.