In truth
thou affectest I know not what hot-blooded whore: this thou art ashamed to
own.
thou affectest I know not what hot-blooded whore: this thou art ashamed to
own.
Catullus - Carmina
volo te ac tuos amores
Ad caelum lepido vocare versu.
VI.
TO FLAVIUS: MIS-SPEAKING HIS MISTRESS.
Thy Charmer (Flavius! ) to Catullus' ear
Were she not manner'd mean and worst in wit
Perforce thou hadst praised nor couldst silence keep.
But some enfevered jade, I wot-not-what,
Some piece thou lovest, blushing this to own. 5
For, nowise 'customed widower nights to lie
Thou 'rt ever summoned by no silent bed
With flow'r-wreaths fragrant and with Syrian oil,
By mattress, bolsters, here, there, everywhere
Deep-dinted, and by quaking, shaking couch 10
All crepitation and mobility.
Explain! none whoredoms (no! ) shall close my lips.
Why? such outfuttered flank thou ne'er wouldst show
Had not some fulsome work by thee been wrought.
Then what thou holdest, boon or bane be pleased 15
Disclose! For thee and thy beloved fain would I
Upraise to Heaven with my liveliest lay.
O Flavius, of thy sweetheart to Catullus thou would'st speak, nor could'st
thou keep silent, were she not both ill-mannered and ungraceful.
In truth
thou affectest I know not what hot-blooded whore: this thou art ashamed to
own. For that thou dost not lie alone a-nights thy couch, fragrant with
garlands and Syrian unguent, in no way mute cries out, and eke the pillow
and bolsters indented here and there, and the creakings and joggings of the
quivering bed: unless thou canst silence these, nothing and again nothing
avails thee to hide thy whoredoms. And why? Thou wouldst not display such
drained flanks unless occupied in some tomfoolery. Wherefore, whatsoever
thou hast, be it good or ill, tell us! I wish to laud thee and thy loves to
the sky in joyous verse.
VII.
Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes
Tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque.
Quam magnus numerus Libyssae arenae
Lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis,
Oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi 5
Et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum,
Aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,
Furtivos hominum vident amores,
Tam te basia multa basiare
Vesano satis et super Catullost, 10
Quae nec pernumerare curiosi
Possint nec mala fascinare lingua.
VII.
TO LESBIA STILL BELOVED.
Thou ask'st How many kissing bouts I bore
From thee (my Lesbia! ) or be enough or more?
I say what mighty sum of Lybian-sands
Confine Cyrene's Laserpitium-lands
'Twixt Oracle of Jove the Swelterer 5
And olden Battus' holy Sepulchre,
Or stars innumerate through night-stillness ken
The stolen Love-delights of mortal men,
For that to kiss thee with unending kisses
For mad Catullus enough and more be this, 10
Kisses nor curious wight shall count their tale,
Nor to bewitch us evil tongue avail.
Thou askest, how many kisses of thine, Lesbia, may be enough and to spare
for me. As the countless Libyan sands which strew the spicy strand of
Cyrene 'twixt the oracle of swelt'ring Jove and the sacred sepulchre of
ancient Battus, or as the thronging stars which in the hush of darkness
witness the furtive loves of mortals, to kiss thee with kisses of so great
a number is enough and to spare for passion-driven Catullus: so many that
prying eyes may not avail to number, nor ill tongues to ensorcel.
Ad caelum lepido vocare versu.
VI.
TO FLAVIUS: MIS-SPEAKING HIS MISTRESS.
Thy Charmer (Flavius! ) to Catullus' ear
Were she not manner'd mean and worst in wit
Perforce thou hadst praised nor couldst silence keep.
But some enfevered jade, I wot-not-what,
Some piece thou lovest, blushing this to own. 5
For, nowise 'customed widower nights to lie
Thou 'rt ever summoned by no silent bed
With flow'r-wreaths fragrant and with Syrian oil,
By mattress, bolsters, here, there, everywhere
Deep-dinted, and by quaking, shaking couch 10
All crepitation and mobility.
Explain! none whoredoms (no! ) shall close my lips.
Why? such outfuttered flank thou ne'er wouldst show
Had not some fulsome work by thee been wrought.
Then what thou holdest, boon or bane be pleased 15
Disclose! For thee and thy beloved fain would I
Upraise to Heaven with my liveliest lay.
O Flavius, of thy sweetheart to Catullus thou would'st speak, nor could'st
thou keep silent, were she not both ill-mannered and ungraceful.
In truth
thou affectest I know not what hot-blooded whore: this thou art ashamed to
own. For that thou dost not lie alone a-nights thy couch, fragrant with
garlands and Syrian unguent, in no way mute cries out, and eke the pillow
and bolsters indented here and there, and the creakings and joggings of the
quivering bed: unless thou canst silence these, nothing and again nothing
avails thee to hide thy whoredoms. And why? Thou wouldst not display such
drained flanks unless occupied in some tomfoolery. Wherefore, whatsoever
thou hast, be it good or ill, tell us! I wish to laud thee and thy loves to
the sky in joyous verse.
VII.
Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes
Tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque.
Quam magnus numerus Libyssae arenae
Lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis,
Oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi 5
Et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum,
Aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,
Furtivos hominum vident amores,
Tam te basia multa basiare
Vesano satis et super Catullost, 10
Quae nec pernumerare curiosi
Possint nec mala fascinare lingua.
VII.
TO LESBIA STILL BELOVED.
Thou ask'st How many kissing bouts I bore
From thee (my Lesbia! ) or be enough or more?
I say what mighty sum of Lybian-sands
Confine Cyrene's Laserpitium-lands
'Twixt Oracle of Jove the Swelterer 5
And olden Battus' holy Sepulchre,
Or stars innumerate through night-stillness ken
The stolen Love-delights of mortal men,
For that to kiss thee with unending kisses
For mad Catullus enough and more be this, 10
Kisses nor curious wight shall count their tale,
Nor to bewitch us evil tongue avail.
Thou askest, how many kisses of thine, Lesbia, may be enough and to spare
for me. As the countless Libyan sands which strew the spicy strand of
Cyrene 'twixt the oracle of swelt'ring Jove and the sacred sepulchre of
ancient Battus, or as the thronging stars which in the hush of darkness
witness the furtive loves of mortals, to kiss thee with kisses of so great
a number is enough and to spare for passion-driven Catullus: so many that
prying eyes may not avail to number, nor ill tongues to ensorcel.
