Then why should I thy charms dispraise?
'Mid vulgar fools, in tasteless days,
'Tis useless to be fair.
From Catullus. translated by SIR CHARLES ELTON, 1814
IN Septimus' lap entwining,
While his Acme sank reclining;
"If I love thee not," he cried,
"Oh my Acme! oh my bride!
Even to perdition love thee,
And shall feel thy beauties move me,
As the rapid years roll by,
Like men who love distractedly,
Then, where Afric's sands are spread,
Or India's sun flames overhead,
May a lion cross me there
With his green-eyed, angry glare.”
Love stood listening in delight,
And sneezed his auspice on the right.
Acme, as her lover said,
Lightly bending back her head,
And with lips of ruby skimming
His tipsy eyes, in pleasure swimming;
"Septimillus! darling mine!
So may we thus ever twine,
Victims vow'd at Cupid's shrine,
As with still more keen requitals
Thou art felt within my vitals!"
Love stood listening in delight,
And sneezed his auspice on the right.
In the heavenly omen blest
Thy love, caressing and carest;
The poor youth would lightlier prize
Syria's groves than Acme's eyes;
Acme centres in the boy
All her longings, all her joy.
Who more bless'd has mortals seen?
When has a kinder passion been?
FROM CATULLUS. TRANSLATED BY AMBROSE PHILLIPS
BLEST as th' immortal gods is he,
The youth, who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
"Twas that deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport toss'd,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow'd; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame;
On my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung:
With dewy damp my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sank, and died away.
On a Wanton's Door1
FROM CATULLUS. TRANSLATED BY JOHN NOTT, 1775
HAIL, door, to husband and to father dear!
And may Jove make thee his peculiar care!
Thou who, when Balbus lived, if fame say true,
Wast wont a thousand sorry things to do;
And, when they carried forth the good old man,
For the new bride who didst them o'er again;
Say, how have people this strange notion got,
As if thy former faith thou hadst forgot?
So may Caecilius help me, whom I now
Must own my master, as I truly vow-
Be the offences talk'd of great or small;
Still I am free, and ignorant of all:
I boldly dare the worst that can be said;
And yet, what charges to my fault are laid!
No deed so infamous, but straight they cry,
"Fie, wicked door! this is your doing, fie!"
This downright, bold assertion ne'er will do;
You must speak plainer, and convince us too.
I would;-but how, when no one wants to know?
I want; collect your facts, and tell them now.
1 See Burton's translation in this volume: p. 22.
First, then, I will deny, for so 'tis thought
That a young virgin to my charge was brought:
Not that her husband, with ungovern'd flame,
Had stolen, in hasty joy, that sacred name;
So vile his manhood, and so cold his blood,
Poor, languid tool! he could not, if he would:
But his own father, 'tis expressly said,
Had stain'd the honours of his nuptial bed;
Whether because, to virtue's image blind,
Thick clouds of lust had darken'd all his mind;
Or, conscious of his son's unfruitful seed,
He thought some abler man should do the deed.
A pious deed, in truth; and nobly doneA father makes a cuckold of his son!
Nor was this all that conscious Brixia knew;
Sweet mother of the country where I grew
In earliest youth! who, from Chinaea's height,
Sees boundless landscapes burst upon the sight;
Brixia! whose sides the yellow Mela laves
With the calm current of its gentle waves:
She also knows what bliss Posthumius proved;
And how, in triumph, gay Cornelius loved;
With both of whom, so wanton was the fair,
She did not blush her choicest gifts to share.
"But how," you'll ask, "could you, a senseless door,
These secrets, and these mysteries explore;
Who never from your master's threshold stirr'd,
Nor what the people talk'd of ever heard;
Content upon your hinges to remain,
To ope, and shut, and then to ope again."—
Learn, that full oft I've heard the whispering fair,
Who ne'er suspected I had tongue or ear,
To her own slaves her shameful actions tell,
And speak the very names I now reveal.
One more she mention'd, whom I will not speak,
Lest warm displeasure flush his angry cheek:
Thus far I'll tell thee; he's an awkward brute,
Whose spurious birth once caused no small dispute.
To Lesbia. On Her Falsehood
FROM CATULLUS. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LAMB
To me alone, thou said'st, thy love was true,
And true, should be, though Jove himself might woo.
I loved thee, Lesbia, not as rakes may prize
The favourite wanton who has pleased their eyes;
Mine was a tender glow, a purer zeal;
'Twas all the parent for the child can feel.
Thy common falsehood now, thyself I know;
And though my frame with fiercer heat may glow,
Yet Lesbia's vile and worthless in my sight,
Compared with Lesbia once my heart's delight;
Nor wonder passion's unrestrained excess
Makes me desire thee more, but love thee less.
FROM CATULLUS. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LAMB
I LIKE girls, Aufilena, of consciences nice,
For the favours they grant who are honestly paid; But you, who have cheated, and taken the price Of the love you withhold, are an infamous jade.
'Tis an honest girl's part, what she's promised, to do; 'T were a modest one's not to have promised the deed: But she who can jilt, while she pockets like you The money for favours she will not concede,
Commits a base fraud, which would shame and disgrace The lowest and worst of the prostitute race.
The Rendezvous
FROM CATULLUS. TRANSLATOR UNKNOWN
My Hypsithilla, charming fair,
My life, my soul, ah; hear my prayer:
Thy grateful summons quickly send,
And bless at noon, with joy, thy friend.
And if my fair one will comply,
And not her sighing swain deny,
Take care the door be then unbarr'd,
And let no spy be on the guard.
And thou, the aim of my desire,
Attend at home my amorous fire.
Prepare thy bosom to receive
All that so much love can give:
Prepare to meet repeated joy
Continued bliss without alloy;
Dissolving still in thy dear arms,
Still raised by thy reviving charms
To onsets fresh of sprightly pleasure,
Tumultuous joy beyond all measure.
But dally not with my desire,
Nor quash with thy delays my fire.
Bursting with love upon my couch I lie,
Forestalling with desire the distant joy.
ATTRIBUTED TO CORNELIUS GALLUS, A CONTEMPORARY OF VIRGIL. TRANSLATED BY SIR CHARLES ELTON
LYDIA! girl of prettiest mien,
And fairest skin, that e'er were seen:
Lilies, cream, thy cheeks disclose;
The ruddy and the milky rose;
Smooth thy limbs as ivory shine,
Burnish'd from the India mine.
Oh, sweet girl! those ringlets spread,
Long and loose, from all thy head:
Glistening like gold in yellow light
O'er thy falling shoulders white.
Show, sweet girl! thy starry eyes,
And black-bent brows that arching rise:
Show, sweet girl! thy rose-bloom cheeks,
Which Tyre's vermilion scarlet streaks:
Drop those pouting lips to mine,
Those ripe, those coral lips of thine.
Give me, soft, a velvet kiss,
Dove-like glued in searching bliss:
You suck my breath! O heaven! remove
Your lips-I faint-my sweetest love!
Your kisses-hold! they pierce my heart:
I feel thee in each vital part:
Hold!-thou wicked creature! why
Suck my life's blood thus cruelly?
Hide those breasts, that rise and fall,
Those twinn'd apples, round and small;
Full with balmy juices flowing,
Now just budding, heaving, growing;
Breathing from their broaden'd zone
Opening sweets of cinnamon.
Delicacies round thee rise:
Hide those globes-they wound mine eyes.
With their white and dazzling glow,
With their luxury of snow!
Cruel! see you not I languish,
Thrilling with ecstatic anguish?
Do you leave me; leave me lying,
Almost fainting, almost dying?
From the Odes of Horace (65-8 B. C.)
TRANSLATED BY SIR THEODORE MARTIN, 1881
ODE V, BOOK I. TO PYRRHA
PYRRHA, what slender boy, in perfume steeped,
Doth in the shade of some delightful grot
Caress thee now on couch with roses heaped?
For whom dost thou thine amber tresses knot
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