That little kidney bean you see before you, friends,
Says she was once the very fastest of ships
And that no floating plank in onward surge
Could outstrip her whether she made her flight
On hand-like oars or canvas,
And she says neither the shore of the dangerous Adriatic
Denies this nor the Cycladic islands
Nor upstanding Rhodes nor the savage Thracian
Propontis nor the harsh gulf of the Black Sea
Where that yacht to be was formerly
Long-haired forest – for on the ridge of Mount Cytoris
Her whispery hair would whistle.
Pontic Amastris and boxwood-bearing Cytoris,
Yacht says this was – still is – all very familiar to you.
At the very beginning, she says,
She was rooted on your heights
And soaked her hand-like oars in your waters,
And from there she carried her master
Over many unstoppable waves, regardless of whether
The breeze summoned her from port or starboard
Or Jupiter fell favourably upon both her sheets alike.
No vows were made on her behalf to the gods
On the shore when she set out on her last voyage
From the sea all the way to this limpid lake.
But this belongs to the past. Now she has been put away
To grow old peacefully and dedicates herself to you,
Twin Castor and twin of Castor, Pollux.
We should live, my Lesbia, we should love,
We should value at a penny all
The rumours of our elders – they are dourer than most.
The sun can set and rise again
But once our short light has passed beneath its yardarm
We must sleep a night that never ends.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred
Then another thousand, then a second hundred.
Then – don’t stop – another thousand, then a hundred
Then when we have shared many thousands
We shall confound them so no one can know
Or cast an evil eye upon us
When he knows that our kisses are so many.
Flavius, if your lover were not
Inelegant and unrefined you would want to speak –
Would not be able not to speak – about her to Catullus.
No doubt you’re in love with some feverish
Little slut and it shames you to confess it.
See, for all its silence your bed betrays
The nights you sleep are not sexless:
Steeped in flowers and the oil of Syrian olive,
Knackered and tattered, pillows everywhere,
Creaking and shaking,
The trembling bedstead shattered.
If shame did not rule you, you would reveal all.
Why, you would not flash such toned love-handles
If you were not engaged in some dalliance.
So whatever news you have, be it good or bad,
Tell me. I want to proclaim you and your lover
To the skies in elegant verse.
You want to know how many of your gros bisous,
Lesbia, would be enough for me, enough to spare?
As great as the number of grains of Libyan sand
That lie on silphium-bearing Cyrene
Between the oracle of steamy Jupiter
And the holy tomb of old King Battus;
Or as many as the stars, when night is quiet,
That watch the secretive liaisons of men:
To give you this many kisses
Is enough and more for crazy Catullus,
Which neither meddlers could count out
Nor utter evil spells about.
Stop being a fool, you failure, Catullus,
And accept what you see has died, is dead.
Once the sun shone brightly upon you,
When you went wherever the girl directed,
Loved by us as much as no woman again will be loved.
A lot of fun was had back there –
You were keen for it and the girl was not unwilling.
Yes, the sun truly shone brightly upon you.
Now she wants no more. And you, though weak,
Should not want it either, nor run after her as she flees,
Nor live in misery, but persevere with hardened heart, be strong.
Farewell, lover. Now Catullus is being strong.
He will not ask after you, or ask you out: you are not interested.
But you will be sorry when you are asked by no one.
So it is, wretched woman. What life remains for you yet?
Who’s going to approach you now, or consider you beautiful?
Whom now will you love, or whose lover will they say you are?
Whom will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?
But you, Catullus, pause. Be strong.
Veranius, had I three hundred thousand
Friends, you would still be number one.
Have you come home to your household gods,
And the brothers who take after you, and elderly mother?