I shall see you safe and sound and hear you as you speak
Of the landscapes and habits and nations of the Spaniards
The way you always do, and throwing myself around your
Neck I shall kiss your charming mouth and eyes.
Of all men of great good fortune,
Who is happier or more fortunate than me?
I was idling in the Forum when my friend Varus
Saw me and led me off to the home of his lover,
A little tart (as she immediately struck me),
Though not obviously inelegant or lacking in charm.
When we arrived here we got lost in conversation,
One topic, then another, such as what Bithynia
Was like today, and how it had gone,
And how much profit it had made me.
I told it as it was – it brought nothing for the natives
Or the praetors or the cohort,
Which was why no one’s head was any glossier –
Particularly for those who had a fuckwit as a praetor,
Who split not a hair over his entourage.
‘But surely,’ they said, ‘You procured litter-bearers there,
Which they say are native to the region.’
To make myself singularly more attractive to the girl
I said, ‘Although it was a bad province
Things did not go so badly for me
That I could not obtain eight straight-backed boys.’
(But in fact I had no one from here or there
Who could lift even the broken foot of an old bed
Onto his shoulders.) And she, as sluttier girls will, said,
‘Will you lend them to me a while, dear Catullus,
I want to take a ride to Serapis.’
‘Wait,’ I told her,
‘What I said I had a moment ago …
My mind flew – my friend,
Gaius, Cinna – obtained them as his own.
But what difference does it make if they’re mine or his?
I use them as if I bought them myself,
But you, you are so vulgar and meddlesome
That I can’t be off my guard at all!’
Furius and Aurelius, you are my friends.
Should Catullus penetrate furthest India,
Where the shore is pounded by the far-
Resounding wave of Oceanus in the East,
Or reach the Hyrcani and effeminate Arabs,
Or the Sacae or arrow-bearing Parthians,
Or Egypt where waters from the
Seven-mouthed Nile spread their colour.
Or should he step over the high Alps
As he visits the monuments of great Caesar,
The Gallic Rhine, and terrifying
And far-off Britons –
All of which, and whatever else the will
Of the gods may bring, you are ready
To attempt together;
Deliver a few words, unpleasant ones,
To my girl:
May she live and flourish with her lovers,
Three hundred of whom she holds in a single embrace,
Loving none truly but repeatedly breaking
All their balls;
And may she not expect my love as she did before,
Which through her fault has fallen like a flower
On the edge of a meadow, touched
By a plough passing by.
Asinius Marrucinus, you put bad use to
Your left hand when you filch the napkins
Of people who are distracted by laughter and wine.
Do you think it witty?
Then sense eludes you, you are out of touch:
It is as low and charmless a deed as can be.
Don’t you believe me? Then believe Pollio,
Your brother, who would be happy to pay
A talent to end your thievery, for he is a boy
Who brims with grace and wit.
So either be prepared for three hundred rude verses
Or send me back my napkin –
It’s not the value of it that bothers me,
But the fact it is a memento of my friendship.
For my Fabullus and Veranius
Sent me Saetabis napkins as a gift from Spain
So I must love them as I do my
Little Veranius and Fabullus.
You will dine well chez moi, my Fabullus
In a few days, gods willing –
But only if you bring with you a tasty big
Dinner – and don’t forget a sparkling girl
And wine and salt and all the laughter.
If you bring these, as I say, my charmer,
You will dine well. For the wallet
Of your Catullus is full of cobwebs.
In return you will have unadulterated sex
Or whatever is more luscious or refined:
For I will give you the scent that
The Venuses and Cupids gave my girl,
And when you smell it, you will ask the gods
To make you, Fabullus, all nose.
If I did not love you more than my own eyes,