The Carmina of Caius Valerius Catullus. Gaius Valerius Catullus

      As thou (Colony!) grant me boon of mightiest laughter.

      Certain a townsman mine I'd lief see thrown from thy gangway

      Hurlèd head over heels precipitous whelmed in the quagmire,

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      Where the lake and the boglands are most rotten and stinking,

      Deepest and lividest lie, the swallow of hollow voracious.

      Witless surely the wight whose sense is less than of boy-babe

      Two-year-old and a-sleep on trembling forearm of father.

      He though wedded to girl in greenest bloom of her youth-tide,

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      (Bride-wife daintier bred than ever was delicate kidlet,

      Worthier diligent watch than grape-bunch blackest and ripest)

      Suffers her sport as she please nor rates her even at hair's worth,

      Nowise 'stirring himself, but lying log-like as alder

      Felled and o'er floating the fosse of safe Ligurian woodsman,

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      Feeling withal, as though such spouse he never had own'd;

      So this marvel o' mine sees naught, and nothing can hear he,

      What he himself, an he be or not be, wholly unknowing.

      Now would I willingly pitch such wight head first fro' thy bridge,

      Better a-sudden t'arouse that numskull's stolid old senses,

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      Or in the sluggish mud his soul supine to deposit

      Even as she-mule casts iron shoe where quagmire is stiffest.

      O Colonia, that longest to disport thyself on a long bridge and art prepared for the dance, but that fearest the trembling legs of the bridgelet builded on re-used shavings, lest supine it may lie stretched in the hollow swamp; may a good bridge take its place designed to thy fancy, on which e'en the Salian dances may be sustained: for the which grant to me, Colonia, greatest of gifts glee-exciting. Such an one, townsman of mine, I want from thy bridge to be pitched in the sludge head over heels, right where the lake of all its stinking slime is dankest and most superfluent—a deep-sunk abyss. The man is a gaping gaby! lacking the sense of a two-years-old baby dozing on its father's cradling arm. Although to him is wedded a girl flushed with springtide's bloom (and a girl more dainty than a tender kid, meet to be watched with keener diligence than the lush-black grape-bunch), he leaves her to sport at her list, cares not a single hair, nor bestirs himself with marital office, but lies as an alder felled by Ligurian hatchet in a ditch, as sentient of everything as though no woman were at his side. Such is my booby! he sees not, he hears naught. Who himself is, or whether he be or be not, he also knows not. Now I wish to chuck him head first from thy bridge, so as to suddenly rouse (if possible) this droning dullard and to leave behind in the sticky slush his sluggish spirit, as a mule casts its iron shoe in the tenacious slough.

      XVIII.