Catullus 64, lines 50-253

This coverlet, embroidered with the ancient figures of men, displays the virtues of heroes with wonderful skill. For, looking out from the resounding shore of Dia, Ariadne sees Theseus leaving with his swift fleet, carrying fierce madness in her heart, nor yet does she believe she sees what she sees. No wonder, since she awoke herself from deceitful sleep, she sees herself deserted, wretched, lonely. But the forgetful youth strikes the shoals with his oar, leaving vain promises to the windy storm. Who, far off, the sad daughter of Minos with sad eyes gazes out of the seaweed (i.e. from the beach) and sees like a rock effigy of a Bacchant. Alas, she looks out and is thrown about in great waves of care, not holding a fine-spun headdress on her blond head, not covered at her (once) veiled chest with a light cloak, not bound at her milky breast with a smooth band, all of which, having slipped from her whole body everywhere, the waves of salt were playing with before her feet. That ruined woman, caring for the plight neither then for her headdress nor then for her flowing cloak was hanging from you in her whole heart, spirit, and mind, Theseus.

(71) Ah, wretched woman, whom Erycina, sowing thorny cares in her heart, maddened with constant sorrows, from that time when wild Theseus, having left from the curved shores of Piraeus, touched the Gortynian temples of the unjust king. For they say that, once upon a time, compelled by a cruel plague to pay for the slaughter of Androgeon, Athens as custom gave a feast of chosen youths and the glory of maidens to the Minotaur. Because the narrow walls were vexed with which bad things, Theseus himself chose to offer his own body for dear Athens rather than such funerals not-yet-funerals of Athens be carried to Crete. And thus pressing onwards with his light ship and with gentle breezes, he came to great-hearted Minos and his arrogant house. As soon as the royal maiden saw this man with her longing eye—whom her chaste little bed breathing out with sweet smells used to nourish in the soft embrace of her mother—such as the myrtles encircle the rivers of Eurota or golden spring leads out varied colors—she did not lower her burning eyes from that man before she deeply caught the flame in her whole body and wholly she burned in her inmost marrows.

(94) Alas, holy boy, wretchedly stirring up furies in his cruel heart, you who mix joys with the cares of men, and you who rule Golgi and leafy Idalium, with what waves you tossed the girl, burning in mind, often sighing over her blond guest! What great fears that woman bore in her weary heart! By how much more than the gleam of gold did she often blush when Theseus, desiring to strive against the savage monster, sought either death or the prizes of praise! Yet promising not unwelcome small presents to the gods she took vows on silent lip in vain. For as an unconquerable wind twisting the trunk with its breeze tears out an oak shaking its branches on the summit of Taurus or a cone-bearing pine with its sweating bark (that one, torn out at the roots, falls prone, far, breaking widely whatever is in its way), thus Theseus lays low the savage thing with its body conquered, throwing its horns in vain to the empty winds. Thence the safe one turned back his step with much praise, ruling steps prone-to-wandering with a thin thread, lest the untraceable wanderings of the maze deceive the one departing out of the labyrinth’s winding.

(116) But why, having digressed from my first song, should I recall more, how the daughter leaving the face of her father, (how) the embrace of her sister (how) finally of her mother, who used to rejoice over her wretched daughter, preferred the sweet love of Theseus to all these; or how, carried on a boat, she came to the foamy shores of Dia; or how her departing husband with his forgetful heart left her bound in the eyes by sleep? Often they say that that one, raging in her burning heart, poured resounding words out of her inmost heart, and then sadly she climbed up the sheer mountains, thence she extended her gaze over the vast swells of the sea; then she ran forward into the opposing waves of the trembling sea, lifting her soft clothes to her bare calf, and sadly she said these thing as her last laments, raising cold sobs with her wet mouth:

(132) “Thus have you left me, carried away from paternal altars, faithless one, on a deserted shore, deceitful Theseus? Leaving thus, with the power of the gods having been neglected—alas, forgetful one! Do you carry false vows home? Was nothing able to bend the plan of your cruel mind? Is there no mercy present in you, that your cruel heart wanted to pity me? But you did not give these promises to me with your flattering voice, you did not order wretched (me) to hope for these things, but for happy marriages, but for desired weddings, which the airy winds snatch away all in vain. Now, now let no woman believe a man making promises, let no woman hope that the words of a man are faithful; for whom, which the desiring mind yearns to reach anything, they fear to swear nothing, they forebear to promise nothing, but as soon as the desire of their desiring mind is satisfied, they fear their words not at all; they care not at all about perjuries. Certainly I snatched you in the middle of the whirlpool of death, and I chose to lose a brother rather than abandon deceitful you in your final hour. For which I will be given to be destroyed by wild animals and as booty for the birds, and, dead, I will not be buried with tossed-on earth.

(154) “What lioness bore you under a lonely cliff? What sea spat you out, conceived, into the foam of the waves? What Syrtis, what grasping Scylla, what vast Charybdis, you who return such prizes for my sweet life? If our marriage had not been pleasing to you because you were dreading savage orders of an old-fashioned parent, but yet you were able to lead me into your abode(s), who, as a servant, might have served you in sweet labor, caressing your white feet with liquid water or strewing your bed with a purple cloth. But why should I lament in vain to the ignorant winds, crazed with evil, which, enhanced with no senses, are able neither to hear nor to return sent voices? Moreover that one is turned in the middle of the waves about now, nor does any mortal appear on the empty seaweed (i.e. beach). Thus fierce chance, boasting too much in my last moment, envies even its ear to our complaints. All powerful Jove, would that Cecropian ships had not touched Cretan shores in the first place; and that the false sailor, bearing harsh tributes for the unconquerable bull, had not untied his rope in Crete; and that this evil guest, hiding his cruel plans with a sweet form, had not rested in our house!

(177) “To what place should I carry myself back? On what hope should I, ruined, rely? Should I seek the mountains of Ida? But the ferocious water of the sea, cutting off with a wide whirlpool, divides (us). Or should I hope for he help of a father? Whom I myself left with my brothers slaughter, having followed a young man? Or am I to consol myself with the faithful love of a spouse? (The one) who flees, bending pliant oars in the surge? Besides this lonely island is inhabited by no home, nor does an exit lay open with the waves of the ocean encircling. There is no means of flight, no hope: everything is silent; everything is deserted; everything offers death. Yet my eyes will not weaken with death, my senses will not withdraw from my body before I, betrayed, demand much justice from the gods and implore the faith of the gods in my final hour. Wherefore, o Eumenides, penalizing the deeds of men with avenging punishment, whose foreheads, wreathed with snaky hair carries before (themselves) breathing angers of their hearts, here, come here, hear my complaints, which I, alas miserable, am compelled to bring forth from my last marrows, powerless, burning, blind with mad fury. Which, because they are born true from my inmost heart, do not allow our grief to vanish, but with what sort of mind Theseus left me alone—with just such a mind, goddess, let him destroy both himself and his own.”

(202) After she poured forth these words from her sad heart, anxiously demanding punishment for these savage deeds, the ruler of the gods with his unconquerable power nodded: with which motion the earth and bristling waters trembled and the universe shook with twinkling stars. Theseus himself, moreover, having sown his mind with dark mist sent away everything from his forgetful heart with commands formerly held in his constant mind and, not raising sweet signs to his sad father, did not show that he safely saw the port of Erechtheus. For they say once upon a time, when Aegeus entrusted his son to the winds, leaving the walls of the goddess with his fleet, he, having been embraced, gave such commands to the youth:

(215) “My only son, more pleasant to me than long life; son, whom I am compelled to send into uncertain chances, returned recently to me at the very end of old age, since my fortune and your passionate courage have snatched you from unwilling me, whose weak eyes are not yet saturated with the dear figure of my son, I will not send you rejoicing with a happy heart, not allow you to bear the signs of favorable fortune, but first I will reveal the many complains in my mind, polluting my white hair with earth and poured on dust, thence I will hang dyed sails from the wandering mast, so that the canvas, darkened with Spanish iron oxide, will declare our sorrows and the agonies of our mind. But if the inhabitant of sacred Itonus, who agrees to defend out race and the houses of Erechtheus, allows you to sprinkle your right hand with the blood of a bull, then indeed make it so that these orders flourish, preserved in your mindful heart. Nor let any age obliterate them, so that as soon as your eyes see our hills, let the yardarms put down the funereal cloth everywhere, and let the twisted ropes raise the white sails, so that, as soon as discerning, I will recognize joys with a happy mind when a fortunate age presents you returning.”

(238) These orders left Theseus, previously holding (them) in his steadfast mind, like the clouds pushed by a swirl of the winds left the airy peak of a snowy mountain. But his father, seeking a view from the highest citadel, wasting his anxious eyes in continuous tears, as soon as he saw the sheets of the dyed sail, threw himself headlong from the peak of the cliffs, believing Theseus lost to his cruel fate. Thus fierce Theseus, having entered his house roofs polluted with paternal death, himself recovered such grief as he had presented with his forgetful mind to the daughter of Minos, who then, looking out at receding keel, sad (and) wounded was turning over many cares in her mind. But flourishing Bacchus was flying from another direction with a band of satyrs and Sileni born at Nysa, seeking you, Ariadne, and roused with love of you.

Horace Satire 1.9

I was going by chance on the Via Sacra, as is my custom, contemplating some (of) trifles; wholly in those. A certain man known to me only by name runs up to me and, my hand having been grabbed, (says) “How are you, sweetest of things?” I say, “Pleasantly as it now is, and I desire all which you want.”

(6) When he follows, “Surely you do not want anything?” I take the lead, but that one says, “That you get to know us; we are learned.”

Here I say, “By this you will be more to me,” seeking pitifully to leave, just now I go more quickly, at times I stop, I say something in my boy’s ear, because sweat is flowing to the bottom of my ankles. “O Bolanus, you are lucky in your anger,” I was saying quietly, because that man was chattering whatever; he was praising the neighborhoods, the city.

(14) As I was saying nothing back to that one, he says, “You want to go terribly; I have seen that for a long time. But you will do nothing; I will hold you all the way. I will follow you hither, to where now your journey is.”

“There is no need for you to be lead around: I want to see a certain man not known to you; this man lies ill far across the Tiber, near the gardens of Caesar.”

(19) “I have nothing which I might do, and I am not lazy: I will follow you.” I reluctantly turned down my ears like a young donkey of a discontented frame of mind when he has undertaken a too heavy burden on his back.

That one begins, “If I know myself well, you will make not Viscus, not Varius a friend of more value: for who can write more verses than me, or faster? Who (can) move their limbs more gently? Even Hermogenes might envy what I sing.”

(26) This was the spot for interrupting, “Have you a mother (or) relatives, for whom there is need of you in good health?” “I haven’t anyone at all; I have buried everyone.”

“The lucky ones! Now I remain. Finish (me)! For a sad fate presses upon me, which an old Sabine woman, her prophetic urn having been shaken, sang to me as a boy: neither terrible poisons not an enemy’s sword will carry off this one, nor a pain of the lungs or a cough, nor a slow gout: a talkative man will destroy this one at some time or another. He will avoid the talkative, if he is wise, as soon as his age has reached its peak.”

(35) It had been come to (the temple) of Vesta, already the fourth part of the day having passed by, and then he was obliged to respond to the plaintiff in an accident, which unless he did (he must) loose the lawsuit. “If you love me, “ he says, “be here for me a while.”

“May I die if either I am strong enough to stand or know civil law, and you know to where I hurry.” He says, “I am uncertain what to do. Will I leave you or my case.” “Me, please.” That one (said) and began to press on. I follow, as it is hard to contend with the winner.

(43) Hence he resumes, “How is Maecenas with you? (He is) of few men and of quite sane mind; no one has used his luck more skillfully. You would have a great helper, one who can bear the second (roles), if you should be willing to introduce this man. May I die unless you might have banished all (others).”

“We do not live there in such a way, (as) by which you suppose. And there is not any purer house than this one, nor one more alien to these evils. It does not impede me at all, I say, because this one is richer or more learned: his own place for each one is.”

(52) “You tell a great, scarcely believable (tale).” “Thus it is nevertheless.” “You inflame (the reason) whereby I wish more to be right next to that man.” “You would wish it only: such (lit. which) is your excellence and you will overcome who can be overcome, and therefore a difficult approach manages men first.”

“I will not fail myself: I will bribe his servants with gifts; if I am shut out today, I will not quit; I will look for opportunities, I will meet (him) in the crossroads, I will escort (him). Life gives nothing to mortals without great effort.”

(61) While he delivers these (words), behold! Fuscus Aristius turns up, (one) dear to me and who knows that man beautifully. We stop. “Whence do you come?” and “To where do you proceed?” he asks and responds. I began to tug at and press his softest arms with my hand, nodding, twisting my eyes this way and that to rescue me. The wickedly witty man, laughing, pretends not to notice and bile burns my liver: “Certainly you were saying to (lit. with) me that you wanted to mention something secretly.”

“You remember well, but I will speak at a better time: today is the thirtieth Sabbath. Do you want to fart in the face of the circumcised Jews?” I say, “Religion is nothing to me.” “But to me! I am a little weaker, (I am) one of many. You will forgive (me); I will talk at another time.”

(72) That this so black a sun rose for me! The unprincipled man flees and leaves me under the knife. The plaintiff in his case comes to confront that man and calls out in a loud voice, “Where to, you most foul fellow?” and “Is it permitted to call (you) as witness?” I indeed proffer my ear. He snatches (him) into court. A shout on both sides, everywhere a running to and fro. Thus Apollo saved me.

Catullus 116

Often seeking with an eagerly hunting mind to be able to send you the songs of the son of Battus, with which I might soften you for us and lest you try to send hostile missiles up against my head, I see now that this labor was taken up in vain, Gellius, and that our prayers here were not influential. We will avoid your missiles sent against us: but, affixed by ours, you will pay the penalty.

Catullus 109

My life, you promise that this our love between us will be sweet and everlasting. Great gods, make it so she can promise truly and that she says this sincerely and from the heart, so that it be allowed to us our whole life to lead forth this eternal compact of holy love.

Catullus 101

Having been carried through many nations and through many seas I arrive at these wretched offerings to the dead, brother, to honor you with the last gift of death and to speak in vain to silent ash, since fortune has stolen you yourself from me, alas poor brother unworthily stolen from me. Now yet under these circumstances, receive these, dripping much with fraternal weeping, which have been handed down by ancient custom of our parents as a sad gift for the death rites, and forever, brother, hail and farewell.

Catullus 96

If anything welcome or pleasing to mute graves can occur from our grief, by which longing we revive old loves and lament once lost friendships, certainly untimely death is not so much a pain to Quintilia as much as she rejoices in your love.

Catullus 87

No woman can call herself as truly loved as my Lesbia has been loved by me. No faith in any contract has ever been so great as has been found on my part in my love for you.

Catullus 86

Quintia to many is beautiful. To me she is fair, tall, and straight-limbed: I admit these individual points. I deny that this whole is beautiful: for there is no grace, no grain of wit in so great a body. Lesbia is beautiful, who not only is wholly very pretty but also, one girl, has stolen all the charms from everyone (else).

Catullus 85

I hate and I love. How do I do this, perhaps you ask. I do not know, but I feel it happening, and I am tortured.

Catullus 84

Arrius used to say “hadvantages” if ever he wanted to say “advantages,” and “hambushes” for “ambushes,” and then was hoping that he had spoken wondrously, when he had said “hambushes” as much as he was able. Thus his mother, thus his free uncle, thus his maternal grandfather and grandmother had spoken, I believe. This one having been sent into Syria, the ears of everyone had rested: they were hearing these same things softly and smoothly. Nor afterwards were they fearing such words for themselves when suddenly a terrible message is brought, the Ionian Sea, after Arrius had gone there, now is not the “Ionian” but the Hionian.”

Catullus 77

Rufus, to no purpose and in vain believed by me a friend--to no purpose? more correctly with great price and evil--thus have you stolen upon me and, burning my vitals, have you stolen from this wretch all our good (things)? You have stolen (them), alas, alas, cruel poison of our life, alas, alas, curse of our friendship.

Catullus 76

If there is any pleasure for a man remembering previous benefits, when he thinks that he is pious, that he has not dishonored sacred faith nor in any contract has abused the will of the gods to deceive men, many joys remain for you in a long life, Catullus, prepared from this thankless love. For whatever men can say or do well for anyone, these have been both said and done by you: all of which have died, entrusted to an ungrateful mind. Therefore, why now do you torture yourself further? Why do you not persevere in spirit and thence both lead yourself back and cease to be wretched with the gods unwilling? It is hard to put aside a long love suddenly; it is hard, but let yourself do this in whatever (way) you will. This is your one safety, this must be completely conquered by you; let yourself do this whether it is possible or not possible. O gods, if it is yours to pity, or if ever you have brought final help to anyone already amidst death itself, look at wretched me and, if I have lead life innocently, snatch this disease and destruction from me, which, creeping into my inmost limbs like a numbness, has driven out the joys from my whole heart. Now I do not ask for that which is not possible, that that woman esteems me in return or that she wants to be chaste: I myself wish to be strong and to lay to rest this foul illness. O gods, give this to me for my piety!

Catullus 72

You once used to say that you knew only Catullus, Lesbia, and that (you) did not want to hold Jove before me. I esteemed you then not only as a the rabble his lover but as a father values his sons and sons-in-law. Now I know you: therefore even if I burn more exceedingly, you are yet much cheaper and more trivial to me. How can this be, you ask? Because such a wrong compels a lover to love more but wish less well.

Catullus 70

My woman says that she prefers to wed no one than me, not if Jupiter himself would seek her. She says: but what a woman says to a desiring lover she ought to write in wind and swift water.

Catullus 69

Do not wonder, Rufus, why no woman wants to place her soft thigh under you, not if you loosen that one with a gift of a fine garment or luxuries of transparent stone. A certain evil tale hurts you, in which it is said a savage goat lives under the vale of your upper arms. Everyone fears this, and no wonder: for the beast is very evil, and the sort with which a pretty girl does not lie. Therefore either kill the harsh curse of noses or cease to wonder why they flee.

Catullus 68, lines 1-40

The fact that, overwhelmed by fate and bitter calamity, you sent this little letter written with tears that I might lift (you) up, shipwrecked, tossed out by the foaming waves of the sea, and bring (you) back from the threshold of death, whom abandoned in a celibate bed neither holy Venus endures to rest in soft sleep nor the Muses delight with the sweet song of the old writers when your anxious mind keeps vigil: this is pleasing to me, because you call me a friend to you and you seek the gifts of both the Muses and of Venus from this (source). But lest my own setbacks be unknown to you, Manius, and lest you think that I hate the duty of a guest, receive by which waves of fortune I myself am plunged lest you seek happy gifts from one more wretched. At which time the white garment was first handed to me, when the flowery age delivered a pleasant spring, I played plenty enough: the goddess, who mixes sweet bitterness with cares, is not unaware of us. But fraternal death has stolen this whole enthusiasm with its grief. O brother, stolen from wretched me, you, dying, you have broken my rewards, brother, our whole home has been buried together with you, all our joys have died together with you, which your sweet love used to nourish in life. At whose death, I put to flight from my whole mind these pursuits and all pleasures of the spirit. Therefore what you write, (that it is) shameful for Catullus to be in Verona, because here whoever from the better known (race) warms cold limbs in an empty bed, this Manius is not shameful, more—it is wretched. You will forgive, therefore, if I do not assign these gifts, which grief steals from me, to you when I cannot. For, as for the fact that there is not a great plenty of writings with me, this happens because we live at Rome: that is home, that is my residence, there my age is consumed; hither one little book casket from many follows me. Although this (lit. which) is so, I would not want you to decide that I do this from a spiteful mind or with a not generous enough spirit, because not enough of either (poetry) has been provided to you asking: I would offer voluntarily if there were any abundance.

Catullus 65

Although care calls me, finished by continual grief from the learned maidens, Ortalus, and the thought of my mind cannot bring out the sweet offspring of the Muses, by such great evils is it itself in turmoil—for the flowing wave from Lethe’s recent surge besets the pale foot of my brother, whom Trojan land on Rhoeteum’s shore crushes stolen from our eyes. Will I never afterward see you, brother more loveable than life? But certainly I will always love (you), I will always sing sad songs about your death, such as Daulias (Procne) sings under the dense shadows of the branches, lamenting the fate(s) of squandered Itylus. But yet in such great laments, Ortalus, I send you these translated lines of the son of Battus (Callimachus), lest you think your words have slipped from my mind, entrusted in vain to the wandering winds, as an apple, sent as secret gift of her promised runs from the chaste lap of the maiden, which is shaken out, placed under the soft cloak of the forgetful wretch, while she jumps up at the arrival of her mother, and that is pushed headlong with a downward course; a guilty blush remains on this one’s sad face.

Horace Ode 2.14

Alas Postumus, the swift years slip by, Postumus, nor will piety convey delay to wrinkles and pressing old age and unconquerable death: not if, however many days pass, friend, you would appease with three hundred bulls inexorable Pluto, who imprisons three full Geryon and Tityon with his sad wave to be crossed certainly by all, whoever feeds on the offering of the earth, whether kings or poor colonists we will be. In vain we will be free from bloody Mars and broken waves of the raucous Adriadic, in vain through the autumns we will fear the south wind harmful to bodies: black Cocytos must be seen wandering with its languid flow and the notorious offspring of Danaus and Sisyphus, son of Aeolus, sentenced to (lit. of) long labor: the earth must be left and our home and pleasing wife, nor of these trees which you tend except the hated cypresses will any follow you, their brief master: a worthier heir will use up the Caecuban protected by a hundred keys and he will stain your pavement with proud pure wine, too strong for the meals of priests.

Horace Ode 2.10

You will live more rightly, Licinius, by not always pressing the deep nor by hugging too much the uneven shore while you prudently bristle at the storms. Whoever approves the golden mean, safely lacks the filth of a dilapidated house, soberly lacks enviable palace. The huge pine is shaken more savagely by the winds, and lofty turrets topple in ruin with a heavier fall, and lightening strikes highest mountains. The well prepared heart hopes in hostile (times), fears the other lot in favorable (times). Jupiter brings back hideous winters, he likewise removes (them). If (it goes) badly now, it will not one day also be so. One day Apollo rouses the Muse being silent with his lyre and does not always stretch his bow. In poor affairs appear bold and brave; wisely you likewise will draw back swollen sails in a too favorable wind.

Horace Ode 2.7

O often lead at the final monent with me with Brutus as leader of the campaign, who restored you as a Quiritis to paternal gods and the Italian sky, Pompeius, first of my comrades? With whom I often broke the lingering day with wine, wreathed (in respect to) my hair with Syrian ointment-plant. With you I knew Philippi and swift flight, my little shield having been not well left behind, when courage broke and threatening ones touched the base ground with the chin. But swift Mercury lifted me fearful in a dense cloud through the enemies; a wave swallowing you down again into the war bore (you) in boiling seas. Therefore render the feast owed to Jove and lay down a side weary from long campaign under my laurel, nor spare the jars arranged for you. Fill the light drinking-cup with Massic causing forgetfulness; pour perfumed oils from spacious shells. Who undertakes to hasten for garlands of moist celery and myrtle? Whom will Venus designate overseer of the drinking? I shall revel not more sanely than Edonians: with my friend recovered it is sweet for me to be wild.

Horace Ode 2.3

Remember to keep an even spirit in difficult matters, not otherwise in good (times a spirit) held from immoderate joy, Delius, soon to die, whether you live sad at every moment or you delight yourself in distant meadow, bent back with familiar Falernian from within (the cellar) through feast days. To what do the huge pine and white poplar love to join hospitable shade with their branches? Why does the swift water strive to waver with slanting stream? Order (them) to bear here the wine and perfumed oils and too brief flowers of the charming rose, while means and age and the black thread of the three sisters allow. You will yield purchased glades and home and the farmhouse which the yellow Tiber washes; you will yield and your heir will posses your riches piled high. Whether you linger under the sky (lit. god) rich (and) born from ancient Inachus or poor and from the lowest race is no difference (when you are) a victim of Orcus pitying nothing. We are all gathered to the same (place), the lot of all later (or) sooner is turned about to leave from the urn and about to put us on a skiff for eternal exile.

Horace Ode 1.38

I hate Persian trapping, boy, crowns woven with linden displease (me); cease to pursue where of places the late rose delays. I attentively care (that) you trouble not at all over the simple myrtle: the myrtle disgraces neither you as attendant nor me drinking under the compact vine.

Horace Ode 1.37

Now it is time to drink, now it is time the earth be struck with a free foot, now it was time to burden the couch of the gods with Salian feasts, comrades. Before this it was wrong to draw off Caecuban from the ancestral cellars, while the queen was preparing mad ruins for the Capitoline and destruction for (our) power with her polluted flock of men foul with shame, mad to hope for anything and drunk with sweet fortune. But hardly one ship safe from the fires lessened her madness, and Caesar reduced her mind frenzied with Mareotic (wine) into true fears, with his oars pressing on her flying from Italy swiftly as a soft dove or the swift hunter a hare in the snowy plains of Haemonia, to give the destructive monster over to chains; who, seeking to die more nobly, neither became frightened of the sword like a woman nor sought the shores with her swift fleet; having dared both to see the fallen palace with a calm face and to draw up the harsh serpents bravely, to drink in the dark poison with her body, fiercer by her determined death, begrudging to be lead as a private (citizen) by savage Liburnians for a proud triumph, not as a humble woman.

Horace Ode 1.25

Wild young men more sparingly shake (your) closed windows with thick blows, nor do they deny you sleep, Lydia, and the door loves the threshold which easily before used to move a lot; you hear less and less now “Lydia, with me, yours, dying, do you sleep the long nights?” In turn as a thin old woman you will weep for your arrogant adulterers in the lonely ally, with the Thracian wind raging more under the new moon, when burning love and lust will savage around your ulcerous liver, which is accustomed to madden the mothers of horses, not without complaint that the happy youth rejoices more in green ivy and blackish myrtle; she will commit dry leaves to the East Wind, companion of winter.

Horace Ode 1.24

What shame or measure is there to desire for so dear a head? Teach mourning songs, Melpomene, to whom the father gave a pure voice with the lyre. Now a perpetual sleep presses Quintilius! When will Decency, and the sister of Justice, incorruptible Faith, and naked Truth ever see an equal to him (lit. whom)? That man fell wept by many good men, more wept for by no one than by you, Vergil. You, pious in vain—alas—ask the gods for Quintilius not thus entrusted. What if you, more pleasantly than Thracian Orpheus, should tune a song heard by the trees, would blood then return to the empty ghost, which once and for all with his frightful staff Mercury drove to his black herd? It is not to open fates with soft prayers. It is hard: but whatever is wrong to set right, let it become easier by the suffering.

Horace Ode 1.23

You avoid me like a fawn, Chloe, seeking her frightened mother in trackless mountains not without empty fear of the breezes and woods. For whether the arrival of spring bristled with shifting leaves or the green lizards parted the bramble, she trembles both in heart and knees. But no harsh tiger of Gaetulian lion do I follow to break you: cease finally following (your) mother, (you are) ready for a man.

Horace Ode 1.22

One whole of life and pure of evil does not need Maurian spears nor a bow nor quiver heavy with poisoned arrows, Fuscus, whether he is about to make a journey through sweltering Syrtes or inhospitable Caucasus or which places the fabled Hydaspes laps. For a wolf fled me though unharmed in the Sabine forest while I sang (lit. sing) my Lalage and wandered (lit. wanders) beyond the boundary with cares disengaged, such a monster as neither warlike Daunia feeds in wide oak woods nor the land of Iuba begets, dry nurse of lions. Put me in dull fields where no tree is refreshed by summer breeze, which side of the world the clouds and evil Jupiter presses; put (me) under a chariot of too close a sun in a land refusing homes: I will love Lelage sweetly laughing, sweetly speaking.

Catullus 49

Marcus Tullius, most elegant of the descendants of Romulus, as many are and as many were and as many will be in other years, Catullus gives you greatest thanks, the worst poet of all, as much the worst poet of all as you are the best patron of all.