VIII. THE STIFF UPPER LIP (To Lesbia, by Valerius Catullus

Poor Catullus! Cease your madness!
Realise that love is dead.
Once your days were gay with gladness
As you followed where she led.

Never will another lady
Know such great abiding love:
In those gardens, cool and shady,
With the bright blue sky above.

Did you voice your burning passion
As you whiled the hours away,
And your lady, in her fashion,
Lured you on, nor said you nay?

Now, her lovely self denying,
Cease to seek her, cease to mourn;
Turn your thought away from dying,
Slave of passion, all forlorn!

Be courageous in your sorrow.
Bear your loss with constant mind.
Haply you will meet to-morrow
Someone else as sweet and kind.

Farewell, Lady! Now your poet,
Strong once more, resumes his task.
He'll not seek you; now you know it,
Nor your languid favours ask!

Some day you'll be sad and lonely -
What remains in life for you?
None will think you lovely - only
Fear the things they know you do.

Who would take the love you offer?
No man's mistress will you be!
And, Catullus, though she proffer
Peace, stand firm in enmity!

English verse by
J.A.B. HARRISSON MBE DSC (1909-1983)

VII. HOW MANY KISSES?

Lesbia, you often ask
How many kisses, light as air,
Lovely, tender little kisses
Are sufficient and to spare.

As many as the sands afar
Between the oracle of Jove
And Battus' tomb in Libya:
As many as the stars above.

Which, when the peace of even falls,
Behold the secret loves of men,
For mad Catullus are enough
As many kisses and again.

Which Peeping Thomas may not count,
So swiftly do they flutter by,
And lying tongues, which seek to harm,
Though jealous, may not falsify!

XLIII. AN UNFLATTERING PORTRAIT

My service to you, lady!
Why, your nose is far from small;
Your feet are hardly graceful,
and your eyes aren't black at all,
Your fingers do not taper
and your lips are never dry,
And I never heard such language,
heaven smite me if I lie!

So you, a bankrupt's light o'love,
are thought as chaste and fair
As is my lady Lesbia,
whose charm's beyond compare!
That's what they think in far Provence?
It makes it clear to me
What tasteless, senseless,
witless fools the people there must be!

Poor Catullus! Cease your madness!
Realise that love is dead.
Once your days were gay with gladness
As you followed where she led.

Never will another lady
Know such great abiding love:
In those gardens, cool and shady,
With the bright blue sky above.

Did you voice your burning passion
As you whiled the hours away,
And your lady, in her fashion,
Lured you on, nor said you nay?

Now, her lovely self denying,
Cease to seek her, cease to mourn;
Turn your thought away from dying,
Slave of passion, all forlorn!

Be courageous in your sorrow.
Bear your loss with constant mind.
Haply you will meet to-morrow
Someone else as sweet and kind.

Farewell, Lady! Now your poet,
Strong once more, resumes his task.
He'll not seek you; now you know it,
Nor your languid favours ask!

Some day you'll be sad and lonely -
What remains in life for you?
None will think you lovely - only
Fear the things they know you do.

Who would take the love you offer?
No man's mistress will you be!
And, Catullus, though she proffer
Peace, stand firm in enmity!

LI. A LOVE-LETTER

He seems to me to be akin to God -
Greater than God indeed, if such may be,
Who, sitting always at thy side may hear,
And ever and again may look at thee.
The music of thy laughter! All my mind
Is ravished, Lesbia! Nought of me is left
Do I but look at thee! My limbs aflame
With films of fire, my very tongue bereft
Of speech; my ears ring with strange melodies,
Not of this earth, nor yet of azure skies,
And night, dark night, with double gloom descends,
And closes swiftly o'er my dazzled eyes!

LXX. AN EPIGRAM

My girl-friend says there's nobody
That she would rather wed
Than me, though Jupiter himself
Came panting to her bed.

That's what she says, but certain 'tis
Avowals of Eve's daughters
Should written be upon the wind,
Or swiftly flowing waters!

LXXII. TO LESBIA, IN DOUBT

You used to say, oh, long ago!
The only man you wished to know
Was your Catullus; that your grace
Would never yield to Jove's embrace.
I loved you then, not as a lover,
But as a parent may discover
Love for his sons or sons-in-law;
I now know what in times before
I did not know. My passion's flame
Flares up more wildly. All the same,
You poor, deluded, worthless thing,
Of you I cannot help but sing!
And why? Such treatment fans the fire
Of passion, but it chills desire!

LXXV. THE PRICE OF TREACHERY

There's none, my Lesbia, can say
That she was ever loved so well
As you have been from day to day
By me, and truly I can tell
Not so much faith was manifest
In any compact ever signed
As in the love that fills my breast:
Yet to this pass you bring my mind
With thinking of your treachery
That in devotion it is lost,
Though bedded in uncertainty,
A wandering vessel, tempest-tossed.
I neither like you now, though you
Should faultless be - Oh! gods above!
Do as you please - nor, it is true,
Can I desist from hopeless love!

LXXVI. A DEAD DESIRE

I suppose it must be true that man takes pleasure
Remembering good deeds that he has done,
Considering his conduct as a treasure -
No promise broken - not a single one -
No god's commandment to him ever broken.
No fellow-man deceived in any fashion;
For you, Catullus, yet is many a token
Of pleasure from your ill-requited passion.
For all the kindness man can show to any
In word or deed, that you have done, I find:
Your kindly words and deeds have been so many -
Yet vainly lavished on a thankless mind,
Why not desist from further bitter scourging
Yourself? Resolve to banish all delusion;
Cease to be sad, defying heaven's urging;
Withdraw yourself completely from illusion.
Ah yes! it's hard, I know, the sudden parting
From one whose voice like bells of heaven sings,
But you must do so. Come now, let's be starting -
Work out how you may best accomplish things.
For your own safety's sake you have to do it -
Impossible or not, it must be done:
O gods above! Have pity! Help me through it
From bitter start to when the goal is won!
Preserve me from this plague, this desolation
(If you consider that my life's been pure
Enough). Oh, save me from a situation
That rots me from within, and now, for sure,
Drives from my heart all trace of former gladness.
No longer do I seek her love. Indeed
Her chastity or otherwise no sadness
Brings to me now. No longer do I heed!
Heal me, O gods above, from this abhorrent
Distemper. Let my virtues be rewarded
Let healing grace flow o'er me in a torrent,
And peace of mind at long last be afforded!

LXXXIII. CONSOLATION

Lesbia, when her husband's present,
Utters comments most unpleasant,
And this to him, poor fool, is sheer delight.
You senseless idiot! lf she
Had totally forgotten me,
Then you could say for sure that she's alright:
But now, because she snarls and curses,
I'm on her mind, but what's much worse is
Her attitude! it's one of ceaseless ire -
And so the more that Lesbia natters
At me, the less to me it matters -
For where there's talk there's thought, which breeds desire.