CATULLUS

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[4] The pinnace yonder which you see, guests, says that she was swiftest of vessels, and that there was no timber afloat whose speed she was unable to outstrip, whether the course was to be flown with oar-blade or with sail. And this, she declares, the shore of the threatening Adriatic denies not, nor the islands of the Cyclades, nor renowned Rhodes, nor the rugged Propontis of Thrace, nor the inhospitable Pontic Gulf, where that pinnace-to-be was formerly a leafy tree; for on the Cytorian ridge it often gave forth a rustling sound with its vocal foliage. Amastris of Pontus and box-tree-bearing Cytorius, to you my pinnace says that these were the facts, and well-known too. She says that from her earliest days ‘twas your summit on which she stood, ‘twas your waters in which she dipped her oars, and thence across so many raging seas she bore her master, whether on the left or on the right the breeze called upon her, or whether a favouring wind had fallen on both sheets together; and that no vows had been made on her behalf to the gods of the shore, when for the last time she came from the sea and up to this limpid lake. But these things belong to the past: now she spends her old age in secluded repose, and dedicates herself to you, Castor, and to Castor’s twin.

[8] Wretched Catullus, you should cease to be foolish, and what you see has been lost, as lost you should regard. The sun shone fair for you once, when you used to come to where your lady drew you, she who was loved by me as none will ever be loved: there, when all those happy sports took place which you desired, and which your lady refused not. Truly the sun shone fair for you once. No longer now does she want it: and you too must cease your longing as passion's slave, and pursue not one who shuns you, nor lead a miserable life, but endure with a stubborn will, and be firm. Farewell, girl. Catullus is now firm. Neither will he seek you out nor will he sollicit your unwilling favours. But you will grieve, when you are no longer importuned. Unfortunate woman, what a fate is yours! What manner of life remains for you? Who will approach you now? Who will think you fair? Whom will you love now? Whose will they say you are? Whom will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite? But you, Catullus, be resolute and stand firm!

[64] Pines sprung once from the top of Pelion are said to have swum through Neptune's clear waters to the waves of the river Phasis and the frontiers of Aeetes, when chosen young men, the flower of the Argive manhood, desiring to carry off the golden fleece from the Colchians, dared to transverse the salt seas in a swift ship, sweeping the azure plains with oars of firwood. The goddess who holds the citadels on the heights of towns, herself made for them the chariot that flew before the light breeze, fitting a pinewood frame to the curved keel. That was the first ship to initiate in voyaging the unschooled Amphitrite [=sea]. As soon as she clove the windy plain with her beak, and churned by the oar the wave grew white with foam, the watery Nereids raised their faces from the whitening gulf of the strait, in sheer amazement at the spectacle. On that day, and no other, did mortals see with their eyes sea-nymphs with naked bodies, rising breast high out of the hoary deep. Then Peleus is said to have been inflamed with love for Thetis; then Thetis did not disdain marriage with a mortal; then the father [Jove] himself felt that Peleus should be united with Thetis.

[72] Once you used to say, Lesbia, that you knew Catullus only, and that compared with me you did not wish to clasp [as husband] Juppiter [himself]. I loved you then not merely as the crowd love a mistress, but as a father loves his sons and his sons-in-law. Now I have found you out; wherefore though I burn for you more fiercely [than ever], yet you are far cheaper and more worthless in my eyes. How can this be? You ask. Because such wrongs [as mine] compel a lover to love more, but to wish less well.

[101] Borne through many nations and over many seas I come, brother, to these poor obsequies, that I might bestow upon you death's last gift and vainly address your mute ashes. Inasmuch as fortune has taken your own dear self away from me, alas! poor brother, undeservedly taken from me! Now however, as things are, accept this offering, much bedewed with a brother's tears, and which by the ancient custom of our ancestors has been prescribed as sorrow's tribute towards the last rites; and now for ever, brother, hail and farewell!