Catullus 37-41

Original Latin

XXXVII. ad contubernales et Egnatium

Salax taberna vosque contubernales,

a pilleatis nona fratribus pila,

solis putatis esse mentulas vobis,

solis licere, quidquid est puellarum,

confutuere et putare ceteros hircos?

an, continenter quod sedetis insulsi

centum an ducenti, non putatis ausurum

me una ducentos irrumare sessores?

atqui putate: namque totius vobis

frontem tabernae sopionibus scribam.

puella nam mi, quae meo sinu fugit,

amata tantum quantum amabitur nulla,

pro qua mihi sunt magna bella pugnata,

consedit istic. hanc boni beatique

omnes amatis, et quidem, quod indignum est,

omnes pusilli et semitarii moechi;

tu praeter omnes une de capillatis,

cuniculosae Celtiberiae fili,

Egnati. opaca quem bonum facit barba

et dens Hibera defricatus urina.

XXXVIII. ad Cornificium

Malest, Cornifici, tuo Catullo

malest, me hercule, et laboriose,

et magis magis in dies et horas.

quem tu, quod minimum facillimumque est,

qua solatus es allocutione?

irascor tibi. sic meos amores?

paulum quid lubet allocutionis,

maestius lacrimis Simonideis.

XXXIX. ad Egnatium

Egnatius, quod candidos habet dentes,

renidet usque quaque. si ad rei ventum est

subsellium, cum orator excitat fletum,

renidet ille; si ad pii rogum fili

lugetur, orba cum flet unicum mater,

renidet ille. quidquid est, ubicumque est,

quodcumque agit, renidet: hunc habet morbum,

neque elegantem, ut arbitror, neque urbanum.

quare monendum est te mihi, bone Egnati.

si urbanus esses aut Sabinus aut Tiburs

aut pinguis Vmber aut obesus Etruscus

aut Lanuvinus ater atque dentatus

aut Transpadanus, ut meos quoque attingam,

aut quilubet, qui puriter lavit dentes,

tamen renidere usque quaque te nollem:

nam risu inepto res ineptior nulla est.

nunc Celtiber es: Celtiberia in terra,

quod quisque minxit, hoc sibi solet mane

dentem atque russam defricare gingivam,

ut quo iste vester expolitior dens est,

hoc te amplius bibisse praedicet loti.

XL. ad Ravidum

Quaenam te mala mens, miselle Ravide,

agit praecipitem in meos iambos?

quis deus tibi non bene advocatus

vecordem parat excitare rixam?

an ut pervenias in ora vulgi?

quid vis? qualubet esse notus optas?

eris, quandoquidem meos amores

cum longa voluisti amare poena.

XLI. ad Ameanam

Ameana puella defututa

tota milia me decem poposcit,

ista turpiculo puella naso,

decoctoris amica Formiani.

propinqui, quibus est puella curae,

amicos medicosque convocate:

non est sana puella, nec rogare

qualis sit solet aes imaginosum.

XLII. ad hendecasyllabos

Adeste, hendecasyllabi, quot estis

omnes undique, quotquot estis omnes.

iocum me putat esse moecha turpis,

et negat mihi nostra reddituram

pugillaria, si pati potestis.

persequamur eam et reflagitemus.

quae sit, quaeritis? illa, quam videtis

turpe incedere, mimice ac moleste

ridentem catuli ore Gallicani.

circumsistite eam, et reflagitate,

'moecha putida, redde codicillos,

redde putida moecha, codicillos!'

non assis facis? o lutum, lupanar,

aut si perditius potes quid esse.

sed non est tamen hoc satis putandum.

quod si non aliud potest ruborem

ferreo canis exprimamus ore.

conclamate iterum altiore voce.

'moecha putide, redde codicillos,

redde, putida moecha, codicillos!'

sed nil proficimus, nihil movetur.

mutanda est ratio modusque vobis,

siquid proficere amplius potestis:

'pudica et proba, redde codicillos.'

XLIII. ad Ameanam

Salve, nec minimo puella naso

nec bello pede nec nigris ocellis

nec longis digitis nec ore sicco

nec sane nimis elegante lingua,

decoctoris amica Formiani.

ten provincia narrat esse bellam?

tecum Lesbia nostra comparatur?

o saeclum insapiens et infacetum!

My Translation

Catullus 37: Home of the Shameless   

Tavern of debauchery and you, its frequenters, 

standing at the ninth pillar from the Temple of Castor and Pollux,

do you think you alone have cocks?

Do you think you alone can have sex with all the pretty young girls you’d like, 

while you consider the rest of us goats?

Or perhaps you think, because 100 (or maybe 200?) of you idiots 

cling together, that I wouldn’t dare to force you to suck my dick?  

Know this: I’ll draw dicks all 

across the front of your tavern,

for my girl, who fled from my grasp– 

a girl I loved harder than anyone could ever love, 

a girl I fought so many great battles for– 

is trapped there. You, the rich and the fortunate, love her–

even the thugs, the alleyway adulterers (how shameful!) love her. 

And you love her most of all– 

you hairy, rabbit-faced spawn of Spain, 

Egnatius, made presentable by a black beard 

and teeth cleaned with Iberian piss. 

Catullus 38: Just One Word, Please

He’s sick, O Cornificius, your Catullus, 

he’s sick, by Hercules, and painfully so– 

it gets worse by the hour. 

And yet, with what lovely words have you, 

for whom chatter is the easiest thing, 

consoled him with?

I’m angry with you – is this all my friendship is worth to you?

Send even something little to comfort 

me, sadder than Simonides’s tears.

Catullus 39: Stop Smiling!

Egnatius, with teeth as white as snow, 

is always smiling: if you’re a defendant at court, 

when the counsel brings you to tears, he smiles; 

if you’re weeping at the funeral pyre of 

a pious boy, with the distraught mother grieving her only son, he smiles. 

He’s got a disease, neither elegant nor, I think, polite:

whatever, wherever it is, no matter what he’s doing, he smiles.

I must remind you, good Egnatius, 

if you were a city dweller, a Sabine, a Tiburtine, 

a gluttonous Umbrian, a fat Etruscan,

a black-toothed Lanuvian, from the north of the Po, 

of my people of Verona, or anyone else 

who cleans their teeth religiously, 

I’d still ask that you not smile so often–

there’s nothing sillier than a silly smile. 

However, you’re Spanish– in the country of Spain, 

each man rubs his teeth and gums until they are red with their urine,

so the more polished those teeth of yours are,

the more full of piss you are.

Catullus 40: You’ve Got My Attention Now

What sickness in your head, wretched, naive Ravidus, 

hurls you headfirst into my iambics?

What god– poorly summoned by you– 

intends to create a crazed brawl?

Do you simply want fame? Is that why the violence?

You want to be known everywhere? 

Don’t worry, you will be known –since you desire 

my lover, you will face an everlasting punishment!

Catullus 41: Overvalued 

Ameana, the slut, demanded a whole 10,000 from me–

that girl with her huge, heinous nose,

that girl of the bankrupt Formianus.

Attention! All you who care for this girl, doctors and friends,

come together: she’s not right in the head,

and clearly doesn’t ask often 

for the reflection of her face in bronze. 

Catullus 42: Give Them Back! 

Come here, hendecasyllables, all of you, from every side, as many as there are,

for an ugly adulteress thinks I’m a joke. 

Can you believe it? She refuses to give me my poems!

Let’s hunt her down, demand them back!

Who is she, you might ask?

Why, she’s the one you see strutting disgracefully,

laughing ridiculously like an annoying French poodle.

Let’s surround her, ask for them again!

“Rotten slut, give me back my poems! Oh, you won’t? You belong 

in the filth, the brothel, or whatever is even more ruinous than that!”

No, no, that’s not enough– 

Let’s call her again, louder this time!

“Rotten slut, give me back my poems!

Give me, you rotten slut, my poems back!”

But still, nothing moves her. 

We must recalibrate and change tactics, 

if we want a chance at getting my work back. 

Let’s see if we can get that pinched bitch’s 

face to blush:

“O honest, chaste one, won’t you please return my poems?”

Catullus 43: Minor Leagues

Hello there, girl with a nose not particularly short, 

feet not particularly lovely, 

eyes not particularly dark, 

fingers not slender, lips always chapped, 

and a tongue not exceptionally elegant–

you’re the girlfriend of bankrupt Formianus. 

Does the province call you, girl, beautiful? 

Worthy of comparison to my Lesbia?

O what a foolish, ignorant age!