Catullus 51-60

Original Latin

LI. ad Lesbiam

Ille mi par esse deo videtur,

ille, si fas est, superare divos,

qui sedens adversus identidem te

spectat et audit

dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis

eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te,

Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi

* * * * * * * *

lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus

flamma demanat, sonitu suopte

tintinant aures gemina, teguntur

lumina nocte.

otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est:

otio exsultas nimiumque gestis:

otium et reges prius et beatas

perdidit urbes.

LII. in Novium

Quid est, Catulle? quid moraris emori?

sella in curuli struma Nonius sedet,

per consulatum peierat Vatinius:

quid est, Catulle? quid moraris emori?

LIII. ad Gaium Licinium Calvum

Risi nescio quem modo e corona,

qui, cum mirifice Vatiniana

meus crimina Caluos explicasset

admirans ait haec manusque tollens,

'di magni, salaputium disertum!'

LIV. de Octonis capite

Othonis caput oppido est pusillum,

et eri rustice semilauta crura,

subtile et leve peditum Libonis,

si non omnia, displicere vellem

tibi et Sufficio seni recocto...

irascere iterum meis iambis

inmerentibus, unice imperator.

LV. ad Camerium

Oramus, si forte non molestum est,

demonstres ubi sint tuae tenebrae.

te Campo quaesivimus minore,

te in Circo, te in omnibus libellis,

te in templo summi Iovis sacrato.

in Magni simul ambulatione

femellas omnes, amice, prendi,

quas vultu vidi tamen sereno.

avelte, sic ipse flagitabam,

Camerium mihi pessimae puellae.

quaedam inquit, nudum reduc...

'en hic in roseis latet papillis.'

sed te iam ferre Herculi labos est;

tanto te in fastu negas, amice.

dic nobis ubi sis futurus, ede

audacter, committe, crede luci.

nunc te lacteolae tenent puellae?

si linguam clauso tenes in ore,

fructus proicies amoris omnes.

verbosa gaudet Venus loquella.

vel, si vis, licet obseres palatum,

dum vestri sim particeps amoris.

LVI. ad Catonem

O rem ridiculam, Cato, et iocosam,

dignamque auribus et tuo cachinno!

ride quidquid amas, Cato, Catullum:

res est ridicula et nimis iocosa.

deprendi modo pupulum puellae

trusantem; hunc ego, si placet Dionae,

protelo rigida mea cecidi.

LVII. ad Gaium Iulium Caesarem

Pulcre convenit improbis cinaedis,

Mamurrae pathicoque Caesarique.

nec mirum: maculae pares utrisque,

urbana altera et illa Formiana,

impressae resident nec eluentur:

morbosi pariter, gemelli utrique,

uno in lecticulo erudituli ambo,

non hic quam ille magis vorax adulter,

rivales socii puellularum.

pulcre convenit improbis cinaedis.

LVIII. ad Marcum Caelium Rufum

Caeli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa.

illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam

plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes,

nunc in quadriviis et angiportis

glubit magnanimi Remi nepotes.

LVIIIb. ad Camerium

Non custos si fingar ille Cretum,

non Ladas ego pinnipesve Perseus,

non si Pegaseo ferar volatu,

non Rhesi niveae citaeque bigae;

adde huc plumipedas volatilesque,

ventorumque simul require cursum,

quos iunctos, Cameri, mihi dicares:

defessus tamen omnibus medullis

et multis languoribus peresus

essem te mihi, amice, quaeritando.

LIX. in Rufum

Bononiensis Rufa Rufulum fellat,

uxor Meneni, saepe quam in sepulcretis

vidistis ipso rapere de rogo cenam,

cum devolutum ex igne prosequens panem

ab semiraso tunderetur ustore.

LX.

Num te leaena montibus Libystinis

aut Scylla latrans infima inguinum parte

tam mente dura procreavit ac taetra,

ut supplicis vocem in novissimo casu

contemptam haberes, a nimis fero corde?

My Translation

Catullus 51: Longing from Afar

That man seems to me equal to a god,

that man, if it’s not a sacrilege to say,

seems to surpass the gods.

That man who, sitting across from you,

repeatedly gazes at you and

hears your angelic laughter–laughter which

robs miserable me of all my senses.

As soon as my eyes find yours, Lesbia,

nothing’s left of the voice in my mouth.

And yet, although my tongue is paralyzed,

fires rage through my tender veins and

my ears ring with a sound all their own,

my eyes veiled with twin darkness.

Leisure, Catullus, leisure is your curse:

leisure delights you and ignites you with passion.

Leisure, in bygone eras, ruined kings and prosperous cities.

Catullus 52: Why Wait?

What’s with you, Catullus? Why wait to die?

That tumor, Nonius, sits in the magistrate’s chair,

while Vatinius perjures himself for a consulate?

What’s with you, Catullus? Why wait to die?

Catullus 53: Small And Mighty

I chuckled at somebody from the crowd,

who, when my Calvus had so astutely laid

out Vatinius’s crimes, raised his hands in wonder

and said this:

“Great Gods, what an eloquent little fellow!”

Catullus 54: O Caesar,

Otho’s head is quite small,

and its owner’s legs are boorishly dirty,

and Libo’s farting is soft and delicate.

Still pleased?

Then let me madden you

with Sufficio, whom old age renewed.

Insufficient?

Let my worthless iambics rile you again,

our one and only commander.

Catullus 55: Where Are You?

We beg you– only if it’s no trouble– to please point out

exactly where that shady corner of yours is.

We’ve searched for you

in the lesser racetracks, in the Circus,

in every bookseller’s shop, in great Jove’s sacred temple.

I’ve collected every girl together in Pompey’s portico–

they looked at me, unmoved, as I kept demanding from them:

“Give me my Camerius, you horrid girls!”

One of them replied, exposing her chest,

“Come look here, he’s hiding between these rosy breasts!”

To put up with you is a Labor of Hercules– dear friend,

your pride keeps you so far away!

I’m not molded in bronze like the fabled guardian of Crete,

nor Ladas or wing-footed Perseus,

nor soaring aloft with flying Pegasus or the swift snow-white team of Rhesus—

add to that, I lack feathered feet or the speed of the winds.

But you, you should harness all these, Camerius, and gift them to me,

for my very bones would be weary, devoured by exhaustion

if I continued searching for you, my friend.

Tell us where you’re headed– tell us boldly! Trust me and shed light on it!

Are you chained by the milk-white girls?

If your tongue continues to be glued to your mouth,

you’ll lose all of love’s rewards – Venus delights in excessive chatter.

Or, if you’d like, shut your mouth and let me kiss you.

Catullus 56: Ménage à Trois

O Cato, what a funny thing–

a joke worthy of your listening and laughter–

do I have it for you!

Laugh as much as you love Catullus, Cato, for

this thing is hilarious and ridiculous:

I caught this little boy thrusting away into my girl and,

if only to please Dione, I sacrificed him to my

excited phallus.

Catullus 57: Double Plague

Mamurra and Caesar are beautifully matched sodomites,

and no wonder. Like stains,

one from Formia, the other the City,

They remain and reinforce each other.

Twins in disease– both on one sofa, both performative writers,

one just as greedy and adulterous as the other–

you rivals attack the same young girls.

Mammura and Caesar,

beautifully matched sodomites.

Catullus 58: Fall From Grace

Caelius, our Lesbia – yes, that Lesbia,

the same Lesbia whom Catullus loved more than himself

and more than anyone else–

now lingers at the cross-streets and in the back alleys,

jerking off brave Roman boys.

Catullus 59: A Hungry Woman

Rufa of Bologna—Rufa, wife of Menenius—

sucks off Rufulus.

Rufa, the same woman you’ve seen often

in the tombs, snatching dinner straight from the funeral pyre,

chasing the bread as it escapes the flames–

soon, the bearded cremator beats her head.

Catullus 60: A Savage Soul

Were you born from a lioness on the Libyan mountains?

Or did Scylla, barking, birth you

– you vile, foul thing –

from the lowest part of her loins? It must be so, for only

you could scorn the beggar, crying out

in his final pleas–

only you, with your heart so savage.