XLIV.
O thou my Sabine farmstead or my Tiburtine,
For who Catullus would not harm, avow, kind souls,
Thou surely art at Tibur; and who quarrel will
Sabine declare thee, stake the world to prove their say:
5 But be'st a Sabine, be'st a very Tiburtine,
At thy suburban villa what delight I knew
To spit the tiresome cough away, my lungs' ill guest,
My belly brought me, not without a sad weak sin,
Because a costly dinner I desir'd too much.
10 For I, to feast with Sestius, that host unmatch'd,
A speech of his, pure poison, every line deep-drugg'd,
His speech against the plaintiff Antius, read through.
Whereat a cold chill, soon a gusty cough in fits,
Shook, shook me ever, till to thy retreat I fled,
15 There duly dosed with nettle and repose found cure.
So, now recruited, thanks superlative, dear farm,
I give thee, who so lightly didst avenge that sin.
And trust me, farm, if ever I again take up
With Sextius' black charges, I'll rebel no more;
20 But let the chill things damn to cold, to cough, not me
That read the volume—no, but him, the man's vain self.