2.
What? you scorn us? O ugly filth, detested
Trull, whatever is all abomination.
15 Nay then, louder. Enough as yet it is not.
If this only remains, perhaps the dog-like
Face may colour, a brassy blush may yield us.
Swell your voices in higher harsher yellings,
'Hark, adulteress, hand the note-book over;
20 Hark, the note-book; adultress, hand it over.'
Look, she moves not at all: we waste the moments.
Change your quality, try another issue.
Such composure a sweeter air may alter.
'Pure and virtuous, hand the note-book over.'
XLIII.
Hail, fair virgin, a nose among the larger,
Feet not dainty, nor eyes to match a raven,
Mouth scarce tenible, hands not wholly faultless,
Tongue most surely not absolute refinement,
5 Bankrupt Formian, your declar'd devotion.
Thou the beauty, the talk of all the province?
Thou my Lesbia tamely think to rival?
O preposterous, empty generation!
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: