LXVII.
CATULLUS.
O to the goodman fair, O welcome alike to the father,
Hail, and Jove's kind grace shower his help upon you!
Door, that of old, men say, wrought Balbus ready obeisance,
Once, when his home, time was, lodged him, a master in years;
5 Door, that again, men say, grudg'd aught but a spiteful obeisance,
Soon as a corpse outstretch'd starkly declar'd you a bride.
Come, speak truly to me; what shameful rumour avouches
Duty of years forsworn, honour in injury lost?
DOOR.
So be the tenant new, Caecilius, happy to own me,
10 I'm not guilty, for all jealousy says it is I.
Never a fault was mine, nor man shall whisper it ever;
Only, my friend, your mob's noisy "The door is a rogue."
Comes to the light some mischief, a deed uncivil arising,
Loudly to me shout all, "Door, you are wholly to blame."
CATULLUS.
15 'Tis not enough so merely to say, so think to decide it.
Better, who wills should feel, see it, who wills, to be true.
DOOR.
How then? if here none asks, nor labours any to know it.