CATULLUS.
I.
Who shall take thee, the new, the dainty volume,
Purfled glossily, fresh with ashy pumice?
You, Cornelius; you of old did hold them
Something worthy, the petty witty nothings,
5 While you venture, alone of all Italians,
Time's vast chronicle in three books to circle,
Jove! how arduous, how divinely learned!
Therefore welcome it, yours the little outcast,
This slight volume. O yet, supreme awarder,
10 Virgin, save it in ages on for ever.
II.
Sparrow, favourite of my own beloved,
Whom to play with, or in her arms to fondle,
She delighteth, anon with hardy-pointed
Finger angrily doth provoke to bite her:
5 When my lady, a lovely star to long for,
Bends her splendour awhile to tricksy frolic;
Peradventure a careful heart beguiling,
Pardie, heavier ache perhaps to lighten;
Might I, like her, in happy play caressing
10 Thee, my dolorous heart awhile deliver!
. . . . . . . .
I would joy, as of old the maid rejoiced
Racing fleetly, the golden apple eyeing,
Late-won loosener of the wary girdle.