This beautiful and delicate piece remains the despair of the translator. I quote a few lines of Cowley's sometimes rather clumsy version (beginning from Sic, inquit, mea uita):
'MY little life, my all,' said she,
'So may we ever servants be
To this best god, and ne'er retain
Our hated liberty again:
So may thy passion last for me
As I a passion have for thee
Greater and fiercer much than can
Be conceived by thee a man.
Into my marrow is it gone,
Fixt and settled in the bone,
It reigns not only in my heart
But runs like fire through every part.'
She spoke: the god of Love aloud
Sneezed again, and all the crowd
Of little Loves that waited by
Bowed and blest the augury.
Cowley.
So many critics have compared Catullus to Burns that some of them may be glad to see this North-Italian rendered into the English of the North.
WEEP, weep, ye Loves and Cupids all,
And ilka Man o' decent feelin':
My lassie's lost her wee, wee bird,
And that's a loss, ye'll ken, past healin'.
The lassie lo'ed him like her een:
The darling wee thing lo'ed the ither,
And knew and nestled to her breast,
As ony bairnie to her mither.
Her bosom was his dear, dear haunt—
So dear, he cared na lang to leave it;
He'd nae but gang his ain sma' jaunt,
And flutter piping back bereavit.
The wee thing's gane the shadowy road
That's never travelled back by ony:
Out on ye, Shades! ye're greedy aye
To grab at aught that's brave and bonny.