VI.

But that, Flavius, hardly nice or honest

This thy folly, methinks Catullus also

E'en had known it, a whisper had betray'd thee.

Some she-malady, some unhealthy wanton,

Fires thee verily: thence the shy denial.

Least, you keep not a lonely night of anguish;

Quite too clamorous is that idly-feigning

Couch, with wreaths, with a Syrian odour oozing;

Then that pillow alike at either utmost

Verge deep-dinted asunder, all the trembling

Play, the strenuous unsophistication;

All, O prodigal, all alike betray thee.

Why? sides shrunken, a sullen hip disabled,

Speak thee giddy, declare a misdemeanour.

So, whatever is yours to tell or ill or

Good, confess it. A witty verse awaits thee

And thy lady, to place ye both in heaven.