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:

But be'st a Sabine, be'st a very Tiburtine,

At thy suburban villa what delight I knew

To spit the tiresome cough away, my lungs' ill guest,

My belly brought me, not without a sad weak sin,

Because a costly dinner I desir'd too much.

For I, to feast with Sestius, that host unmatch'd,

A speech of his, pure poison, every line deep-drugg'd,

His speech against the plaintiff Antius, read through.

Whereat a cold chill, soon a gusty cough in fits,

Shook, shook me ever, till to thy retreat I fled,

There duly dosed with nettle and repose found cure.

So, now recruited, thanks superlative, dear farm,

I give thee, who so lightly didst avenge that sin.

And trust me, farm, if ever I again take up

With Sextius' black charges, I'll rebel no more;

But let the chill things damn to cold, to cough, not me

That read the volume - no, but him, the man's vain self.