LXXVI.

If to a man bring joy past service dearly remember'd,

When to the soul her thought speaks, to be blameless of ill;

Faith not rudely profan'd, nor in oath or charter abused

Heaven, a God's mis-sworn sanctity, deadly to men.

Then doth a life-long pleasure await thee surely, Catullus,

Pleasure of all this love's traitorous injury born.

Whatso a man may speak, whom charity leads to another,

Whatso enact, by me spoken or acted is all.

Waste on a traitorous heart, nor finding kindly requital.

Therefore cease, nor still bleed agoniz'd any more.

Make thee as iron a soul, thyself draw back from affliction.

Yea, tho' a God say nay, be not unhappy for aye.

What? it is hard long love so lightly to leave in a moment?

Hard; yet abides this one duty, to do it: obey.

Here lies safety alone, one victory must not fail thee.

One last stake to be lost haply, perhaps to be won.

O great Gods immortal, if you can pity or ever

Lighted above dark death's shadow, a help to the lost;

Ah! look, a wretch, on me; if white and blameless in all I

Liv'd, then take this long canker of anguish away.

If to my inmost veins, like dull death drowsily creeping,

Every delight, all heart's pleasure it wholly benumbs.

Not anymore I pray for a love so faulty returning,

Not that a wanton abide chastely, she may not again.

Only for health I ask, a disease so deadly to banish.

Gods vouchsafe it, as I ask, that am harmless of ill.