humorously declares it gave him an ague. He fell a-coughing incontinently, and there was nothing for it, he adds—
And cured within thy cosy breast
Myself with nettle-juice and rest."
In the same playful vein, Catullus records his thanks to the nurse who has brought him round again—his farm personified—for letting him off so lightly for a temporary fickleness; and makes a facetious promise that if ever again he lets the love of good living entice him into such a purgatory, he'll invoke these shivers and this hacking cough—not on himself, oh dear no!—but on the ill-advised host who only invites his friends when he wants to air his lungs and speeches.
Here, it will be said, crops out, amidst strong home instincts, the old and strong leaven of satire and lampooning. But if we turn to the crowning grief of the life of Catullus, it will be seen how severe and absorbing is his tender grief. Here is the outpouring of his heart at the grave in the Troad:—
Come I, dear brother, to thine exsequies;
Bent on such gifts as love in death doth pay,
Fraught with last words to cheer thee on thy way;
In vain. For fate hath torn thee from my side,
Brother, unmeet so early to have died.
Yet, oh! such offerings as ancestral use
Assigns the tomb, may haply find excuse:
Yea, take these gifts fraternal tears bedew,
And take, oh take, my loving, last adieu!"
—(C. ci.) D.
