(I am sure) you are in love with some unhealthy-looking wench; and you are ashamed to confess it. 5
Well then, whatever you have to tell, good or bad, let me know it. I wish to call you and your love to the skies by the power of my merry verse.
VII
You ask how many kissings of you, Lesbia, are enough for me and more than enough. As great as is the number of the Libyan sand that lies on silphium-bearing Cyrene, between the oracle of sultry5 Jove and the sacred tomb of old Battus; or as many as are the stars, when night is silent, that see the stolen loves of men, — to kiss you with so many kisses, Lesbia, is enough and more than enough for your10 mad Catullus; kisses, which neither curious eyes may be able to count up nor an evil tongue to bewitch.
VIII
Poor Catullus, 'tis time you should cease your folly, and account as lost what you see is lost. Once the days shone bright on you, when you used to go so often where the maiden led, the maiden loved by me as none will ever be loved. There were5 given us then those joys, so many, so merry, which you desired nor did the maiden not desire. Bright to you, truly, shone the days. Now she desires no more — no more should you desire, poor fool, nor follow her who flies, nor live in misery, but with re-10 solved mind endure, be firm. Farewell, maiden; now Catullus is firm; he will not seek you nor ask you
