If I didn't love you more than my eyes,
most delightful Calvus, I would hate you,
on account of that gift of yours, with the hatred of Vatinius:
for what have I done or what have I said,
why did you destroy me wickedly with so many poets?
May the gods grant many evils to that client of yours,
who sent you so great a group of scoundrels.
Because, if as I suspect, Sulla the teacher
gives you this newfound gift,
it is not bad for me, but well and happy,
because your works have not perished.
Great gods, terrible and detestable little book!
Which you have evidently sent to your Catullus
continually, so that he would die
on the festival day of Saturnalia, the best of days!
No, you witty man, so this will not depart from you.
For, if it will have become light, I will run to the
bookcase of the scribes; Caesius, Aquinus,
Suffenus, I will collect all these poisons,
and I will reward you with these punishments.
Meanwhile, farewell and depart from here
to there, where you have brought an unhappy foot,
a detriment of our age, the worst of poets.
Ni te plus oculis meis amarem,
iucundissime Calve, munere isto
odissem te odio Vatiniano:
nam quid feci ego quidve sum locutus,
cur me tot male perderes poetis?
Isti di mala multa dent clienti,
qui tantum tibi misit impiorum.
Quod si, ut suspicor, hoc novum ac repertum
munus dat tibi Sulla litterator,
non est mi male, sed bene ac beate,
quod non dispereunt tui labores.
Di magni, horribilem et sacrum libellum!
Quem tu scilicet ad tuum Catullum
misti, continuo ut die periret,
Saturnalibus, optimo dierum!
Non non hoc tibi, false, sic abibit.
Nam si luxerit ad librariorum
curram scrinia, Caesios, Aquinos,
Suffenum, omnia colligam venena.
Ac te his suppliciis remunerabor.
Vos hinc interea valete abite
illuc, unde malum pedem attulistis,
saecli incommoda, pessimi poetae.