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.
Nī tē plūs oculīs meīs amārem,
iūcundissime Calve, mūnere istō
ōdissem tē odiō Vatīniānō:
nam quid fēcī ego quidve sum locūtus,
cūr mē tot male perderēs poētīs?
Istī dī mala multa dent clientī,
quī tantum tibi mīsit impiōrum.
Quod sī, ut suspicor, hoc novum ac repertum
mūnus dat tibi Sulla litterātor,
nōn est mī male, sed bene ac beātē,
quod non dispereunt tuī labōrēs.
Dī magnī, horribilem et sacrum libellum!
Quem tū scīlicet ad tuum Catullum
mistī, continuō ut diē perīret,
Sāturnālibus, optimō diērum!
Nōn nōn hoc tibi, false, sīc abībit.
Nam sī luxerit ad librāriōrum
curram scrīnia, Caesiōs, Aquīnōs,
Suffenum, omnia colligam venēna.
Ac tē hīs suppliciīs remūnerābor.
Vōs hinc intereā valēte abīte
illūc, unde malum pedem attulistis,
saeclī incommoda, pessimī poetae.