If there is any pleasure in remembering past good deeds
for a man, when he believes that he is dutiful,
nor he has violated any sacred trust, nor in any pact
of the gods to have abused divine power to deceive men,
then many joys remain for you in your long life, Catullus,
prepared from this thankless love.
For anything that a man is able to do or to say well to another
these have been done and said by you.
All of which things have died entrusted to this ungrateful mind.
So why do you keep torturing yourself further?
Why not be firm in the mind and lead yourself out from there,
and stop being miserable with the gods unwilling?
It is difficult to suddenly put away a long love
It is difficult, but you must effect this in some way or other:
it is the one salvation, this must be conquered by you
You must do this, whether it is impossible or possible.
Oh gods, if it is yours to feel pity, or if ever
you have saved someone in the nick of time in death itself
Look upon pathetic me! And, if I have lived life purely,
take away this pestilence and ruin from me,
which creeping down to my inner most self like a paralysis
takes away happiness from my whole heart.
Now I do not seek, that she loves me in return
or, (that which is not possible), that she chooses to be chaste
I wish myself to be well, and to put down this foul disease
Oh Gods! return this to me in return for my piety.
Sī qua recordantī benefacta priōra uoluptās
Est hominī, cum sē cōgitat esse pium,
Nec sanctam violāsse fidem, nec foedere in ūllō
Dīuum ad fallendōs nūmine abūsum hominēs,
Multa parāta manent in longā aetāte, Catulle,
Ex hōc ingrātō gaudia amōre tibi.
Nam quaecumque hominēs bene cuiquam aut dīcere possunt
Aut facere, haec ā tē dictaque factaque sunt:
Omnia quae ingrātae periērunt crēdita mentī.
Quārē cūr tū tē iam amplius excruciēs?
Quīn tū animō offirmās atque istinc tēque redūcis
Et dīs inuītīs dēsinis esse miser?
Difficile est longum subitō dēpōnere amōrem;
Difficile est, vērum hoc quā lubet efficiās.
Ūna salūs haec est, hoc est tibi peruincendum;
Hoc faciās, sīue id nōn pote sīue pote.
Ō dī, sī uestrum est miserērī, aut sī quibus unquam
Extrēmam iam ipsā in morte tulistis opem,
Mē miserum aspicite et, sī vītam pūriter ēgī,
Ēripite hanc pestem perniciemque mihi!
Quae mihi subrēpēns īmōs ut torpor in artūs
Expulit ex omnī pectore laetitiās.
Nōn iam illud quaerō, contrā mē ut dīligat illa,
Aut, quod nōn potis est, esse pudīca uelit:
Ipse ualēre optō et taetrum hunc dēpōnere morbum.
Ō dī, reddite mī hoc prō pietāte meā.