as of yore with thousand-throated song. Why should the hackneyed life change its course for my sake? Not even we poets are indispensable to this world.
Metellus.—Truly spoken, Gaius Valerius. You were always clever. Well, in the house things remain unchanged. Cicero talks political gossip between his nods over the wine cups; Cæsar teases and plays with my wife’s slaves, and Gellius
Catullus.—I care nothing about Gellius. Tell me about your wife, about Clodia.
Metellus.—My wife entertains Gellius. (Observing that Catullus is displeased.) Why are you displeased? The evenings are so tedious—if you would come, she would entertain you, Gaius; it is all the same to her, dear friend.
Catullus.—And to you also, apparently. This would be very funny indeed if it were not so sad.
Metellus.—What do you fear, Gaius Valerius?
Catullus (to himself).—Shall I open the eyes of this bloated fool? But to what end—I’ll rather get rid of him. But how? (Loudly.) Let that pass, consul. Your visit has moved me deeply, it brought to my mind the memories of my former visits at your house. Days of our old friendship and jollity, that true Roman jollity. Let us be merry and forget. Wine! Ho, there, Furinus, some wine. (Furinus enters.) That old wine, which Hortensius praised, saying it contains all the laughter of Bacchus.
(Furinus brings in an amphora of wine and two vessels, and serves.)
Metellus.—I never offend Bacchus by refusing his pure divine gift.
Catullus.—Well said, my friend,—pure wine! Wine is never mixed except by fools and duped husbands. Let’s drink to their health. (Raises the vessel.)
Metellus.—There is meaning in your words. I’ll gladly respond, for I am neither one nor the other. (Raising the vessel.) So to their health, Gaius. (Laughing.) But why should just these two sorts mix their wine?
