Canu. LXVII1 119
bed, nor do the Muses with the sweet poetry of ancient writers charm him, when his mind keeps anxious vigil; — this is grateful to me, since you count me as your friend, and come to me for the10 gifts both of the Muses and of Love.
But, dear Manlius, that my troubles may not be unknown to you, and that you may not think I am tired of the duty of a friend, let me tell you what are the waves of fortune in which I too am whelmed; so will you not again require gifts of happiness from one who is unblest.
At the time when first a white dress was given15 to me, when my youth in its flower was keeping jocund spring time, I wrote merry poems enough; not unacquainted with me is the goddess who mingles with her cares a sweet bitterness.
But all care for this is gone from me by my brother's death. Ah me unhappy, who have lost20 you, my brother! You, brother, you by your death have destroyed my happiness; with you all my house is buried. With you all my joys have perished, which your sweet love cherished, while you yet lived. By reason of your death, I have banished25 from all my mind these thoughts and all the pleasures of my heart.
And so, when you write ' It is no credit to you, Catullus, to be at Verona; because here, where I am, all the young men of better condition warm their cold limbs in the bed deserted by you '; that,30 Manlius, is rather a sorrow than a discredit. You will forgive me then, if I do not render to you those services which grief has taken from me, since I cannot do it.
For as for my not having plenty of authors at hand, that is because I live at Rome: that is my
