XLVI
Now spring brings back balmy warmth, now the glad gales of Zephyr are hushing the rage of the equinoctial sky. Deserted be the Phrygian plains, Catullus, and the rich land of burning Nicaea: away5 let us fly to the renowned cities of Asia. Now my soul flutters in anticipation and yearns to stray; now my eager feet rejoice and grow strong. Farewell, dear bands of fellow travellers, who set out together10 from your far away home, and whom divided ways through changing scenes are bringing back again.
XLVII
Porcius and Socration, Piso's two left hands, you plague and mere famine, has that obscene Priapus preferred you to my dear Veranius and Fabullus? Are you spending money and holding splendid rich5 banquets at vast expense in broad daylight, whilst my old friends must hunt in the streets for an invitation?
XLVIII
Your honeyed eyes, Juventius, if one should let me go on kissing still, I would kiss them three hundred thousand times, nor would I think I should ever have enough, no, not if the harvest of our kissing5 were thicker than the ripe ears of corn.
