XLIX
Most skilled in speech of the descendants of Romulus, all who are, and all who have been, and all who shall be hereafter in other years, Marcus Tullius,—to thee his warmest thanks Catullus gives, the worst of all poets; as much the worst poet of all5 as you are the best advocate of all.
L
Yesterday, Licinius, we made holiday and played many a game with my tablets, as we had agreed to take our pleasure. Each of us pleased his fancy in writing verses, now in one metre, now in another,5 answering each other, as we laughed and drank our wine. I came away from this so fired by your cleverness and humour, Licinius, that my food did not ease my pain, and sleep spread no rest over my eyes,10 but raging with frenzy I tossed about all over my bed, longing to see the dawn, that I might talk to you and be with you. But when my limbs were worn out with fatigue and lay half-dead on my couch, 15 I made this poem for you, my sweet friend, that from it you might learn my pains. Now be not too proud, and do not, I pray you, apple of my eye, do not reject my prayers, lest Nemesis demand penalties20 from you in turn. She is a mighty goddess—beware of offending her.
