With pumice dry just polish'd fine,
To whom present this book of mine;
This little volume smart, and new? --
Cornelius, I will give it you:
For then you oft were wont to say
Some trifling merit had my lay.
[tr. Nott (1795)]

My little volume is complete,
With all the care and polish neat
That makes it fair to see:
To whom shall I then, to whose praise,
Inscribe my lively, graceful lays?
Cornelius, friend, to thee.
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

My little volume is complete,
And with the pumice made as neat
As tome need wish to be;
And now what patron shall I choose
For thee gay sallies of my muse?
Cornelius, whom but thee?
For though they are but trifles, thou
Some value didst to them allow.
[tr. T. Martin (1861), st. 1-2]

To what dear friend, say, shall I dedicate
My smart new book, just trimm'd with pumice dry?
To thee, Cornelius -- for, in years gone by,
Thou was accustom'd my light lays to rate
As something more than trifles.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

My little book, that's neat and new,
Fresh polished with dry pumice stone,
To whom, Cornelius, but to you,
Shall this be sent, for you alone --
(Who used to praise my lines, my own) ....
[tr. Lang (1888)]

To thee (Cornelius!); for wast ever fain
To deem my trifles somewhat boon contain.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

To whom inscribe my charming new book -- just out and with ashen pumice polished? Cornelius, to you! for you used to deem my triflings of account.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

To whom am I to present my pretty new book, freshly smoothed off with dry pumice stone? To you, Cornelius: for you used to think that my trifles were worth something, long ago.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

To whom shall I offer this book, young and sprightly,
Neat, polished, wide-margined, and finished politely?
To you, my Cornelius ....
[tr. Stewart (1915)]

To whom shall I offer my new little book
Looking as polished as parchment can look?
Cornelius, to thee, for 'twa thou who didst prize
My trifles as something e'en then in thine eyes.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

To whom this dainty booklet polished new
With pumice stone? Cornelius, to you.
For you were wont my versicles to praise
As things of value in those bygone days.
[tr. Wright (1926), ch. 3]

Who shall receive my new-born book,
my poems, elegant and shy,
neatly dressed and polished?
You, Cornelius,
shall by my single patron,
for, long ago, you praised my slender lines and stanzas.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

Whom do I give my neat little volume
slicked dry and made fashionable with pumice?
Cornelius, to you: remindful that you
used to dwell on my scantlings as something great.
[tr. Zukofsky (1959)]

To whom will I give this sophisticated,
abrasively accomplished new collection?
To you, Cornelius! You had the habit
of making much of my poetic little.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

To whom do I send this fresh little book
of wit, just polished off with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius: since you were accustomed
to consider my trifles worth something
even then.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

To whom do I dedicate this charming slim volume,
just now polished with dry pumice stone?
For you Cornelius, for you were accustomed to think
that my scribblings were something.
[tr. Ozlem (2003)]

Who's the dedicatee of my new witty
booklet, all fresh-polished with abrasive?
You, Cornelius: for you always used to
feel my trivia possessed some substance.
[tr. Green (2005)]

To whom to give this charming little book
dryly polished with a pumice stone?
To you, Cornelius: you used to think
my trivial little scribbles worth a look.
[Source (2011)]

Who is it I should give my little book to,
So pretty in its pumice-polished covers?
Cornelius, I'll give my book to you:
Because you used to think my nothings somethings.
[tr. Ferry (2012)]

To whom do I give this pleasing new little book,
Just now smoothed with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius: For you were accustomed
To consider my trifles to be something.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

To whom do I give this elegant new booklet,
polished just now with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius! Since you always
thought my doggerel was worth something.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

Then take the book I now address,
Though small its size, its merit less,
'Tis all thy friend can give;
And let me, guardian Muse, implore
That when at least one age is o'er,
This volume yet may live.
[tr. Lamb (1821), st. 3]

Then take this little book, whae'er
Of good or bad it store;
And grant, oh guardian Muse, that it
May keep the flavour of its wit
A century or more.
[tr. T. Martin (1861), st. 3]

Wherefore accept my tiny leaves, I pray,
Such as they are, -- and, Patron Goddess, give
This boon: that still perennial they may live
After a century has roll'd away.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Therefore welcome it, yours the little outcast,
This slight volume. O yet, supreme awarder,
Virgin, save it in ages on for ever.
[tr. Ellis (1871), st. 4]

So take, whate'er its worth may be,
My Book, -- but, Lady and Queen of Song,
This one gift I crave of thee,
That it may live for ages long!
[tr. Lang (1888)]

Then take thee whatso in this booklet be,
Such as it is, whereto O Patron Maid
To live down Ages lend thou lasting aid!
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Therefore take this booklet, such as it is, and, O Virgin Patroness, may it outlive generations more than one.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

So take and keep for your own this little book, such as it is, and whatever it is worth; and may it, O Virgin my patroness, live and last for more than one century.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

Accept, therefore, this little book and all that it contains, such as it is; and, O guardian maiden, ordain that it shall outlive this generation.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

So take my small book -- if it meet with your favor,
The passing of years cannot dull its sweet savor.
[tr. Stewart (1915)]

Do thou then accept this booklet, I pray;
And grant, Virgin muse, that, if such be its worth,
It outlive the one age that has given it birth.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

Therefore the book how slight soe'er,
Be yours: and thou, kind Muse, prolong
More than one age my timeless song.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Wherefore, dear friend, this humble volume take,
With all its imperfections, for my sake;
Which with Minerva's favour yet may last
When you and I into the dust have passed.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

Then, take this little book
for what it is, my friend.
Patroness and Muse,
keep these poems green for
a day or so beyond a hundred years.
O Virgin!
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

And so it's yours; I hand this slim book over,
such as it is -- for the sake of its patron
may it survive a century or better.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

Then take this little book for your own: whatever
it is, and is worth: virgin Muse, patroness,
let it last, for more lives than one.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

For that reason have for yourself whatever this little book is,
and whatever you like, oh patron maiden,
let it last a long time, for more than one generation!
[tr. Ozlem (2003)]

So take this little booklet, this mere trifle,
whatever it may be worth -- and Patron Virgin,
let it outlast at least one generation!
[tr. Green (2005)]

Book of mine for what it’s worth; whatever;
And oh, patroness Virgin, grant that it shall
Live and survive beyond the century.
[tr. Ferry (2012)]

For this reason have for yourself whatever this is of a little book,
Such as it is; O virgin patron,
That it may endure for more than one age.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

So keep for yourself this little book of some sort.
May it last, O generous goddess!,
more than one long age.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

Death,
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns.

Poor bird! who now that darksome bourn
Hast pass'd, whence none can e'er return.
[tr. Nott (1795), ll. 13-14]

He now that gloomy path must trace,
Whence Fate permits return to none.
[tr. Lamb (1821), st. 3]

Now he treads that gloomy track,
Whence none ever may come back.
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

Now to that dreary bourn
Whence none can e'er return,
Poor little sparrow wings his weary flight.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Now he wendeth along the mirky pathway,
Whence, they tell us, is hopeless all returning.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Now he has gone to that dark place,
Whose dismal pathway none retrace.
[tr. Bliss (1872)]

Now must he wander o'er the darkling way
Thither, whence life-return the Fates denay.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Now it fares along that path of shadows from where nothing may ever return.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

Now, hs pretty doings o'er,
His little soul goes darkling whither all
Must go, and, going, may return no more.
[tr. Harman (1897)]

Now he goes along the dark road, thither whence they say no one returns.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

The wee thing’s gane the shadowy road
That’s never traveled back by ony:
[tr. Davies (1912)]

Now he travels the path of shadows, to that place, whence all men agree there is no return.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

Now does it seek the darksome way,
Whence none return nor message bring.
[tr. Stewart (1915), st. 4]

Now he's journeying through the eternal
Darkness, to the relentless shades.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923), st. 4]

And now he journeys whence they say
No steps retrace the darkling way.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Now he is gone; poor creature,
lost in darkness,
to a sad place
from which no one returns.
[tr. Gregory (1931), st. 3]

Who now? It's hard to walk through tenebrous flume
down there, where it is granted not one comes back.
[tr. Zukofsky (1959)]

It now flits off on its way, goes, gloom-laden
down to where -- word is -- there is no returning.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

Who now goes through that gloomy journey
from whence they denied anyone returns.
[tr. Sullivan (1997)]

Now he goes down the shadowy road
from which they say no one returns.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

Now he's traveling on that dark-shroud journey whence, they tell us, none of the departed ever returns.
[tr. Green (2005)]

It now goes through the dark journey
to that place from where they deny that anyone returns.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

He who now goes through the shadowy journey
thither, whence they deny that anyone returns.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

Come and let us live, my Deare,
Let us love and never feare
What the sourest Fathers say:
Brightest Sol that dyes to-day
Lives againe as blithe to-morrow;
But if we darke sons of sorrow
Set, ô then, how long a Night
Shuts the Eyes of our short light!
[tr. Crashaw (1648)]

Lesbia, live to love and pleasure,
Careless what the grave may say:
When each moment is a treasure
Why should lovers lose a day?
Setting suns shall rise in glory,
But when little life is o'er,
There's an end of all the story --
We shall sleep, and wake no more.
[tr. Langhorne (c. 1765)]

Let's live, and love, my darling fair!
And not a single farthing care
For age's babbling spite;
Yon suns that set again shall rise,
but, when our transient meteor dies,
We sleep in endless night.
[tr. Nott (1795)]

My Lesbia, let us love and live,
And to the winds, my Lesbia, give
Each cold restraint, each boding fear
Of age and all her saws severe.
Yon sun now posting to the main
Will set -- but 'tis to rise again: --
But we, when once our mortal light
Is set, must sleep in endless night!
[tr. Coleridge (1798)]

Love, my Lesbia, while we live,
Value all the cross advice
That the surly greybeards give
At a single farthing's price.
Suns that set again may rise;
We, when once our fleeting light,
Once our day in darkness dies,
Sleep in one eternal night.
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

Live we, love we, Lesbia dear,
And the stupid saws austere,
Which your sour old dotards prate,
Let us at a farthing rate!
When the sun sets, ' tis to rise
Brighter in the morning skies;
But, when sets our little light,
We must sleep in endless night.
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

The while we live, to love let's give
Each hour, my winsome dearie!
Hence, churlish rage of icy age!
Of love we 'll ne'er grow weary.
Bright Phoebus dies, again to rise;
Returns life's brief light never;
When once 'tis gone, we slumber on
For ever and for ever.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Living, Lesbia, we should e'en be loving.
Sour severity, tongue of eld maligning,
All be to us a penny's estimation.
Suns set only to rise again to-morrow.
We, when sets in a little hour the brief light,
Sleep one infinite age, a night for ever.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Love we (my Lesbia!) and live we our day,
While all stern sayings crabbed sages say,
At one doit's value let us price and prize!
The Suns can westward sink again to rise
But we, extinguished once our tiny light,
Perforce shall slumber through one lasting night!
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love, and count all the rumors of stern old men at a penny's fee. Suns can set and rise again: we when once our brief light has set must sleep through a perpetual night.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

Come, my Lesbia, no repining;
Let us love while yet we may!
Suns go on forever shining;
But when we have had our day,
Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us,
And no morrow's dawn awake us.
[tr. Field (1896)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and love, and value at one farthing all the talk of crabbed old men.
Suns may set and rise again. For us, when the short light has once set, remains to be slept the sleep of one unbroken night.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love, for the reprobation of soured age let us not care a sou. Suns can set and rise again; but to our brief light, when once it sets, there comes a never-ending night that must be passed in never-ending sleep.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

We live, Lesbia,
And we love, Lesbia,
And what do we care what the world may say?
The sun goes down,
And the sun comes up,
But our little lives pass away
In a day,
Our poor little lives pass away.
[tr. Dement (1915)]

Let us revel in life and love, my darling;
All that crabbed antiquities say idly
We will value together at a farthing.
Suns may set , and return again as brightly:
When our light to its dying spark has fluttered,
We must sleep an eternity of slumber.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

O! let us love and have our day,
All that the bitter greybeards say
Appraising at a single mite.
My Lesbia , suns can set and rise:
For us the brief light dawns and dies
Once only, and the rest is night.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Come let us live and let us love,
And the stern voice of censors prove,
Who bid us from our loving cease,
Exactly worth a penny piece.
For suns can rise and suns can wane
And on the morrow rise again;
But when our one brief day is gone,
For ever we must sleep alone.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

Come, Lesbia, let us live and love,
nor give a damn what sour old men say.
The sun that sets may rise again
but when our light has sunk into the earth,
it is gone forever.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

Lesbia, let us live only for loving,
and let us value at a single penny
all the loose flap of senile busybodies!
Suns when they set are capable of rising,
but at the setting of our on brief light
night is one sleep from which we never awaken.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love,
and all the words of the old, and so moral,
may they be worth less than nothing to us!
Suns may set, and suns may rise again:
but when our brief light has set,
night is one long everlasting sleep.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let us judge all the rumors of the old men
to be worth just one penny!
The suns are able to fall and rise:
When that brief light has fallen for us,
we must sleep a never ending night.
[tr. Negenborn (1997)]

Let's live, Lesbia mine, and love --
and as for scandal, all the gossip, old men's strictures,
value the lot at no more than a farthing!
Suns can rise and set ad infinitum --
for us, though, once our bref life's quenched,
there's only one unending night that's left to sleep through.
[tr. Green (2005)]

Come live with me, Lesbia, and be my love,
And ignore the wagging tongues
Of wilted crones and toothless geezers.
Suns rise and set, rise and set again,
But we, when our brief light is blacked,
Must sleep forever, and then forever.
[tr. Hager (2006)]

My Lesbia, let’s live and let’s love,
Let all the rumors of harsh old men
count for only a penny.
Suns can set and rise again:
but when our brief light sets
we must sleep a lonely endless night.
[tr. @sentantiq (2015)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let's value all the rumors
of rather stern old men as one penny!
Suns can set and return;
as for us, once our brief light sets,
there is one perpetual night to be slept.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let us value all the rumors of
more severe old men at only a penny!
Suns are able to set and return:
when once the short light has set for us
one perpetual night must be slept by us.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love;
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Let us not weigh them: Heaven's great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive,
But, soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
[Thomas Campion, A Book of Airs (1601)]

Come my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain;
Suns that set may rise again,
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
[Ben Jonson, Volpone, Act 3, sc. 6 (1616)]

Fabullus, if the gods agree,
So mightily to favour thee;
Thou shalt, ere many days be spent,
Sup with me to thy heart's content:
But do thyself provide the treat,
Of which we sumptuously may eat;
Bring thy fair mistress, bring thy wine,
Loud laughter, and each jest of thine;
Let these, my merry soul, be sent;
Then sup unto thy heart's content:
For thy poor poet's purse with nought
But spider's worthless webs is fraught.
[tr. Nott (1795)]

Fabullus, thou shalt be my guest
At supper soon, if Heaven's behest
No otherwise decree:
The feast too must be rich and rare,
And since though lov'st luxurious fare,
Bring such a feast with thee.
And bring the girl with breast of snow,
And wine and wit of ready flow,
And laughter's joyous peal;
Bid but all these my board attend,
And then no doubt, my gallant friend,
We'll have a glorious meal.
For in my coffers spiders weave
Their webs in peace ....
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

You dine with me, Fabullus mine,
On Friday next, at half-past two;
And I can promise that you'll dine
As well as man need wish to do;
If you bring with you, when you come,
A dinner of the very best,
And lots of wine and mirth , and some
Fair girl to give the whole a zest.
'Tis if you bring these -- mark me now!
That you're to have the best of dinners;
For your Catullus' purse, I vow,
Has nothing in't but long-legg'd spinners.
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

If the gods will, Fabullus mine,
With me right heartily you'll dine,
Bring but good cheer -- that chance is thine
Some days hereafter;
Mind a fair girl, too, wit, and wine,
And merry laughter.
Bring these -- you'll feast on kingly fare --
But bring them -- for my purse -- I swear
The spiders have been weaving there.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Please kind heaven, in happy time, Fabullus,
We'll dine merrily, dear my friend, together.
Promise only to bring, your own, a dinner
Rich and goodly; withal a lily maiden,
Wine, and banter, a world of hearty laughing.
Promise only; betimes we dine, my gentle
Friend, most merrily; but, for your Catullus --
Know he boasts but a pouch of empty cobwebs.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Thou'lt sup right well with me, Fabullus mine,
In days few-numbered an the Gods design,
An great and goodly meal thou bring wi' thee
Nowise forgetting damsel bright o' blee,
With wine, and salty wit and laughs all-gay.
An these my bonny man, thou bring, I say
Thou'lt sup right well, for thy Catullus' purse
Save web of spider nothing does imburse.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

You will feast well with me, my Fabullus, in a few days, if the gods favour you, provided you bring here with you a good and great feast, not forgetting a radiant girl and wine and wit and all kinds of laughter. Provided, I say, you bring them here, our charming friend, you will feast well: for your Catullus' purse is full with cobwebs.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

You shall have a good dinner at my house, Fabullus, in a few days, please the gods, if you bring with you a good dinner and plenty of it, not forgetting a pretty girl and wine and wit and all5 kinds of laughter. If, I say, you bring all this, my charming friend, you shall have a good dinner; for your Catullus' purse is full of cobwebs.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

Fabullus, the Gods so willing, you shall feast with me in luxury, a few days hence, if you will bring with you dishes both delicate and varied, a comely maid, wine, wit, and a store of quips and cranks. Bring all these, my dear friend, and you shall sup luxuriously; for the purse of your Catullus is full of cobwebs.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

Come dine with me, Fabullus, do.
You shall dine well, I promise you.
If Fates are kind, and if you bring
Along with you the needful thing --
A dinner bountiful and fine,
A pretty girl, new salt, old wine,
And topping all a hearty laugh,
Mirth, jest, and wit and friendly chaff --
If these you bring, old friend, I swear.
That you shall dine on royal fare.
Catullus' purse is full -- but hold!
Of musty cobwebs -- now don't scold ....
[tr. Stewart (1915)]

Right well, Fabullus, you shall sup with me
If the Gods love you, at an early date,
If you bring ample fare and delicate,
A damsel too , if she be nice to see;
Bring wine and spice and laughs and gaiety;
Bring these and you will sup with me in state.
For my poor little purse, I tell you straight
Is stuffed with cobwebs, full as full can be.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

Soon, if all's well, Fabullus mine,
You at my house shall nobly dine,
If you the noble meal provide,
Yes, and a lovely girl beside,
And wine and wit and mirth sans end.
If these you bring, my charming friend,
You shall dine nobly; cobwebs fill
The purse of your Catullus. Still ....
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Within a week, dear friend, (D.V.)
You shall be dining well with me;
That is, if you yourself provide
The dinner and the wine beside,
And with some jokes to salt our food
A damsel of complaisant mood.
If these you bring, then, as I say,
We'll have a jolly feast that day.
For I must tell you that my purse
Is full -- and there is nothing worse
Of cobwebs, and it does not hold
The smallest particle of gold.
[tr. Wright (1926);
"Deus Volunt" = "God Willing"]

Come, my Fabullus, there's a grand dinner waiting
for you at my house tomorrow, or the next day,
or the next, or a few days after --
that is, if gods are kind and you bring a banquet with you:
don't forget a round of wine and
a bright-eyed, sparkling girl and
your wit and every known variety of laughter.
Bring these, my dear, and you
shall have a glorious dinner;
your Catullus (see his purse)
has nothing left but cobwebs.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

Fabullus, you'll have quite a feast
At my place in a day or two --
If the gods decide to favor you,
If you provide the meal, at least.
Then bring a glowing girl, and lend
Some wine, some wit, a laugh that rings.
If you remember all these things,
You'll have a feast, my charming friend --
For your Catullus' money-sack
is full of spiders, nothing more.
[tr. Hollander (1976)]

You will dine well with me, my dear Fabullus,
in a few days or so, the gods permitting.
Provided you provide the many-splendored
feast and invite your fair-complected lady,
your wine, your salt, and all the entertainment!
Which is to say, my dear, if you bring dinner
you will dine well, for these days your Catullus
fines that his purse is only full of cobwebs.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

You’ll dine well, in a few days, with me,
if the gods are kind to you, my dear Fabullus,
and if you bring lots of good food with you,
and don’t come without a pretty girl
and wine and wit and all your laughter.
I say you’ll dine well, and charmingly,
if you bring all that: since your Catullus’s
purse alas is full of cobwebs.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

You’ll dine well at my house, Fabullus
In a few days, if the gods favor you, and
If you bring a fine, large meal with you.
And don’t forget: a bright-eyed girl,
Wine, salt, and every kind of cheer.
If you bring these things I ask, fine friend,
You will dine well: for your Catullus’ wallet
Is full of nothing but spider webs.
[tr. @sentantiq (2015)]

You will dine well, my Fabullus, at my house
in a few days (if the gods favor you),
and if you bring with you a nice big
dinner, not without a pretty girl
and wine and wit and laughs for everyone
I say: if you bring these, my charming one,
you will dine well -- for the little purse
of your Catullus is full of cobwebs.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

You will dine well, my (dear) Fabullus, at my house
in a few days, if the gods favor you,
and if you bring with you a large and good dinner,
not without a bright girl
and wine and salt[/wit] and laughter for all.
If you bring these, I say, our charming one,
you will dine well -- for your Catullus's
purse is full of cobwebs.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

E'en then that ceaseless ill-tim'd grin forego:
A silly laugh's the silliest thing I know.
[tr. Nott (1795), # 37]

I'd say renounce thy ceaseless idiot grin,
A silly laugh is folly, if not sin.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Yet sweetly smiling ever I would have you not,
For silly laughter, it's a silly thing indeed.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Yet thy incessant grin I would not see,
For naught than laughter silly sillier be.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Still I wish you wouldn't grin forever everywhere; for nothing is more senseless than senseless giggling.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

Still I should not like you to be smiling everlastingly; for there is nothing more silly than a silly laugh.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

I would have you drop your endless grin: for nothing is more inane than inane laughter.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

Still not to smile for aye is wisdom's rule:
For folly's laugh proclaims the peerless fool.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

I still should still disapprove that constant smile;
It shows a silly, poor, affected style.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

Your smile would still offend me; nothing is worse
than senseless laughter from a foolish face.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

I still wouldn't want to see you always grinning,
for nothing is more inept than inept laughter.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

I’d still not want you to smile all the time:
there’s nothing more foolish than foolishly smiling.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

I'd still not want you flashing yours all round since
nothing's more fatuous than a fatuous grin.
[tr. Green (2005)]

I still should not want you to smile on all occasions:
for nothing is more silly than a silly smile.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips, begin and tell
A thousand, and a Hundred score,
An Hundred and a Thousand more,
Till another Thousand smother
That, and that wipe off another.
Thus at last when we have numbred
Many a Thousand, many a Hundred,
We'll confound the reckoning quite,
And lose ourselves in wild delight:
While our joyes so multiply
As shall mocke the envious eye.
[tr. Crashaw (1648)]

Give me, then, a thousand kisses,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Till the sum of boundless blisses
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Neither we nor envy know.
[tr. Langhorne (c. 1765)]

Then first a thousand kisses give,
An hundred let me next receive,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Another thousand yet;
To these a second hundred join,
Still be another thousand mine,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
An hundred then repeat:
Such countless thousands let there be,
Sweetly confus'd ; that even we
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
May know not the amount;
That envy, so immense a store
Beholding, may not have the pow'r
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Each various kiss to count.
[tr. Nott (1795)]

Then come, with whom alone I'll live,
A thousand kisses take and give!
Another thousand! to the store
Add hundreds -- then a thousand more!
And when they to a million mount,
Let confusion take the account, --
That you, the number never knowing,
May continue still bestowing
That I for joys may never pine,
Which never can again be mine!
[tr. Coleridge (1798)]

Give me kisses thousand-fold,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Add to them a hundred more;
Other thousands still be told
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Other hundreds o'er and o'er.
But, with thousands when we burn,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Mix, confuse the sums at last,
That we may not blushing learn
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
All that have between us past.
None shall know to what amount
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Envy's due for so much bliss;
None -- for none shall ever count
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
All the kisses we will kiss.
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

Give me then a thousand kisses,
Add a hundred to my blisses,
Then a thousand more, and then
Add a hundred once again.
Crown me with a thousand more,
Give a hundred as before,
Then kiss on without cessation,
Till we lose all calculation,
And no envy mar our blisses,
Hearing of such heaps of kisses.
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

Then, charmer mine, with lip divine!
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Give me a thousand kisses;
A hundred then, then hundreds ten,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Then other hundred blisses.
Lip thousands o'er, sip hundreds more
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
With panting ardour breathing;
Fill to the brim love's cup, its rim
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
With rosy blossoms wreathing.
We'll mix them then, lest to our ken
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Should come our store of blisses,
Or envious wight should know, and blight
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
So many honey' d kisses.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Thousand kisses, anon to these an hundred,
Thousand kisses again, another hundred,
Thousand give me again, another hundred.
Then once heedfully counted all the thousands,
We'll uncount them as idly; so we shall not
Know, nor traitorous eye shall envy, knowing
All those myriad happy many kisses.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Kiss me a thousand times, then hundred more,
Then thousand others, then a new five-score,
Still other thousand other hundred store.
Last when the sums to many thousands grow,
The tale let's trouble till no more we know,
Nor envious wight despiteful shall misween us
Knowing how many kisses have been kissed between us.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Give me a thousand kisses, and then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then another thousand without resting, then a hundred. Then, when we have made many thousands, we will confuse the count lest we know the numbering, so that no one can cast an evil eye on us through knowing the number of our kisses.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

Come, in yonder nook reclining,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Where the honeysuckle climbs,
Let us mock at Fate's designing,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Let us kiss a thousand times!
And if they shall prove too few, dear,
When they're kissed we'll start anew, dear!
 
And should any chance to see us,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Goodness! how they'll agonize!
How they'll wish that they could be us,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Kissing in such liberal wise!
Never mind their envious whining;
Come, my Lesbia, no repining!
[tr. Field (1896)]

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand, then a hundred. Then, when we have made up many thousands, we will confuse our counting, that we may not know the reckoning, nor any malicious person blight them with evil eye, when he knows that our kisses are so many.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

Give me then a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then still another thousand, then one more hundred, then when we have had many a thousand, let us jostle them up, so that we may not keep count and no jealous-eyed person may envy us, knowing the number of our kisses.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

Then oh my Lesbia!
Live and love!
Quick to my arms, and quick to my heart!
A thousand kisses!
Ten thousand kisses!
Have done with a million! Then start
Again; for I fear
Some wretch may envy us, dear,
[tr. Dement (1915)]

Come then , give me of kisses now a hundred,
Then a thousand and then yet hundreds other;
When our kisses their many thousands measure,
Blot the score out and reckon it as nothing,
Lest some evil eye paralyse our pleasure,
Seeing jealously such a wealth of loving.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

A thousand kisses, then five score,
A thousand and a hundred more,
Then one for each you gave before.
Then, as the many thousands grow,
We'll wreck the counting lest we know,
Or lest an evil eye prevail
Through knowledge of the kisses' tale.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Let me a hundred kisses take
And then of them a thousand make,
A hundred and a thousand more
Repeated twice shall swell the score.
But when to thousands we shall get,
We will the reckoning upset;
That none may envy us our bliss
Knowing the number of each kiss.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

Twice ten thousand more bestow,
Give me a thousand kisses,
then a hundred, another thousand,
another hundred
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
and in one breath
still kiss another thousand,
another hundred.
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
O then with lips and bodies joined
many deep thousands;
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
confuse
their number
Twice ten thousand more bestow,
so that poor fools and cuckolds (envious
even now) shall never
learn our wealth and curse us
with their
evil eyes.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
another thousand next, another hundred,
a thousand without pause & then a hundred,
until when we have run up our thousands
we will cry bankrupt, hiding our assets
from ourselves & any who would harm us,
knowing the volume of our trade in kisses.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more,
another thousand, and another hundred,
and, when we’ve counted up the many thousands,
confuse them so as not to know them all,
so that no enemy may cast an evil eye,
by knowing that there were so many kisses.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred,
then another thousand, then a second hundred,
then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.
Then, when we have made many thousands,
we will mix them all up so that we don't know,
and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out
how many kisses we have shared.
[tr. Negenborn (1997)]

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
then a thousand more, a second hundred,
then yet another thousand then a hundred
then when we've notched up all these many thousands,
shuffle the figures, lose count of the total,
so no maleficent enemy can hex us
knowing the final sum of all our kisses.
[tr. Green (2005)]

So kiss me, Sweet, and kiss me plenty:
First a thousand, then a hundred kisses;
Then catch your breath and kiss me more:
Another thousand, another hundred,
Still thousands yet till we've lost all count
And must begin again, keeping
Envious others guessing the sum
Of how many kisses much we love.
[tr. Hager (2006)]

Give me a thousand kisses and then a hundred,
then another thousand and a second hundred,
And even then another thousand, a hundred more.
When we’ve had so many thousands,
we will mix them together so we don’t know,
so that no wicked man can feel envy
when he knows what a number of kisses there’ve been.
[tr. @sentantiq (2015)]

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
then a thousand others, then a second hundred,
then up to a thousand others, then a hundred.
Then, when we have made many thousands,
we will mix them up, lest we should know,
--or lest any evil person should be able to envy us
when he knows--how many kisses there are.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
then another thousand, then a second hundred,
then immediately a thousand then a hundred.
then, when we will have made many thousand kisses,
we will throw them into confusion, lest we know,
or lest anyone bad be able to envy
when he knows there to be so many kisses.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

Say, what more blissful can the gods bestow,
Than the fond hour that crowns each am'rous vow?
[tr. Nott (1795), # 59]

What god can give, what proud celestial power,
A richer boon than thy connubial hour?
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

What choicer hour sends heaven our life to cheer?
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

What by the gods to mortals given can match this blissful hour?
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

When shone an happier hour than thy god-speeded arriving?
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

What better boon can the gods bestow than hour so desirèd?
[tr. Burton (1893)]

What more wished for do the gods give than that happy hour?
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

What is given by the gods more desirable than the fortunate hour?
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

What hour happier than this glorious hour is given by the Gods?
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

What gift of heaven excels the wishèd hour?
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Can Heaven give a greater boon than this?
[tr. Wright (1926)]

What gift from heaven
greater than this gift from gods to man in a superlative hour of happiness?
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

What gift from heaven surpasses this fortunate hour?
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

What gift of heaven is more desirable than this happy hour?
[tr. Goold (1983)]

What wished-for hour by the gods is more happily granted?
[tr. Kline (2001)]

What better gift have the gods than this most happy hour?
[tr. Green (2005)]

What is given by the gods more desirable than the fortunate hour?
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

Hear this, and wisdom learn, ye witless fair!
Ne'er let false man with empty oaths deceive,
No protestations of the sex believe!
Is there a wish their ardent souls would gain;
they swear, they promise, and at length obtain;
The wish obtain'd, they fearless break their word,
Nor plighted faith, nor solemn vows regard.
[tr. Nott (1795), # 61; ll. 173ff.]

Henceforth let woman; never trust the oaths that man shall make,
Nor ever more his honeyed speech within her bosom take!
While yet the fire of his desire is hot within his breast,
What will he not to woman swear, to heav'n what not protest?
But let her in an evil hour resign her maiden trust,
And yield the blossom of her youth to sate his selfish lust,
Then what recks he of lavish oath, or vow, or whisper'd pray'r?
He triumphs in his perjuries, and spurns at her despair.
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

Henceforth let never woman trust an oath than man shall swear,
Nor count the tender speeches true his lying lips declare:
For when with lusting soul he yearns some object to enjoy,
No oath, no promise then he deems too sacred to employ;
But when his soul is sated, and his burning passion dies,
He fears to break no plighted vows, cares nought for perjuries.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Let not a woman trust, since that first treason, a lover's
Desperate oath, none hope true lover's promise is earnest.
They, while fondly to win their amorous humour essayeth,
Fear no covetous oath, all false free promises heed not;
They if once lewd pleasure attain unruly possession,
Lo they fear not promise, of oath or perjury reck not.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Now, let woman no more trust her to man when he sweareth,
Ne'er let her hope to find or truth or faith in his pleadings,
Who when lustful thought forelooks to somewhat attaining,
Never an oath they fear, shall spare no promise to promise.
Yet no sooner they sate all lewdness and lecherous fancy,
Nothing remember of words and reck they naught of fore-swearing.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Now, now, let no woman give credence to man's oath, let none hope for faithful vows from mankind; for while their eager desire strives for its end, nothing fear they to swear, nothing of promises forbear they: but instantly their lusting thoughts are satiate with lewdness, nothing of speech they remember, nothing of perjuries care.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

Henceforth let no woman believe a man's oath, let none believe that a man's speeches can be trustworthy. They, while their mind desires something and longs eagerly to gain it, nothing fear to swear, nothing spare to promise; but as soon as the lust of their greedy mind is satisfied, they fear not then their words, they heed not their perjuries.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

Hereafter let; no woman trust man's promises, or hope for faithful words; for when they wish to attain their desires, there is nothing they will not swear, no promise do they scruple to make: but once their desires have been satisfied, they fear no broken words and care nothing for their perjuries.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

Never let maid believe a lover's oath;
Nor hope a man be faithful to his troth;
Long as men's hearts are spurred by keen desire,
No oath they shrink from and no promise spare;
Soon as their sated lust begins to tire
No oath they heed and nought for falsehood care.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

Henceforth, no woman trust the oath of man,
No woman dream the word of man is true:
They, whensoe'er they lust for anything,
Swear every oath and every promise make,
But, when their eager lust is satisfied,
Nor reck of oaths nor promises regard.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

Henceforth let never listening maid believe
Protesting man! When their false hearts conceive
The selfish wish, to all but pleasure blind,
No words they spare, no oaths unuttered leave.
But when possession cloys their pampered mind,
No care have they for oaths, no words their honour bind.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

From this hour
may no woman believe what men say, for men (minds set upon a single end) will promise everything,
but once the shrewd mind satisfies its passion, it plunges forward (the broken promise merely words that trail behind tall bravery).
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

Let no woman ever believe any oath that a man swears,
or ever expect him to keep faith with his fine speeches!
When they want something, when they are anxious to get it,
they take oaths without fear, and pour out promises freely;
but just as soon as their hot desire is sated,
none of their lies & deceptions ever disturb them.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

From now on let no woman believe a man's sworn promises.
From now on let no woman hope a man's talk is true.
So long as their desiring minds are eager to get something,
they swear to anything. No promise do they spare.
But as soon as the lust in their desirous intent is gratified,
they remember nothing they said, they care nothing for their lies.
[tr. Banks (1997)]

Now, no woman should believe a man’s pledges,
or believe there’s any truth in a man’s words:
when their minds are intent on their desire,
they have no fear of oaths, don’t spare their promises:
but as soon as the lust of their eager mind is slaked
they fear no words, they care nothing for perjury.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

Henceforth let no woman trust a man's sworn promise,
or hope that he'll ever be true to his given word,
for as long as his lustful heart is bent on possession
he'll shrink from no oath, stop short at no promises,
but the moment hte urge of his ardent mind is sated
he forgets all he's said, breaks oaths without a tremor.
[tr. Green (2005)]

Now already let no woman trust a man swearing,
let none hope that the speeches of man are faithful,
for whom while the desiring mind is eager to grasp something,
They fear to swear nothing, they spare to promise nothing.
But as soon as the lust of the desiring mind has been satisfied,
They feared the words as nothing, they care for the false oaths not at all.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

And you, Eumenides, with snaky hair,
Who for men's crimes due chastisements prepare;
Whose inward rage sits pictur'd on your brows;
O, hither come, and listen to my woes!
Woes pour'd in torture from my inmost soul,
Where burning phrenzy, and wild tumult roll!
Rack'd is this breast with no fictitious pain;
Then hear my pray'r, just maids, nor hear in vain!
And grant that Theseus, and his race may share
Such fate accurst, as now I'm doom'd to bear!
[tr. Nott (1795)]

Ye, who avenge their crimes on all mankind,
Furies, whose hair with angry snakes entwined
Paint on the threatening brow the hell-born breast,
Haste, hither haste, and hear my fell request.
'Tis helpless frenzy, senseless, blind despair;
Teach me, 'tis all that's left, my frantic prayer;
Rend from my secret heart each cold restraint,
And pour forth all my soul in my complaint.
Since then it warmly flows from heartfelt pain,
Let me not speak my rage, my grief in vain;
But grant, that still the reckless, ruthless mind
Which made him fly, and leave a wretch behind,
May guide, may urge his life with headlong pace,
Till Theseus curse alike himself and all his race
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

Come ye that wreak on man his guilt with retribution dire,
Ye maids, whose snake-wreathed brows bespeak your bosoms' vengeful ire!
Come ye , and hearken to the curse which I, of sense forlorn,
Hurl from the ruins of a heart with mighty anguish torn!
Though there be fury in my words, and madness in my brain,
Let not my cry of woe and wrong assail your ears in vain!
Urge the false heart that left me here still on with head long chase
From ill to worse, till Theseus curse himself and all his race!
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

Ye powers ! who to the crimes of men dire chastisement assign;
Eumenides! around whose heads the snaky ringlets twine;
Whose brows portray the hellish wrath that rankles in your breast;
Oh! hither, hither haste, and list to this the sad request
Which from my inmost soul, alas! to misery consigned,
I'm forced to pour -- a helpless wretch, with burning madness blind;
And since even from my bosom's depths these bursts of anguish stream,
Oh, doom them not to vanish like an airy, idle dream,
But let him in that soul, in which he has abandon'd me,
Bring on himself and all his race death and black infamy.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Then, O sworn to requite man's evil wrathfully, Powers
Gracious, on whose grim brows, with viper tresses inorbed,
Looks red-breathing forth your bosom's feverous anger;
Now, yea now come surely, to these loud miseries harken,
All I cry, the afflicted, of inmost marrow arising,
Desolate, hot with pain, with blinding fury bewilder'd.
Yet, for of heart they spring, grief's children truly begotten,
Verily, Gods, these moans you will not idly to perish.
But with counsel of evil as he forsook me deceiving,
Death to his house, to his heart, bring also counsel of evil.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Therefore, O you who 'venge man's deed with penalties direful,
Eumenides! aye wont to bind with viperous hairlocks
Foreheads, -- Oh, deign outspeak fierce wrath from bosom outbreathing,
Hither, Oh hither, speed, and lend you all ear to my grievance,
Which now sad I (alas!) outpour from innermost vitals
Maugre my will, sans help, blind, fired with furious madness.
And, as indeed all spring from veriest core of my bosom,
Suffer you not the cause of grief and woe to evanish;
But with the Will wherewith could Theseus leave me in loneness,
Goddesses! bid that Will lead him, lead his, to destruction.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

Wherefore you requiters of men's deeds with avenging pains, O Eumenides, whose front enwreathed with serpent-locks blazons the wrath exhaled from your bosom, come here, here, listen to my complaint, which I, sad wretch, am urged to outpour from my innermost marrow, helpless, burning, and blind with frenzied fury. And since in truth they spring from the very depths of my heart, be unwilling to allow my agony to pass unheeded, but with such mind as Theseus forsook me, with like mind, O goddesses, may he bring evil on himself and on his kin.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

Therefore , O ye that visit the deeds of men with vengeful pains, ye Eumenides, whose foreheads bound with snaky hair bear on their front the wrath which breathes from your breast, hither, hither haste, hear my complaints which I ( ah , unhappy!) utter from my inmost heart perforce, helpless, burning, blinded with raging frenzy. For since my woes come truthfully from the depths of my heart, suffer not ye my grief to come to nothing but even as Theseus left me desolate, so, goddesses, may he bring ruin on himself and his own!
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

Wherefore, ye Furies, ye who on men's sin
Due punishment inflict, whose very hair
In viper's form reveals the rage within,
Hither in judgment come and hear my prayer;
The only outlet for my helpless wrath,
As blind with rage I burn and pour it forth.
And as I launch my curses from my soul,
I charge you guard them till they reach their goal;
God grant the shallow heart that left me here
Bring death on those that Theseus holds most dear.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

Ye, then, who vindicate their deeds of shame
On guilty men; whose vengeance-breathing breast
Speaks in the snaky hair, the withering flame:
Come, Furies, come! Give ear to the request
An injured woman makes, with maddening woe oppressed.
Since forced by sad misfortune I complain;
Since deep and true the sorrows that I bear;
Ah, let not my petition be in vain!
Let the vile author of my misery share
As sad a fate, as gloomy a despair,
As brought his cruel deed on wretched me!
[tr. Wright (1926)]

Hear me gods whose antiquity flows backward beyond the time of man, whose vengeance falls on all, O wake again
with snakes circling your foreheads and now releasing rivers of blood pouring from sightless eyes,
make these the signals of the anger (red coals in your breasts) that brings you out of the forgotten
womb of time. Hear what I say, look at my heart, wrapped round with flames, my soul in madness, O remember
these last words spoken from my heart, O gods! And as Theseus has now forgotten me, make him a stranger
to his own soul, so that the architecture of his mind falls to ruin.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

O Furies, charged with vengeance that punishes evil,
you whose bleak foreheads are girded with writhing serpents
which clearly display the outrage yo7ur cold hearts keep hidden,
come here to me quickly, listen to my lamentation,
which I deliver in pain from the depths of my passion,
unwilling forced to, afire, blinded with madness!
-- Since what I say is the truth, since I say it sincerely,
do not allow my lament to fade with out issue:
but just as Theseus carelessly left me to die here,
may that same carelessness ruin him and his dearest!
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

Therefore, you that punish with avenging price men's crimes,
Furies, Eumenides, whose brows, bound with serpents for tresses,
announce the rages of your panting chests,
Be here! Be here! Respond to my complaints
which I -- pitiful I -- am forced to bring out from my very bones,
helpless, burning, blind with mindless rage.
Since those are true-born from my deepest heart,
do not allow my suffering to gutter out.
Goddesses, may the same intent that left me behind, alone,
defile Theseus himself and his own with death.
[tr. Banks (1997)]

So you Eumenides who punish by avenging
the crimes of men, your foreheads crowned
with snaky hair, bearing anger in your breath,
here, here, come to me, listen to my complaints,
that I, wretched alas, force, weakened, burning,
out of the marrow of my bones, blind with mad rage.
Since these truths are born in the depths of my breast,
you won’t allow my lament to pass you by,
but as Theseus left me alone, through his intent,
goddesses, by that will, pursue him and his with murder.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

So, you whose vengeful exactions answer men's crimes, you Furies whose snake-wreathed brows announce the wrath gusting up from your secret hearts, I summon you here to me now: give ear to the complaints which I in my misery am forced to dredge up from the inmost core of my being -- helpless, burning, blinded by mindless frenzy. But since they're the true products of my private heart, don't let my grief all go for nothing; rather in just such a mood as Theseus abandoned me to my lonely fate, let him, goddesses, now doom both himnself and his!
[tr. Green (2005)]

Wherefore, Eumenides, punishing the deeds of men with avenging penalty,
to whom the forehead having been encircled with snaky hair
carries forth angers breathing out of the chest,
here come here, hear my complaints,
which I , alas wretched, have been compelled to bring forth
from the bottom marrows helpless, burning, blind with crazy fury.
Since such things are being born from the deepest chest,
you don't suffer our grief to wane,
but with what type of mind Theseus left me alone,
let him pollute both himself and his own with death, goddesses
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

My nymph averr'd, that mine alone
She'd be, and Jove himself despise;
Tho' courted to partake his throne,
And reign the empress of the skies!
Thus did the flatt'rer fondly swear;
But what, alas, are women's vows?
Fit to be written but on air,
Or on the stream that swiftly flows!
[tr. Nott (1795), # 67]

My Fair says, she no spouse but me
Would wed, though Jove himself were he.
She says it: But I deem
That what the fair to lovers swear
Should be inscribed upon the air
Or in the running stream.
[tr. Lamb (1821), # 71]

My Mistress tells me oft, that she
Would not prefer Great Jove to me.
She tells me: -- but I know full well
What women eager lovers tell
Ought to be written on the breeze,
The running streams, and flowing seas.
[tr. Creasy (1843)]

My mistress says, there's not a man
Of all the many swains she knows,
She'd rather wed than me, not one
Though Jove himself were to propose.
She says so; -- but what woman says
To him who fancies he has caught her,
'Tis only fit it should be writ
In air or in the running water.
[tr. T. Martin (1861)]

Lesbia declares she'd marry none but me,
Not even Jove, should he her wooer be;
She says so: but on wind and rapid wave
A woman's troth to her fond swain engrave.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

Saith my lady to me, no man shall wed me, but only
Thou; no other if e'en Jove should approach me to woo;
Yea; but a woman's words, when a lover fondly desireth,
Limn them on ebbing floods, write on a wintery gale.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Never, my woman oft says, with any of men will she mate be,
Save wi' my own very self, ask her though Jupiter deign!
Says she: but womanly words that are spoken to desireful lover
Ought to be written on wind or upon water that runs.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

My mistress vowed she'd never wed
Another, not if Jove e'en sought her;
But women's oaths, 'tis ever said,
Are writ in wind and running water.
[tr. Harvey (1893)]

No one, says my lady, would she rather wed than myself, not even if Jupiter himself sought her. Thus she says! but what a woman says to a desirous lover ought fitly to be written on the breezes and in running waters.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

The woman I love says that there is no one whom she would rather marry than me, not if Jupiter himself were to woo her. Says -- but what a woman says to her ardent lover should be written in wind and running water.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

My mistress says no man would she rather marry than me, not even were Jove himself to seek her hand. These are her words: but what a woman says to her eager lover may be writ on the winds and in running water.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

My love declares there's none she'd rather
Wed than me, not Jove the father;
What woman says to men that court her
Is writ on wind or running water.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

None else but me, my lady vows 'tis true,
None else for her, though Jove himself should sue;
She vows, a woman to her love: grave
Such words upon the wind and fleeting wave!
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

"Were Jupiter himself to come
And ask me for his bride,
I would not take him, dear" -- she cries --
"Nor leave my darling's side."
So she pretends: but women's vows
To eager lovers made
Are as unstable as a word
In wind or water graved.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

My woman says that she would rather wear the wedding-veil for me
than anyone, even if Jupiter himself came storming after her;
that's what she says, but when a woman talks to a hungry, ravenous lover,
her words should be written upon the wind and engraved in rapid waters.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

My woman says there is no one whom she'd rather
marry than me, not even Jupiter, if he came courting.
That's what she says -- but what a woman says to a passionate lover
ought to be scribbled on wind, on running water.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

My girl says she’d rather marry no one but me,
not if Jupiter himself were to ask her.
She says: but what a girl says to her eager lover,
should be written on the wind and in running water.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

My woman declares there's no one she'd sooner marry
than me, not even were Jove himself to propose.
She declares -- but a woman's words to her eager lover
should be written on running water, on the wind.
[tr. Green (2005)]

My woman says that she prefers to be married to no one
but me, not even if Jupiter himself should seek her.
She says: but what a woman says to her passionate lover,
she ought to write on the wind and swift-flowing water.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

My woman says that she prefers to marry no one
over me, not even if Jupiter himself should seek her.
She says (these things), but what a woman says to her desirous lover
is fitting to write on the wind and on fast-flowing water.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

My woman says there’s nobody she prefers to marry
than me -- not even if Jupiter himself wooed her,
She says. But what a woman says to a burning lover
One should scribble in the breeze and in the fast-flowing water.
[tr. Benn (2021)]

If gouty pangs, or a rank goatish smell,
Did ever with poor mortal justly dwell;
Thy rival, Virro, to console thy care,
Hath got of each disease an ample share:
For, when in hot embrace the lovers burn,
She's choak'd with stench, and he with gout is torn.
[tr. Nott (1795) #68]

An of a goat-stink damned from armpits fusty one suffer,
Or if a crippling gout worthily any one rack,
'Tis that rival o' thine who lief in loves of you meddles,
And, by a wondrous fate, gains him the twain of such ills.
For that, oft as he ..., so oft that penance be two-fold;
Stifles her stench of goat, he too is kilt by his gout.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

If ever anyone was deservedly cursed with an atrocious goat-stench from armpits, or if limping gout did justly gnaw one, it is your rival, who occupies himself with your love, and who wondrously has obtained each these ills from you. For as often as he takes his pleasure, he just as often takes vengeance on both; herself he prostrates by his stink, he is slain by his gout.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

If there ever was a good fellow afflicted with rankness, or one who was racked for his sins with the gout, your rival who shares your privileges has got both from you to a marvel. Whenever they meet, they both pay dear for it; she is overwhelmed with the gust, he half dead with the gout.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1913)]

If ever honest fellow was afflicted
With goatish armpits, or a worthy dame
In all her limbs by gout was held constricted,
Then, my good Virro, Mr. What's his name,
Who shares your mistress with you, now must see
That he in both is made your legatee.
He pays a double price for every bout:
His smell offends her, she gives him her gout.
[tr. Wright (1926)]

My friend, your rival (if anyone) deserves the curses that have fallen upon him,
for the smell of a goat leaps from his armpits and he is woe fully lamed by fiery sciatica.
But here's a double miracle: since he has inherited your diseases
when he sleeps with your lady she faints away (killed maybe) by the vicious
goat hidden in his arms, while he, poor bastard, lies impotent, weak with the frantic pain
rising from his sciatica.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

If anyone ever deserved such underarm goatodor
or ever merited gout's terrible swellings,
it's that rival of yours, who's sharing not only your mistress
but -- quite miraculously -- your diseases also!
Whenever he fucks her, both of them suffer your vengeance:
she gets your goat & he's the one that your gout gets.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

If a goat’s smell under the arms rightly prevents anyone,
or if a slow gout deservedly cripples them,
your rival, who keeps your lover busy,
is discovered by you to be wonderfully sick with both.
Now whenever he fucks her, you’re revenged on the pair:
she’s troubled by the smell, he’s ruined by the gout.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

If the damnable goat in the armpits justly hurt anyone,
or limping gout ever rightfully caused pain,
that rival of yours, busy humping your shared lover,
by contracting both maladies wonderfully fits the bill:
Every time that he fucks, he punishes both parties:
the odor sickens her, the gout slays him.
[tr. Green (2005)]

At once to quench an ancient flame, I own,
Is truly hard; but still no efforts spare;
On this thy peace depends, on this alone;
Then possible, or not, o conquer there!
[tr. Nott (1795), # 73 "To Himself"]

'Tis hard to lay long-cherish'd love aside;
'Tis hard at once. But 'tis your only plan;
'Tis all your hope. This love must be defied;
Nor think you cannot, but assert you can.
[tr. Lamb (1821), "The Lover's Petition (To Himself)"]

'Tis hard at once to fling a love away,
That has been cherish'd with the faith of years.
'Tis hard -- but 'tis thy duty. Come what may,
Crush every record of its joys, its fears!
[tr. T. Martin (1861), "Remorse"]

'Tis hard to quench at once a long-nursed love;
'Tis hard -- but do it howsoe'er you may;
It is your only chance -- our courage prove --
Easy or difficult -- you must obey.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867), "To Himself. The Lover's Petition", st. 4]

What? it is hard long love so lightly to leave in a moment?
Hard; yet abides this one duty, to do it: obey.
Here lies safety alone, one victory must not fail thee.
One last stake to be lost haply, perhaps to be won.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Difficult 'tis indeed long Love to depose of a sudden,
Difficult 'tis, yet do e'en as thou deem to be best.
This be thy safe-guard sole; this conquest needs to be conquered;
This thou must do, thus act, whether thou cannot or can.
[tr. Burton (1893), "In Self-Gratulation"]

It is difficult suddenly to set aside a love of long standing; it is difficult, this is true, no matter how you do it. This is your one salvation, this you must fight to the finish; you must do it, whether it is possible or impossible.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

'Tis hard to lay aside at will
The love of years, -- and yet, I trow,
What men erewhile have borne may still;
Be borne, though hard, and shall be now.
Borne, ay, and done -- done, whatsoe'er
The pain of doing. Here for me,
Lies the sole refuge from despair,
And the end of all this misery.
[tr. Harman (1897), "The Soliloquy of Catullus"]

It is difficult suddenly to lay aside a long-standing love. It is difficult; but you should accomplish it, one way or another. This is the only safety, this you must carry through, this you are to do, whether it is possible or impossible.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

It is not easy, at a moment's notice, to lay aside a life-long love. It is not easy; but yo must do so, what way you can: this is our one salvation and must be attained by you: possible or impossible, do it you must.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

It is difficult suddenly to lay aside a long-cherished love. It is difficult; but you should accomplish it, one way or another. This is the only safety, this you must carry through, this you are to do, whether it is possible or impossible.
[tr. Warre Cornish (Loeb) (1913)]

What can't be done, I still must do --
Forget, if I would live life through.
[tr. Stewart (1915)]

And though 'tis hard to cast a long-worn chain,
Choose any means, but freedom gain.
'Tis safety's only chance, then hold it fast
And do th'impossible at last!
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

Forbear, while heaven frowns, to fume and fret.
Steel your firm courage to escape her sway.
"'Tis hard," you say, "so quickly to forget,"
'Tis hard; but with a will there is a way.
Here is your chance: this victory you must win:
Whether you can nor no, the attempt begin.
[tr. Wright (1926), "The Poet's Prayer"]

For it is hard, hard to throw aside years lived in poisonous love that has tainted your brain
and must end.
If this seems impossible now, you must rise
to salvation.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

It's hard to break off with someone you've loved such a long time:
it's hard, but you have to do it, somehow or another.
Your only chance is to get out from under this sickness,
no matter whether or not you think you're able.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

It’s difficult to suddenly let go of a former love,
it’s difficult, but it would gratify you to do it:
That’s your one salvation. That’s for you to prove,
for you to try, whether you can or not.
[tr. Kline (2001), "Past Kindness: to the Gods"]

It is difficult to suddenly put down a long love
It is difficult, but you should do this in whatever way is pleasing
This is the one safety this must be overcome by you
Do this whether it is possible or not possible
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

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.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

Tho' I hate, yet I love! -- you'll perhaps ask me, how?
I can't tell; but I'm vext, and feel that I do.
[tr. Nott (1795), # 82 "On His Love"]

I hate and love -- ask why -- I can't explain,
I feel 'tis so, and feel it racking pain.
[tr. Lamb (1821), "On His Own Love"]

I hate and love -- wherefore I cannot tell,
But by my tortures know the fact too well.
[tr. T. Martin (1861), "Love's Unreason"]

I have and love. "Why do I so?"
Perhaps you ask. I can't explain:
The bitter fact I only know,
And torture racks my brain.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867), "On His Love"]

Half I hate, half love. How so? one haply requireth.
Nay, I know not; alas feel it, in agony groan.
[tr. Ellis (1871)]

Hate I, and love I. Haps thou'lt ask me wherefore I do so.
Wot I not, yet so I do feeling a torture of pain.
[tr. Burton (1893), "How the Poet Loves"]

I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask. I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

I hate and love. Why I do so, perhaps you ask. I know not, but I feel it, and I am in torment.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

I hate and yet I love; perhaps you ask how this can be. I do not know, but that it is so I feel too well, and live in torment.
[tr. Stuttaford (1912)]

I hate and love. You question "How?" I lack
An answer, but I feel it on the rack.
[tr. MacNaghten (1925)]

I hate and love, nor can the reason tell;
But that I love and hate I know too well.
[tr. Wright (1926), "Odi et Amo"]

I hate and love.
And if you ask me why,
I have no answer, but I discern,
can feel, my senses rooted in eternal torture.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

I hate & love. And if you should ask how I can do both,
I couldn't say; but I feel it, and it shivers me.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

I hate and love. And why, perhaps you’ll ask.
I don’t know: but I feel, and I’m tormented.
[tr. Kline (2001), "Love-Hate"]

I hate and love. You wonder, perhaps, why I'd do that?
I have no idea. I just feel it. I am crucified.
[tr. Green (2005)]

I hate and I love. How do I do that, perhaps you ask?
I don't know. But I feel it is happening and I am tormented.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask.
I do not know, but I feel it being done and I am tormented.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

I hate and I love: you might ask why I do this --
I don’t know, but I see it happen and it’s killing me.
[tr. @sententique (2023)]

I hate, I love; I love, I hate.
But why, you ask again.
I don't know if it's fault, or fate,
This such exquisite pain.
[tr. Hill (2024)]