English

Englished.

Sylo pray pay me my ten Sesterces ,
Then rant and roar as much as you shall please,
Or if that mony takes you, pray give ore
To be a pimp, or else to rant and roar.

Englished.

No one can boast her self so much belov'd,
Truely as Lesbia my affections prov'd;
No faith was ere with such a firm knot bound
As in my love on my part I have found.

Englished.

Quintia is handsome, fair, tall, straight, all these
Very particulars I grant with ease:
But she all ore's not handsome; here's her fault,
In all that bulk, there's not one corne of salt,
Whilst Lesbia fair and handsome too all ore
All graces and all wit from all hath bore.

Englished.

I hate and love, wouldst thou the reason know?
I know not, but I burn and feel it so.

To Quintius.

Quintius if you'll endear Catullus eyes,
Or what he dearer then his eyes doth prize,
Ravish not what is dearer then his eyes,
Or what he dearer then his eyes doth prize.

Englished.

By thy fault is my mind brought to that pass,
That it it's Office quite forgotten has;
For be'est thou best, I cannot wish thee well,
And be'est thou worst, yet must I love thee still.

Englished.

That me alone you lov'd, you once did say,
Nor should I to the King of gods give way,
Then I lov'd thee not as a common dear,
But as a Father doth his children chear;
Now thee I know, more bitterly I smart,
Yet thou to me more light and cheaper art.
What pow'r is this? that such a wrong shoud press
Me to love more, yet wish thee well much lesse.

Female Inconstancy.

My Mistresse sayes she'll marry none but me,
No not if Jove himself a Suitor be:
She sayes so; but what women say to kind
Lovers, we write in rapid streams and wind.

That no fair woman will, wonder not why,
Clap ( Rufus ) under thine her tender thigh;
Not a silk gown shall once melt one of them,
Nor the delights of a transparent gemme.
A scurvy story kills thee, which doth tell
That in thine armpits a fierce goat doth dwell.
Him they all fear full of an ugly stinch,
Nor's 't fit he should lye with a handsome wench;
Wherefore this Noses cursed plague first crush,
Or cease to wonder why they fly you thus.

To Marcus T. Cicero.

In an English Pentastick.

Tully to thee Rome 's eloquent Sole Heir,
The best of all that are, shall be, and were:
I the worst Poet send my best thanks and pray'r,
Ev'n by how much the worst of Poets I,
By so much you the best of Patrones be.