Classic Poem

AFTER A QUARREL .

Why rave, Catullus, passion-tost?
What's dead and gone, why, count as lost.
Once brightly shone the sun o'erhead,
You fluttering where your lady led
Beloved as shall again be none!
Then many a merry thing was done
That you desired nor she forbade;
Now she forbids, desire were folly;
Seek not what flies! Hang melancholy!
Be cold and hard and cold and harder still.
Catullus hardens: sweet, farewell!
He 'll woo you not against your bent.
But, naughty one, you 'll soon repent
When no one comes at night to woo.
What sort of life is left for you?
Uncourted, unadmired, without
Some one to love, to be teased about,
To kiss, to bite i' the lip?
But you,
Catullus, harden through and through.