Wretched Catullus! cease this madness;
And what is lost e'en think it gone;
Think too, in spite of folly's sadness,
How thy white days once brightly shone;

What time, where'er the nymph would lead thee,
Never shall maid like passion know!
Fast as thy fondest haste could speed thee,
Thou frequent didst delight to go:

There, many a tender jest inventing,
What pleasures waited on thy call!
Whilst, nor refusing, nor consenting,
The blushing fair permitted all.

O, then indeed most bright, most glorious,
Shone the white lustre of each day!
But now, that her neglect's notorious,
Her scorn do thou with scorn repay.

Follow not one, who shuns thee coldly;
Nor longer bear a life of pain;
Be firm, obdurate, suffer boldly;
'Tis but to leave her, and disdain.

Mistress, farewell! now nought can move him,
Catullus hardens into hate:
Nor will he want thee more to love him,
Nor more a thankless girl intreat.

But how, thou false-one! will thy nature
Support this just return of slight?
How wilt thou grieve, when not a creature
Shall ask thee for a single night?

How wilt thou live? who now support thee?
Who now be with thy charms inflam'd?
What youth shall now with bliss transport thee?
Whose now, alas! shalt thou be nam'd?

Whom shall thy wanton kisses smother?
Whose lips thy trembling bites indent?
Hold, hold, Catullus! wretched lover!
Thou must be stubborn, and content.