Him rival to the gods I place,

   Him loftier yet, if loftier be,

Who, Lesbia, sits before thy face,

   Who listens and who looks on thee;



Thee smiling soft. Yet this delight

   Doth all my sense consign to death;

For when thou dawnest on my sight,

   Ah, wretched! flits my labouring breath.



My tongue is palsied. Subtly hid

   Fire creeps me through from limb to limb:

My loud ears tingle all unbid:

   Twin clouds of night mine eyes bedim.



Ease is my plague: ease makes thee void,

   Catullus, with these vacant hours,

And wanton: ease that hath destroyed

   Great kings, and states with all their powers.