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Oh, this age! How tasteless and ill bred it is!

Catullus

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Catullus
Poet
Writer
Gaius Valerius Catullus
Tasteless
Bred
Ill
Age

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Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love. Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus
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My mind's sunk so low, Claudia, because of you, wrecked itself on your account so bad already, that I couldn't like you if you were the best of women, -or stop loving you, no matter what you do.
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So a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.
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To whom do I give my new elegant little book? Cui dono lepidum novum libellum?
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The confounding of all right and wrong, in wild fury, has averted from us the gracious favor of the gods.
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Who now travels that dark path from whose bourne they say no one returns. [Lat., Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum Illue unde negant redire quemquam.]
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I can imagine no greater misfortune for a cultured people than to see in the hands of the rulers not only the civil, but also the religious power.
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My lady's sparrow is dead, the sparrow which was my lady's delight
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There is nothing more silly than a silly laugh.
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Brother, hello and good-bye. Frater, ave atque vale
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Every one has his faults: but we do not see the wallet on our own backs.
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I hate and love. You ask, perhaps, how can that be? I know not, but I feel the agony.
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Godlike the man who sits at her side, who watches and catches that laughter which (softly) tears me to tatters: nothing is left of me, each time I see her.
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I hate and I love. Perchance you ask why I do that. I know not, but I feel that I do and I am tortured. [Lat., Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.]
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Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.
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For the godly poet must be chaste himself, but there is no need for his verses to be so.
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It is difficult to lay aside a confirmed passion.
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There is nothing more foolish than a foolish laugh. Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est
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I hate and love. And why, perhaps you’ll ask. I don’t know: but I feel, and I’m tormented.
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What a woman says to an eager lover, write it on running water, write it on air.
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