HKB
DOOR.
Yet not alone of this, her crag Chinaean abiding Under, a watch-tower set warily, Brixia tells, Brixia, trails whereby his waters Mella the golden, Mother of her, mine own city, Verona the fair. Add Postumius yet, Cornelius also, a twice-told 35 Folly, with whom our light mistress adultery knew. Asks some questioner here "What? a door, yet privy to lewdness? You, from your owner's gate never a minute away? Strange to the talk o' the town? since here, stout timber above you, Hung to the beam, you shut mutely or open again." 40 Many a shameful time I heard her stealthy profession, While to the maids her guilt softly she hinted alone. Spoke unabash'd her amours and named them singly, opining Haply an ear to record fail'd me, a voice to reveal. There was another; enough; his name I gladly dissemble; 45 Lest his lifted brows blush a disorderly rage. Sir, 'twas a long lean suitor; a process huge had assail'd him; 'Twas for a pregnant womb falsely declar'd to be true.
LXVIII.
If, when fortune's wrong with bitter misery whelms thee, Thou thy sad tear-scrawl'd letter, a mark to the storm, Send'st, and bid'st me to succour a stranded seaman of Ocean, Toss'd in foam, from death's door to return thee again; Whom nor softly to rest love's tender sanctity suffers, 5 Lost on a couch of lone slumber, unhappily lain; Nor with melody sweet of poets hoary the Muses Cheer, while worn with grief nightly the soul is awake: Well-contented am I, that thou thy friendship avowest, Ask'st the delights of love from me, the pleasure of hymns; 10 Yet lest all unnoted a kindred story bely thee, Deeming, Mallius, I calls of humanity shun; Hear what a grief is mine, what storm of destiny whelms me. Cease to demand of a soul's misery joy's sacrifice.
Once, what time white robes of manhood first did array me, 15 Whiles in jollity life sported a spring holiday, Youth ran riot enow; right well she knows me, the Goddess, She whose honey delights blend with a bitter annoy. Henceforth dies sweet pleasure, in anguish lost of a brother's Funeral. O poor soul, brother, O heavily ta'en, 20 You all happier hours, you, dying brother, effaced; All our house lies low mournfully buried in you; Quench'd untimely with you joy waits not ever a morrow, Joy which alive your love's bounty fed hour upon hour; Now, since thou liest dead, heart-banish'd wholly desert me 25 Vanities all, each gay freak of a riotous heart.
How then obey? You write 'Let not Verona, Catullus, Stay thee, if here each proud quality, Rome's eminence, Freely the light limbs warms thou leavest coldly to languish,' Infamy lies not there, Mallius, only regret. 30 So forgive me, if I, whom grief so rudely bereaveth, Deal not a joy myself know not, a beggar in all. Books--if they're but scanty, a store full meagre, around me, Rome is alone my life's centre, a mansion of home, Rome my abode, house, hearth; there wanes and waxes a life's span; 35 Hither of all those choice cases attends me but one. Therefore deem not thou aught spiteful bids me deny thee; Say not 'his heart is false, haply, to jealousy leans,' If nor books I send nor flatter sorrow to silence. Trust me, were either mine, either unask'd should appear. 40