Catullus 6

Flavius, of your darling to Catullus,
(unless she were unpretty and inelegant)
you'd want to speak nor could keep quiet.
But, you love I don't know what of a feverish
harlot: you are ashamed to admit this.
For your bed shouts that you don't
sleep widowed nights vainly quiet,
fragrant with garlands and Syrian oil,
and the bolster equally on this side and that
worn away, and the creaking and
movement of your shaking bed.
There's no point in being quiet about your debauchery.
Why? You wouldn't reveal so sexually tired
sides unless you're doing something silly.
Hence, whatever of good and bad you have,
tell us. I want to describe you and
your love to the sky in my witty verse.

Flavi, delicias tuas Catullo,
ni sint illepidae atque inelegantes,
uelles dicere nec tacere posses.
uerum nescio quid febriculosi
scorti diligis: hoc pudet fateri.
nam te non uiduas iacere noctes
nequiquam tacitum cubile clamat
sertis ac Syrio fragrans oliuo,
puluinusque peraeque et hic et ille
attritus, tremulique quassa lecti
argutatio inambulatioque.
nam inista preualet nihil tacere.
cur? non tam latera ecfututa pandas,
ni tu quid facias ineptiarum.
quare, quidquid habes boni malique,
dic nobis. uolo te ac tuos amores
ad caelum lepido uocare uersu.

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