CARMEN LXVII.-LINES ON A WANTON'S DOOR. CATULLUS. Hail door! by husband loved and father too, And when thy mistress was once more a bride, Most sorry dirty jobs; so let us know Why thou art changed, for 'tis reported so That now thy loyalty no more doth hold For that same lord whom thou did'st serve of old. THE DOOR. Now I can safely say, as I do trust To please my lord Cæcilius as I must, 'Tis not my fault, although 'tis said to be, CATULLUS. This brief assertion's not enough for me, THE DOOR. How can I? no one asks or cares to know. CATULLUS. I do, so don't delay the facts to show. THE DOOR. Well, in the first place it is false, I say, When she passed through my portals, not that she Some stronger man should loose his fair bride's zone. CATULLUS. Deed worthy of a father, nobly done! A father makes a cuckold of his son. THE DOOR. Nor is this all that Brixia boasts to know, 'Neath the high peak of the Cycnæan hill; And for Cornelius too, her breast did move. But, door, how know you this? some one will say, Fixed to this post you cannot stir away From your lord's threshold, nor the talk of men Can hear, the house to ope and shut again Is all that you, a door, to do are wont. Full often to her serving maids alone All the dark shameful deeds that she has done, His name to tell, lest he his eyebrows red CARMEN LXVIII.-TO MANLIUS. That thou, whom bitter fortune doth oppress, Dost send, that like a man in ship-wreck's stress I should restore from death and rescue thee, Nor doth great Venus suffer thee to be Refreshed with sleep, nor do the ancient strains Of the sweet muses still thy bosom's wakeful pains ;— This, this it is doth joy my sorrowing heart, But the sharp griefs which mine own bosom rend, When first the white robe was conferred on me, To mix with men's woes some sweet-bitter thing, But now, alas! my brother is no more, All the pursuits I loved away I fling, All the delights are gone I had before, With him our house lies buried, all our joys are o'er. Thou, while thou wast alive, O brother dear, Now have abandoned, once my soul did cheer Thou sayest "'tis a shame thy friend should fly And in Verona's city hide his name, For here on thy forsaken couch doth lie To warm those chilled limbs each man known to fame." Nay, Manlius, call it rather misery, no shame. Forgive me then, if I do not bestow Those gifts on thee which sorrow's whelming tide Hath swept away, I cannot comfort so, No store of writings have I by my side Because at Rome I ever did abide, There is my home, there all my life was spent. Or mind ungracious the request my friend hath sent. |