Flavius, if your lover were not
Inelegant and unrefined you would want to speak –
Would not be able not to speak – about her to Catullus.
No doubt you’re in love with some feverish
Little slut and it shames you to confess it.
See, for all its silence your bed betrays
The nights you sleep are not sexless:
Steeped in flowers and the oil of Syrian olive,
Knackered and tattered, pillows everywhere,
Creaking and shaking,
The trembling bedstead shattered.
If shame did not rule you, you would reveal all.
Why, you would not flash such toned love-handles
If you were not engaged in some dalliance.
So whatever news you have, be it good or bad,
Tell me. I want to proclaim you and your lover
To the skies in elegant verse.