# 2 and 2A:
> Sparrow, my girl's pleasure, delight of my girl,
> a thing to delude her, her secret darling
> whom she offers her fingernail to peck at,
> teasing unremittingly your sharp bite,
> when desire overcomes her, shining with love
> my dear, I do not know what longing takes her,
> I think, it is the crest of passion quieted
> gives way to this small solace against sorrow,
> could I but lose myself with you as she does,
> breathe with a light heart, be rid of these cares!
> And for this I am grateful, as rumor had
> it the quick girl was to the golden apple
> that swiftly lowered her girdle long tied.
> Lament, o graces of Venus, and Cupids,
> and cry out loud, men beloved by Her graces.
> Pass here, it's dead, meant so much to my girl, the
> sparrow, the jewel that delighted my girl,
> that lovable in her eyes she loved them less:
> like honey so sweet he was sure to know her,
> with her ever as a girl's with her mother;
> not seizing a moment to stray from her lap,
> silly crazy to hop up here and down there,
> one endless solo to his only goddess.
> Who now? it's hard to walk through tenebrous flume
> down there, where it is granted not one comes back.
> On you be the curse of the blind and dead shade
> Orcus, hell that destroys all beautiful things:
> so you stole my beautiful sparrow from me.
> Why pick evil? why my little fool sparrow?
> It's your doing--my girl's own, darling's sweet
> excellent eyes a little swollen and red.
> Miss her, Catullus? don't be so inept to rail
> at what you see perish when perished is the case.
> Full, sure once, candid the sunny days glowed, solace,
> when you went about it as your girl would have it.
> you loved her as no one else shall ever be loved.
> Billowed in tumultuous joys and affianced,
> why you would but will it, and your girl would have it.
> Full, sure, very candid the sun's rays glowed solace.
> Now she won't love you: you, too, don't be weak, tense, null,
> squirming after she runs off to miss her for life.
> Said as if you meant it: obstinate, obdurate.
> Vale! puling girl. I'm Catullus, obdurate,
> I don't require it and don't beg uninvited:
> won't you be doleful when no one, no one! begs you,
> scalded, every night. Why do you want to live now?
> Now who will be with you? Who'll see that you're lovely?
> Whom will you love now and who will say that you're his?
> Whom will you kiss? Whose morsel of lips will you bite?
> But you, Catullus, your destiny's obdurate.
> Piping, beaus, I'll go whoosh and I'll rumble you
> pathic Aurelius and catamount Furius,
> who mix my versicles with your poor tasties—
> the sound is a mollycoddle's, I'm not up
> to par for chasteness. But the pious poet
> is chaste, his versicles not nailed to his need,
> quick to themselves with no lack of decorum,
> if the sound models not quite pure for pudency
> what incitement it carries passes into
> now I won't say hairless boys', but such hoary
> necks as endure not quite up to feel lumbar.
> Milling thousands of kisses are base or make
> me out some mare of a male—you impute that?
> Piping, beaus, I'll go whoosh and I'll rumble you.
> He'll hie me, par is he? the God divide her,
> he'll hie, see fastest, superior deity,
> quiz—sitting adverse identity—mate, in-
> spect it and audit
> you'll care ridden then, misery hold omens,
> air rip the senses from me; now you smile to
> me—Lesbia's aspect—no life is to spare me
> [voice hoarse in a throat]
> linked tongue set torpid, tenuous support a-
> flame a day mown down, sound tone sopped up in its
> tinkling, in ears hearing, twin eyes tug under
> luminous-a night.