Flavius, you would speak of your sweetheart to Catullus, and you could not keep
silent, were she not both ill-mannered and ungraceful. In truth you affect I
know not what hot-blooded whore you love: this you are ashamed to confess. For
your couch, fragrant with garlands and Syrian unguent, in no way mute cries out
that you do not lie alone at night, and also the pillow and bolsters indented
here and there, and the creakings and joggings of the quivering bed: unless you
can silence these, nothing and again nothing avails you to hide your affairs.
And why? You would not display such love-weary loins unless occupied in some
tomfoolery. Therefore, whatever you have for good or ill, tell us! I want to
call you and your loves to heaven in charming verse.