C. Valerius Catullus, Carmina
Leonard C. Smithers, Ed.

Though outspent with care and unceasing grief, I am withdrawn, Ortalus, from the learned Virgins, nor is my soul's mind able to bring forth the sweet fruit of the Muses (so much does it waver amidst ills: for but lately the wave of the Lethean stream washes with its flow the poor, pale foot of my brother, whom the land of Troy crushes beneath the Rhoetean shore, stolen from our eyes. [Never again will I hear you speak,] never again, O brother, more lovable than life, will I see you. But surely I will always love you, always will I sing elegies made gloomy by your death, such as the Daulian bird pipes beneath densest shades of foliage, lamenting the lot of slain Itys.—Yet amidst sorrows so deep, O Ortalus, I send you these verses recast from Battiades, lest by chance you should think that your words have slipped from my mind, entrusted to the wandering winds, as it was with that apple, sent as furtive love-token by the wooer, which leapt out from the virgin's chaste bosom; for the hapless girl forgot she had placed it beneath her soft robe—when she starts at her mother's approach, out it is shaken: and down it rolls headlong to the ground, while a tell-tale flush bears witness to the girl's distress.