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The Poems and Fragments of Catullus
Translated in the Metres of the Original

written by "Ellis, Robinson, 1834-1913"
...When those monster birds near grim Stymphalus his arrow Smote to the death; such task bade him a dastardly lord. (115) So that another God might tread that portal of heaven Freely, nor Hebe fair wither a chaste eremite. Yet than abyss more deep thy love, thy depth of emotion; 120 Love which school'd thy lord, made of a master a thrall. Not to a grandsire old so priz'd, so lovely the grandson (120) One dear daughter alone rears i' the soft of his years; He, long-wish'd for, an heir of wealth ancestral arriving,— Scarcely the tablets' marge holds him, a name to the will, 125 Straight all hopes laugh'd down, each baffled kinsman usurping Leaves to repose white hairs, stretches, a vulture, away; (125) Not in her own fond mate so turtle snowy delighteth, Tho' unabash'd, 'tis said, she the voluptuous hours [Pg 86] Snatches a thousand kisses, in amorous extasy biting. 130 Yet, more lightly than all ranges a womanly will. Great their love, their frenzy; but all their frenzy before thee (130) Fail'd, once clasp'd thy lord splendid in aureat hair. Worthy in all or part thee, Laodamia, to rival, Sought me my own sweet love, journey'd awhile to my arms. 135 Round her playing oft ran Cupid thither or hither, Lustrous, array'd in bright broidery, saffron of hue. (135) What, to Catullus alone if a wayward fancy resort not? Must I pale for a stray frailty, the shame of an hour? Nay; lest all too much such jealous folly provoke her. 140 Juno's self, a supreme glory celestial, oft Crushes her eager rage, in wedlock-injury flaring, (140) Knowing yet right well Jove, what a losel is he. Yet, for a man with Gods shall never lawfully match him .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       . 145 .       .       .       .   &nbs...

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