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QVOD mihi fortuna casuque oppressus acerbo |
1 |
THAT YOU, weighed down as you are by fortune and bitter chance, |
conscriptum hoc lacrimis mittis epistolium, |
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should send me this letter written with tears, |
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naufragum ut eiectum spumantibus aequoris undis |
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to bid me succour a shipwrecked man cast up by the foaming waters of the sea, |
subleuem et a mortis limine restituam, |
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and restore him from the threshold of death, |
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quem neque sancta Venus molli requiescere somno |
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whom neither does holy Venus suffer to rest, |
desertum in lecto caelibe perpetitur, |
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deserted in his widowed bed, |
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nec ueterum dulci scriptorum carmine Musae |
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nor do the Muses charm him with the sweet poetry of ancient writers, |
oblectant, cum mens anxia peruigilat: |
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when his mind keeps anxious vigil; |
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id gratum est mihi, me quoniam tibi dicis amicum, |
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this is grateful to me, since you call me your friend, |
muneraque et Musarum hinc petis et Veneris. |
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and come to me for the gifts both of the Muses and of Love. |
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sed tibi ne mea sint ignota incommoda, Mani, |
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But, dear Manius, that my troubles may not be unknown to you, |
neu me odisse putes hospitis officium, |
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and that you may not think I am tired of the duty of a friend, |
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accipe, quis merser fortunae fluctibus ipse, |
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let me tell you what are the waves of fortune in which I too am whelmed; |
ne amplius a misero dona beata petas. |
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so will you not again require gifts of happiness from one who is unblest. |
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tempore quo primum uestis mihi tradita pura est, |
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At the time when first a white toga was given to me, |
iucundum cum aetas florida uer ageret, |
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when my youth in its flower was keeping jocund springtime, |
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multa satis lusi: non est dea nescia nostri, |
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I wrote merry poems enough; not unknown am I to the goddess |
quae dulcem curis miscet amaritiem. |
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who mingles with her cares a sweet bitterness. |
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sed totum hoc studium luctu fraterna mihi mors |
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But all care for this is gone from me by my brother's death. |
abstulit. o misero frater adempte mihi, |
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Ah me unhappy, who have lost you, my brother! |
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tu mea tu moriens fregisti commoda, frater, |
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You, brother, you by your death have destroyed my happiness; |
tecum una tota est nostra sepulta domus, |
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with you all my house is buried. |
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omnia tecum una perierunt gaudia nostra, |
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With you all my joys have died, |
quae tuus in uita dulcis alebat amor. |
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which your sweet love cherished, while yet you lived. |
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cuius ego interitu tota de mente fugaui |
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By reason of your death, I have banished from all my mind |
haec studia atque omnes delicias animi. |
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these thoughts and all the pleasures of my heart. |
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quare, quod scribis Veronae turpe Catullo |
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And so, when you write, "It is no credit to Catullus to be at Verona; |
esse, quod hic quisquis de meliore nota |
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because here, where I an, all the young men of better condition |
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frigida deserto tepefactet membra cubili, |
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warm their cold limbs in the bed deserted by you; |
id, Mani, non est turpe, magis miserum est. |
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that, Manius, is rather a misfortune than a discredit. |
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ignosces igitur si, quae mihi luctus ademit, |
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You will forgive me then, if I do not render to you those services |
haec tibi non tribuo munera, cum nequeo. |
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which grief has taken from me at a time when I cannot do it. |
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nam, quod scriptorum non magna est copia apud me, |
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For as for my not having plenty of authors at hand, |
hoc fit, quod Romae uiuimus: illa domus, |
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that is because I live at Rome: that is my home, |
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illa mihi sedes, illic mea carpitur aetas; |
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that is my abode, there my life is spent; |
huc una ex multis capsula me sequitur. |
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when I come here only one small box out of many attends me. |
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quod cum ita sit, nolim statuas nos mente maligna |
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And since this is so, I would not have you judge that it is due to niggardly mind |
id facere aut animo non satis ingenuo, |
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or ungenerous temper, that you have not received |
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quod tibi non utriusque petenti copia posta est: |
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a full supply of what you ask of each kind: |
ultro ego deferrem, copia siqua foret. |
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I would have offered it unasked, if I had any such resources. |
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