Şiir 38
Cornificius! ’Tis ill with thy Catullus,
’Tis ill (by Hercules) distressfully:
Iller and iller every day and hour.
Whose soul (as smallest boon and easiest)
With what of comfort hast thou deign’d console?
5
Wi’ thee I’m angered! Dost so prize my love?
Yet some consoling utterance had been well
Though sadder ’twere than Simonídean tears.