XXXVIII.

Cornificius, ill is your Catullus, Ill, ah heaven, a weary weight of anguish, More more weary with every day, with each hour.

You deny me the least, the very lightest Help, one whisper of happy thought to cheer me. 5

Nay, I'm sorrowful. You to slight my passion? Ah! one word, but a tiny word to cheer me, Sad as ever a tear Simonidean.