XLIV.

O thou my Sabine farmstead or my Tiburtine, For who Catullus would not harm, avow, kind souls, Thou surely art at Tibur; and who quarrel will Sabine declare thee, stake the world to prove their say:

But be'st a Sabine, be'st a very Tiburtine, 5 At thy suburban villa what delight I knew To spit the tiresome cough away, my lungs' ill guest, My belly brought me, not without a sad weak sin, Because a costly dinner I desir'd too much.

For I, to feast with Sestius, that host unmatch'd, 10 A speech of his, pure poison, every line deep-drugg'd, His speech against the plaintiff Antius, read through.

Whereat a cold chill, soon a gusty cough in fits, Shook, shook me ever, till to thy retreat I fled, There duly dosed with nettle and repose found cure. 15 So, now recruited, thanks superlative, dear farm, I give thee, who so lightly didst avenge that sin.

And trust me, farm, if ever I again take up With Sextius' black charges, I'll rebel no more; But let the chill things damn to cold, to cough, not me 20 That read the volume--no, but him, the man's vain self.