LXXVI.

If to a man bring joy past service dearly remember'd, When to the soul her thought speaks, to be blameless of ill; Faith not rudely profan'd, nor in oath or charter abused Heaven, a God's mis-sworn sanctity, deadly to men. Then doth a life-long pleasure await thee surely, Catullus, 5 Pleasure of all this love's traitorous injury born.

Whatso a man may speak, whom charity leads to another, Whatso enact, by me spoken or acted is all. Waste on a traitorous heart, nor finding kindly requital. Therefore cease, nor still bleed agoniz'd any more. 10

Make thee as iron a soul, thyself draw back from affliction. Yea, tho' a God say nay, be not unhappy for aye. What? it is hard long love so lightly to leave in a moment? Hard; yet abides this one duty, to do it: obey. Here lies safety alone, one victory must not fail thee. 15 One last stake to be lost haply, perhaps to be won.

O great Gods immortal, if you can pity or ever Lighted above dark death's shadow, a help to the lost; Ah! look, a wretch, on me; if white and blameless in all I Liv'd, then take this long canker of anguish away. 20 If to my inmost veins, like dull death drowsily creeping, Every delight, all heart's pleasure it wholly benumbs.

Not anymore I pray for a love so faulty returning, Not that a wanton abide chastely, she may not again. Only for health I ask, a disease so deadly to banish. 25 Gods vouchsafe it, as I ask, that am harmless of ill.