Catullus 11

Catullus and the end of the affair

This bitter Catullus poem is thought by some to be his last sign-off from Lesbia. It and poem 51, which the same commentators think is probably his first to her, are the only two that he wrote in Sapphic metre. So that would fit neatly, though the evidence is thin. His messengers to her, Furius and Aurelius, come in for very hard words in other poems, notably the grossly rude no. 16. Whether they were really enemies, or friends who had to put up with rough treatment in jest, we don’t know. In the grandiose first part of the poem, Catullus ironically commends Furius and Aurelius for their willingness to travel to the ends of the Earth with him. The high tone is designed to contrast with the very harsh farewell to Lesbia (who is not named) at the end.

See the illustrated blog post here.

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Furi et Aureli, comites Catulli,
sive in extremos penetrabit Indos,
litus ut longe resonante Eoa
tunditur unda,

sive in Hyrcanos Arabasve molles,
seu Sacas sagittiferosve Parthos,
sive quae septemgeminus colorat
aequora Nilus,

sive trans altas gradietur Alpes
Caesaris visens monimenta magni,
Gallicum Rhenum, horribile aequor, ulti-
mosque Britannos,

omnia haec, quaecumque feret voluntas
caelitum, temptare simul parati,
pauca nuntiate meae puellae
non bona dicta.

cum suis vivat valeatque moechis,
quos simul complexa tenet trecentos,
nullum amans vere, sed identidem omnium
ilia rumpens;

nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem,
qui illius culpa cecidit velut prati
ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam
tactus aratro est.

Furius and Aurelius, who will be Catullus’s comrades should he go as far as the furthest Indies, where the shore is pounded by the far-booming Eastern wave, or to the Hyrcanians or the soft Arabs, or the Sacae or the archer-Parthians, or the seas that the Nile dyes with his seven mouths; or if he should cross the lofty Alps and see the memorials of great Caesar, the Gallic Rhine and its dread waters and the faraway Britons; you who are prepared to dare all this, and whatever the will of the heaven-dwellers may bring, tell my girl a thing or two, none of it good. She can live, and good luck to her, with her adulterers, that she holds in her embrace three hundred at a time, not really loving any of them, but bursting all their loins again and again; nor should she expect anything from my love as before, which, by her own fault, has fallen like a flower at the edge of the meadow after it has been touched by the passing plough.

More Poems by Catullus

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