A few days hence, my dear Fabullus, If the gods grant you that high favour, You shall sup well with your Catullus; For, to ensure the dishes' savour, Yourself shall cater, and shall cull us Best fruits--and wines of choicest flavour. And with you bring your lass--fun--laughter-- All plenty: nor confine your wishes To supernumerary dishes;-- Bring all--and pay the piper after. Rich be your fare--and all fruition, Taste, elegance, and sweet discourses Familiar, on that one condition. For, truth to tell, my wretched purse is In its last stage of inanition, And not a single coin disburses: A cobweb's over it, and in it-- That Spider Want there loves to spin it. Setting aside this lack of coffer, Which you can supply, Fabullus, Accept good welcome--and I offer, For company, your friend Catullus. Yet, though so hard my purse's case is, With such rare unguents I'll present you, Compounded by the Loves and Graces For my dear girl, that you shall scent you With perfume more divine than roses; And after, pray the gods, within you, To change sense, nerve, bone, muscle, sinew, And make you all compact of noses. CURATE.--There you are again bolting out of the course. Sending poor Fabullus to market, without money in his purse,--not a word in the original of fruit-culling and "paying the piper." AQUILIUS.--If Gratian had not the book in his hand, I would boldly assert that it is all there. He will admit it is the entire meaning. CURATE.--With the elegant diction, "paying the piper," indeed! "Haec si, inquam, attuleris, venuste noster." GRATIAN.--Well, I almost think "venuste noster," "my good fellow," or "my pleasant fellow," will allow the freedom of the translation, for it is a free and easy appellative. Come, then, Curate, let us have your accurate version. CURATE.--Perhaps you may think, when you hear it, that I am in the same predicament of blame with Aquilius, and that my criticism was a ruse, to divide the censure pretty equally. AD FABULLUM. Fabullus, if the gods will let you, Before a table I will set you, A few days hence, with welcome hearty, To my domestic dinner-party. That is to say--you bring the food, (Which must be plentiful and good,) With wine--remembering, I presume, For one fair girl I've always room. On these conditions you shall dine Luxurious, boon-companion mine. Seeing that your Catullus' purse Has nought but cobwebs left to nurse, I can but give you in return The loves that undiluted burn; And, something sweeter, neater still-- A scented unguent I'll impart, Which Venus and her Loves distil To please the girl that owns my heart: Which when you smell, this boon--this solely You'll ask the gods to recompose; And metamorphose you, and wholly, To one extensive Roman nose.