Still with the tears of my loved mistress wet,
Was I amidst the stars primeval set:
Hard by the Virgin's light, and Lions wild,
And to Callisto near, Lycaon's child,
I wheel into the west, and lead the way
Where slow Boötes, with a coy delay,
Beneath the mighty ocean dips his light.
But though the footsteps of the gods by night
Trample me down, yet am I with the dawn
Back to the breast of fair-haired Tethys drawn.
Yet be not wroth, Rhamnusian maid, to hear
The truth I scorn to hide in vulgar fear;
Though on the avowal all the stars cry shame,
The yearning which I feel I must proclaim.
My state so glads me not, but I deplore
I ne'er may grace my mistress' forehead more,
With whom consorting in her virgin bloom,
I bathed in sweets, and quaffed the rich perfume.
But oh, my queen! when lifting up thy gaze
Here to the stars, with torches' festal blaze
Thou dost propitiate Venus, let not me
Be all forgotten or unseen by thee.
Nay, rather unto me, who once was all
Thine own, with bounteous offerings duly call.
Once all thine own? Ay, still thine, only thine!
Why am I doomed among the stars to shine?
Oh, on the forehead of my queen to play
Once more! Grant this, and then Aquarius may
Next to Orion blaze, and all the world
Of starry orbs be into chaos whirled!
-CATULLUS, translated by Theodore Martin.