Flavius, of your darling to Catullus,
(unless she were unpretty and inelegant)
you'd want to speak nor could keep quiet.
But, you love I don't know what of a feverish
harlot: it shames you to admit this.
Because, that you don't spend the single nights
your to no purpose speechless bed screams,
fragrant with garlands and Syrian oil,
and the bolster equally on this side and that
worn away, and the creaking and
movement of your shaking bed.
There's no point in being quiet about your debauchery.
Why? You wouldn't reveal so sexually tired
sides unless you're doing something silly.
Hence, whatever of good and bad you have,
tell us. I want to describe you and
your love to the sky in my witty verse.

Flāvī, dēliciās tuās Catullō,
nī sint illepidae atque inēlegantēs,
vellēs dīcere nec tacēre possēs.
Vērum nescio quid febrīculōsī
scortī dīligis: hoc pudet fatērī.
Nam te nōn viduās iacēre noctēs
nēquīquam tacitum cubīle clāmat
sertīs ac Syriō fragrāns olīvō,
pulvīnusque peraeque et hic et ille
attrītus, tremulīque quassa lectī
argūtātiō inambulātiōque.
Nam nīl stupra valet nihil tacēre.
Cūr? nōn tam latera ecfutūta pandās,
nī tū quid faciās ineptiārum.
Quārē, quidquid habēs bonī malīque,
dīc nōbīs. Volo tē ac tuōs amōrēs
ad caelum lepidō vocāre versū.

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