Him rival to the gods I place (51)
Him rival to the gods I place, Him loftier yet, if loftier be, Who, Lesbia, sits before thy face, Who listens and who looks on thee; Thee smiling soft. Yet this delight Doth all my sense consign to death; For when thou dawnest on my sight, Ah, wretched! flits my labouring breath. My tongue is palsied. Subtly hid Fire creeps me through from limb to limb: My loud ears tingle all unbid: Twin clouds of night mine eyes bedim. Ease is my plague: ease makes thee void, Catullus, with these vacant hours, And wanton: ease that hath destroyed Great kings, and states with all their powers.