My love, my Hypsithilla dear,
Joy of my soul, my fondest care!
I prithee grant this little boon,
That I may visit thee at noon;
Which done, I further would intreat,
That none presume to bar the gate;
And that yourself, when I shall come,
Urge no pretence to leave your home;
But be content to stay; and prove
The raptures of unbounded love:
Is it agreed? then quickly say,
Haste, my Catullus, haste away!——
Supine I lie, and, with my meal
Pamper'd, ready to burst I feel.