VI: But that, Flavius, hardly nice or honest

But that, Flavius, hardly nice or honest
This thy folly, methinks Catullus also
E'en had known it, a whisper had betray'd thee.

Some she-malady, some unhealthy wanton,
Fires thee verily: thence the shy denial.

Least, you keep not a lonely night of anguish;
Quite too clamorous is that idly-feigning
Couch, with wreaths, with a Syrian odour oozing;
Then that pillow alike at either utmost
Verge deep-dinted asunder, all the trembling
Play, the strenuous unsophistication;
All, O prodigal, all alike betray thee.

Why? sides shrunken, a sullen hip disabled,
Speak thee giddy, declare a misdemeanour.

So, whatever is yours to tell or ill or
Good, confess it. A witty verse awaits thee
And thy lady, to place ye both in heaven.