Translation of CATULLUS,
Poems 2, 2b

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Thrush, darling of my sweetheart,
when the radiant lady of my yearning
is moved to some fond frolic
as meagre solace to her grief,
ah yes, or in the lull of love's fierce fever,
it is then her custom to play with you, hold you
in her bosom, offer to your search
her finger-tip, tempting your sharp bite.
O that, as she does, I could play with you
and lighten my heart's sad cares!
The thought's as dear to me as, to the fleet-footed
maid of fable, was the golden apple
that loosed her long-tied girdle.

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