your sweet laughter. This it is that robs me,
alas, of all my senses. Once I set eyes
on you, Lesbia, my voice is gone
and gone my wits.

My tongue is palsied, a subtle flame
steals down through my limbs, my ears hum
with a noise of their own, and my eyes are veiled
by a twofold night.

Idleness, my dear Catullus, is bad for you.
In your idleness you run riot and want too much.
Idleness has before now ruined kings and
wealthy cities.

Compare the faithful and felicitous translation by William Gladstone. It was published in 1863, five years before Gladstone became Prime Minister under Queen Victoria.

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 my ears bedim.