cento

 

what gift to match thy god-given hour of  happiness

a flower born within a garden close

unknown of cattle uncut of plow

gentled by the air sun-hardened raised by rain

the many boys and many girls long after

 

Catullus gives you greatmost thanks

and he the worst of poets ranks

so much the worst of poets ranks

as you the bestmost of all patrons

 

leave off every thought of any reward

nor ever hope to see a man that’s grateful