From A Letter From Lesbia

So, praise the gods, Catullus is away! And let me tend you this advice, my dear: Take any lover that you will, or may, Except a poet.
All of them are queer.
It's just the same- a quarrel or a kiss Is but a tune to play upon his pipe.
He's always hymning that or wailing this; Myself, I much prefer the business type.
That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died- (Oh, most unpleasant- gloomy, tedious words!) I called it sweet, and made believe I cried; The stupid fool! I've always hated birds.

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