Lesbia Recalls Meeting Catullus

That night you came and dined with us there was a wind, then soft rain. My hair was dressed by Aemilia who does it to perfection, and I wore no jewelry except the brooch my husband gave me. When I barked at you he laughed thinking I was scornful of your youth. I barked – and burned. The spark was there. Some call it love, an arrow or an illness, a misfortune not to be evaded. I don’t call it anything but strange. Why one and not another? Dear boy, I said to you that night, love is not a wound. You thought I meant to lure you with those words and so, to end the evening, you read a poem by Sappho. The sweet murmur of your voice makes my heart beat faster. One glance from you and I can’t speak. A thin flame slides beneath my skin, cold sweat trickles down my back, I turn pale as dry grass. Of course I knew that poem and knew you left off both the start and end of it, to hide what you were saying and to whom.