Then let amorous kisses dwell On our lips, begin and tell A Thousand and a Hundred score A Hundred, and a Thousand more.

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All shuffle there; all cough in ink;All wear the carpet with their shoes;All think what other people think;All know the man their neighbour knows,Lord, what would they sayDid their Catullus walk that way?

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My mind's sunk so low, Claudia, because of you, wrecked itself on your account so bad already, that I couldn't like you if you were the best of women,--or stop loving you, no matter what you do.

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Oh, this age! How tasteless and ill-bred it is!

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I love and I hate. How can this be, you ask in vain. I know not, but I feel it to be so and am wracked with pain.

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One attraction of Latin is that you can immerse yourself in the poems of Horace and Catullus without fretting over how to say, Have a nice day.

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I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do so. I do not know, but I feel it, and am in agony.

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It is difficult to lay aside a confirmed passion.

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