Flavi, delicias tuas Catullo,
ni sint illepidae atque inelegantes,
velles dicere nec tacere posses.
Verum nescio quid febriculosi
scorti diligis: hoc pudet fateri.
Nam te non viduas iacere noctes
nequiquam tacitum cubile clamat
sertis ac Syrio fragrans olivo,
pulvinusque peraeque et hic et ille
attritus, tremulique quassa lecti
argutatio inambulatioque.
Nam ibi stat. Pudet nihil tacere.
Cur? Non tam latera ecfututa pandas,
ni tu quid facias ineptiarum.
Quare, quidquid habes boni malique,
dic nobis. Volo te ac tuos amores
ad caelum lepido vocare versu.

Flavius, unless she were unpretty and inelegant, you would want to speak
of your darling to Catullus and you wouldn't be able to keep quiet, but
you love some feverish harlot. You are ashamed to admit this. For your bed
shouts that you, vainly quiet, do not lie for empty nights fragrant with
garlands and Syrian ointment, and the bolster equally worn away on this
side and that, and the creaking and movement of your shaking bed. There's
no point in being quiet about your debauchery. Why? You would not reveal
such tired from debauchery flanks unless you were up to something silly. Therefore
tell us whatever you have, whether its good or bad. I want to describe you
and your love to the sky in my nice little verse.