Him rival to the gods I place, <br /> Him loftier yet, if loftier be, <br />Who, Lesbia, sits before thy face, <br /> Who listens and who looks on thee; <br /> <br />Thee smiling soft. Yet this delight <br /> Doth all my sense consign to death; <br />For when thou dawnest on my sight, <br /> Ah, wretched! flits my labouring breath. <br /> <br />My tongue is palsied. Subtly hid <br /> Fire creeps me through from limb to limb: <br />My loud ears tingle all unbid: <br /> Twin clouds of night mine eyes bedim. <br /> <br />Ease is my plague: ease makes thee void, <br /> Catullus, with these vacant hours, <br />And wanton: ease that hath destroyed <br /> Great kings, and states with all their powers.<br /><br />Gaius Valerius Catullus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/no-51-to-lesbia/
