Juventius, honey-pot, I snatched from you while you were playing
a tiny kiss, sweeter than ambrosia's sweet.
But no way did I get it for free: an hour or longer,
as I recall, you had me nailed on the cross
while I made abject apologies, yet all my weeping
didn't abate your cruelty one jot.
Oh, the instant I'd done it you dabbed your lips with water,
raised a soft hand and knuckled them clean, to ensure
no trace of my mouth should remain, as though expunging
the filthy saliva of some pissed-on whore.
Since then, what's more, you've never quit making my love life
a living hell, tormenting me every which way,
so that soon my poor kisslet turned from sweet to bitter,
ambrosia no longer, but hellebore.
Well, since such is the penalty for my ill-starred passion,
henceforth I will never snatch another kiss!
By Catullus
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