You will dine decadently, my Fabullus, with me
in a few days — if the gods favor you —
and if you bring with you a large, delicious dinner,
and an effervescent girl
and wine, wit, and laughter for all.
If you bring these, I declare, my lovely one,
you will dine well — for Catullus's
purse overflows with cobwebs.
But in return, you will receive my pure affection
or that which is even sweeter and more elegant:
for I will give a perfume, which the Venuses
and Cupids gifted to my girl,
and when you smell it, you will beg the gods
to make every part of you, Fabullus, a nose.
Catullus 13 uses witty exaggeration, social satire, and playful self‑deprecation to poke fun at friendship, hospitality, and the poet’s own poverty. Catullus tells his friend Fabullus that he’ll “dine well” at his house — if Fabullus brings not only the food, but also a girl, wine, wit, and laughter. This reversal of expectations (that the guest must supply everything) turns the conventional Roman dinner invitation on its head, creating an ironic‑comic effect rooted in social norms about hospitality and patronage. Catullus heightens the humor by joking that his purse is “full of cobwebs,” a vivid metaphor for his emptiness that invites amusement rather than pathos. He then promises Fabullus a perfume “given by Venuses and Cupids” that is so wonderful it will make him wish to be “all nose,” a playful, slightly absurd image that blends comic hyperbole with tongue‑in‑cheek sensuality. Rather than exploring emotional depth or romantic fragmentation, Catullus 13 delights in social banter, exaggeration, and the pleasure of clever wordplay.
If I didn’t love you more than I love the eyes in my head,
delightful Calvus, I would loathe you.
Because of this gift of yours,
With the hatred of Vatinius himself:
for what have I done or perhaps what have I said?
Why did you destroy me so bitterly, with so many poems?
May the gods be evil to your client,
who sent you so large a group of scoundrels.
Because if, as I suspect, Sulla
gives you this newfound gift,
it is not terrible for me, but happy and good,
for your works have not yet perished.
Good gods, terrible and disgusting little book!
Which you have evidently sent to your Catullus
so that he would perish
on the festival day of Saturnalia, the greatest day of all days!
No, you clever feind, this will not leave you.
For, if it becomes light, I will run to the
bookshelf of all the scribes; Caesius, Aquinus,
Suffenus, I will collect every poison,
and I will reward you with according punishments.
Meanwhile, farewell and depart here and there,
where you have brought a miserable foot,
a flaw of our age, the worst of poets.
Catullus 14 turns a poetic insult into a playful, exaggerated mock‑rageful complaint about a “terrible gift,” blending friendly banter and hyperbole. Catullus addresses his close friend Licinius Calvus, complaining ironically that if he didn’t love him more than his own eyes, he would hate him for sending such a dreadful book of poetry as a gift. He invokes exaggerated curses on the original sender, jokes about dying from the awful verses on “the best of days,” and threatens to retaliate by gathering equally “poisonous” works to give back in kind. The friendship between Catullus and Calvus is evident in the teasing tone, the complaints are clearly overblown (even while the Catullus insists he loves his friend more than his own eyes), and the imagined revenge — going into bookshops to collect bad poetry — turns petty annoyance into a comic spectacle. Rather than serious anger or personal betrayal, it’s the witty exaggeration, mock outrage, and playful social ritual of gifting that make the poem humorous.
Annals of Volusius, shitted papyrus,
Fulfill my sweetheart's vow.
For the sacred Cupids and Venuses
She promised that if I were forgiven
and I stopped attacking with evil poetry,
she would give the most select writings
of the worst poet to the slow god
to be burned along with the timber and wood.
And in this way, she saw that the worst girl
Wished funnily and charmingly to the gods.
Now, you who were born from the blue ocean,
who dwell in the sacred Idalium and open Urium,
and in Ancona and reedy Cnidus,
and in Amathus and in Golgi,
and in Dyrrachium, the shop of the Adriatic,
record this vow to have been accepted and returned,
if it is not uncharming and unwitty.
But you, meanwhile, enter the fire
full of rust and clumsiness,
annals of Volusius, shitted papyrus.
Catullus 36 uses playful exaggeration to ridicule both the poet himself and the pretensions of others. The poem celebrates the poet’s victory over the critic Volusius by offering a humorous, over-the-top poetic sacrifice to Venus. Catullus calls himself the “worst poet” (pessimus poeta) while simultaneously turning this self-deprecation into a comic spectacle, framing the ritual as both absurd and ceremonious. The tone blends sarcasm, irony, and mock solemnity: Venus is invoked to witness the poet’s tongue-in-cheek complaint, and the exaggerated piety underscores the humor rather than true devotion. By transforming literary rivalry into a theatrical and witty exaggeration, Catullus 36 exemplifies humor, making it distinct from poems about love, lust, or grief.
My lady says that she would prefer to marry none
over me, not even if Jupiter himself should seek her out.
She says this, but what a woman says to her lustful lover
is more fitting to write on the wind or write on rapid water.
Catullus 70 wittily exposes Lesbia’s duplicity and the absurdity of romantic declarations. She claims she would rather marry no one than Catullus — “Nulli se dicit mulier mea nubere malle / quam mihi” — yet Catullus immediately undercuts her, pointing out that what a woman says to a passionate lover is fleeting and unreliable: “in ventō et rapidā scribere oportet aquā” (“[what she says] must be written in wind and running water”). The humor comes from the metaphor: her words are ephemeral, laughably insubstantial, and impossible to take seriously. Rather than expressing heartbreak or jealousy, Catullus mocks the situation, highlighting the irony and playful cynicism of love. The poem turns Lesbia’s declaration into a comic observation about human (and especially romantic) inconsistency.