Lesbia admonishes Catullus °
You mock my sparrow
who hopped here, there and everywhere
and nipped my fingers,
my little bird whose name you don't remember
which would be fine
except you mock him
to your cronies at the Club,
and now my name is scrawled on city walls
by sausage vendors.
You mock him and what's worse,
you mock his death with phony tears,
but it is you, not death, who feeds
on every little pretty thing.
His name was Liber, the god that plebs
worship for his wine and freedom.
Now that you know,
you can call him by his name.