Opening Promise — cēnābis
Ironic Adverb — bene
Vocative Address — mī Fabulle
Hyperbaton — paucīs... diēbus
Colloquial Form — dī
Conditional Twist — sī... attuleris
Emphatic Doubling — bonam atque magnam
Litotes — nōn sine
Loaded Adjective — candidā
Polysyndeton — et... et... et
Double Meaning — sale
Onomatopoeia — cachinnīs
Parenthetical — inquam
Neoteric Term — venuste
Repetition — cēnābis bene
Self-Reference — tuī Catullī
Diminutive — sacculus
Ironic Reversal — plēnus
Comic Image — arāneārum
Pivotal Turn — sed contrā
Neoteric Values — merōs amōrēs
Neoteric Term — suāvius
Neoteric Term — elegantius
Gift of Perfume — unguentum
Lesbia Reference — meae puellae
Plural Deities — Venerēs
Plural Deities — Cupīdinēs
Sensory Verb — olfaciēs
Comic Climax — tōtum... nāsum
Ring Composition — Fabulle
Opening Promise — cēnābis
Line 1
What's happening: BAM — the very first word is a promise of hospitality. "You will dine..." sounds wonderfully generous, doesn't it? Catullus positions himself as the gracious host, inviting his dear friend over for dinner. But wait for it — by line 3, we discover the catch. This isn't a genuine invitation; it's a set-up for the joke. The confident future tense cēnābis creates expectations that the rest of the poem will hilariously demolish. It's like someone saying "I'll take you out to dinner!" and then adding "...if you bring your wallet, the food, and the restaurant."
In an exam: "The confident future cēnābis ('you will dine') opens the poem with an apparent promise of hospitality, establishing conventional expectations of host-guest relations that the poem will proceed to subvert through increasingly absurd conditions."
Ironic Adverb — bene
Lines 1, 7
What's happening: "Well" — such a simple word, but Catullus deploys it with devastating irony. You'll dine well... but only if YOU bring everything! The word appears twice in the poem (lines 1 and 7), creating a frame around the escalating conditions. By the time we hit cēnābis bene for the second time, we understand the joke: the quality of the dinner depends entirely on what the guest provides. It's like a restaurant promising "fine dining" and then handing you an apron and pointing to the kitchen.
In an exam: "The adverb bene ('well'), strategically repeated in lines 1 and 7, acquires increasing ironic weight as the reader learns that the promised 'good' dining experience depends entirely upon the guest's own contributions."
Vocative Address — mī Fabulle
Line 1
What's happening: "My Fabullus" — that possessive mī is dripping with affection. This isn't just any old friend; this is Catullus's dear Fabullus. The warmth of the address makes the outrageous conditions that follow even funnier. It's the poetic equivalent of putting your arm around someone's shoulder while simultaneously picking their pocket. The intimacy of mī also establishes the casual, conversational register that characterises neoteric poetry — this isn't formal verse, it's a note between mates.
In an exam: "The affectionate vocative mī Fabulle ('my dear Fabullus') immediately establishes intimacy and warmth, creating a contrast with the humorously self-serving conditions that follow and signalling the poem's informal, neoteric register."
Hyperbaton — paucīs... diēbus
Line 2
What's happening: "In a few... days" — but the words are split apart! Paucīs starts line 2 and diēbus ends it, with a whole conditional clause jammed in between. This hyperbaton (fancy word for word separation) does something clever: it makes the timing wonderfully vague. "In a few days" sounds definite, but by splitting the phrase, Catullus makes it feel more like "oh, sometime soonish, maybe, if the gods are on board." It's the ancient equivalent of "let's do lunch" — everyone knows it's not happening any time soon.
In an exam: "The hyperbaton paucīs... diēbus ('in a few days'), interrupted by the conditional clause sī tibi dī favent, emphasises the vagueness of the invitation's timing while demonstrating Catullus's characteristic playfulness with word order."
Colloquial Form — dī
Line 2
What's happening: Dī instead of deī — it's the everyday, colloquial form. You wouldn't use this in a formal speech or a grand epic; it's the kind of Latin you'd hear in the street or between friends. This single vowel tells us everything about the poem's register: chatty, informal, intimate. Catullus isn't writing for the ages here (well, he is, but he's pretending not to); he's just dropping a note to his mate. The casual dī sits perfectly in this mock-serious invitation.
In an exam: "The colloquial nominative dī (for deī) contributes to the poem's informal, conversational register, reflecting the neoteric preference for everyday language over elevated poetic diction."
Conditional Twist — sī... attuleris
Line 3
What's happening: HERE'S THE CATCH! After all that warm-up — "you'll dine well, my dear friend, at my place" — we get the devastating conditional: "IF you bring..." The future perfect attuleris makes it even more emphatic: you'd better have brought everything BEFORE you arrive, mate. The whole dinner hinges on this condition. It's the classic bait-and-switch: lure them in with promises of hospitality, then reveal they're actually catering their own party. Genius.
In an exam: "The conditional sī... attuleris ('if you bring') provides the poem's pivotal twist, subverting the opening promise of hospitality. The future perfect tense emphasises that the condition must be fulfilled prior to arrival, underscoring Catullus's mock-demanding posture."
Emphatic Doubling — bonam atque magnam
Line 3
What's happening: Not just ANY dinner — oh no. It has to be GOOD AND SUBSTANTIAL. Bonam atque magnam piles adjective upon adjective, as if Catullus is really emphasising his demands. The coordination with atque (a slightly posher "and") makes it sound almost contractual, like terms and conditions. "The dinner shall be good. The dinner shall also be large. Failure to comply will result in disappointment." The cheek of it! He's inviting you to dinner and specifying the menu requirements YOU must meet!
In an exam: "The emphatic pairing bonam atque magnam ('good and substantial') intensifies the absurdity of Catullus's demands, with the formal conjunction atque lending a mock-serious, almost contractual tone to the guest's obligations."
Litotes — nōn sine
Line 4
What's happening: "Not without" — classic litotes, that rhetorical device where you say the negative of the opposite. Why say "with a pretty girl" when you can say "not without a pretty girl"? It sounds coy, almost bashful, as if Catullus is being terribly delicate about his demands. But make no mistake: he's not suggesting, he's REQUIRING. The litotes softens the demand while actually making it more emphatic. It's passive-aggressive poetry at its finest.
In an exam: "The litotes nōn sine ('not without') understatedly demands what is effectively compulsory, the rhetorical softening of expression paradoxically emphasising the absoluteness of the requirement."
Loaded Adjective — candidā
Line 4
What's happening: Candida means "bright, shining, radiant" — it's not just about looks but about a kind of glowing attractiveness. This is a loaded word in Catullus's vocabulary: it's the same word he'll use for his beloved Lesbia. There's something almost divine about candidus; it suggests purity, brilliance, desirability. So Fabullus doesn't just need to bring any old date — she needs to be dazzling. No pressure, mate.
In an exam: "The adjective candidā ('radiant, beautiful') carries connotations of luminous attractiveness and purity, elevating the demand for female companionship beyond mere physical presence to an aesthetic requirement consistent with neoteric values."
Polysyndeton — et... et... et
Line 5
What's happening: "And wine AND wit AND laughter" — three ets in a row! This is polysyndeton: piling up conjunctions where one would normally do. The effect is breathless, accumulating, slightly overwhelming. Each et adds another demand to the list, making Fabullus's shopping list grow and grow. It's the ancient equivalent of "and another thing..." — just when you think he's finished, there's MORE. The polysyndeton also creates a rhythm that mimics the abundance he's demanding: everything, everything, EVERYTHING.
In an exam: "The polysyndeton et vīnō et sale et omnibus cachinnīs ('and wine and wit and all laughter') creates an accumulating list effect, the repeated conjunctions emphasising both the quantity and variety of Catullus's demands while lending a breathless, comic rhythm to the catalogue."
Double Meaning — sale
Line 5
What's happening: Sal means "salt" — but it ALSO means "wit" or "cleverness." Same word, two meanings. So when Catullus demands sal, is he asking for table condiments or sparkling conversation? YES. Both. That's the joke. You need to bring the literal ingredients for dinner AND the intellectual spice for the party. It's a classic Catullan pun that rewards readers who catch both meanings. The word sits perfectly between the physical items (wine) and the abstract ones (laughter).
In an exam: "The noun sale exploits the double meaning of Latin sal ('salt' and 'wit'), creating a pun that bridges the list's transition from material provisions (vīnō) to abstract qualities (cachinnīs) while demonstrating Catullus's characteristic linguistic playfulness."
Onomatopoeia — cachinnīs
Line 5
What's happening: Say it out loud: ka-KHIN-nis. Can you hear it? It sounds like laughter! Cachinnus isn't just any laugh — it's a loud, unrestrained guffaw, the kind that makes your shoulders shake. The word itself seems to cackle. Onomatopoeia brings sound into poetry, and this word captures exactly the kind of raucous good humour Catullus wants at his (Fabullus's?) dinner party. Not polite titters but proper belly laughs.
In an exam: "The onomatopoeic cachinnīs ('guffaws, raucous laughter') aurally enacts its meaning through its hard consonants and repeated sounds, suggesting the uninhibited conviviality expected at neoteric gatherings while bringing the poem's soundscape vividly to life."
Parenthetical — inquam
Line 6
What's happening: "I say" — dropped right into the middle of the sentence. This parenthetical interjection is wonderfully conversational, like Catullus tapping Fabullus on the shoulder mid-sentence for emphasis. "If — I'm telling you — you bring these things..." It adds urgency and personality, breaking the flow to insist on his point. It's the Latin equivalent of "honestly" or "seriously" thrown into speech for emphasis. Very chatty, very neoteric.
In an exam: "The parenthetical inquam ('I say') interrupts the conditional clause with conversational emphasis, reinforcing the informal, speech-like register of the poem while adding an insistent, almost pleading quality to the repeated conditions."
Neoteric Term — venuste
Line 6
What's happening: Venustus — "charming, attractive, elegant" — is one of the buzzwords of the neoteric movement. It's related to Venus, the goddess of love and beauty, so calling someone venuste is like saying they embody grace and aesthetic appeal. This is high praise in Catullus's circle, where charm and sophistication matter more than money or political power. By calling Fabullus venuste noster ("our charming fellow"), Catullus marks him as a true member of the in-crowd.
In an exam: "The vocative venuste ('charming one'), etymologically connected to Venus, is a quintessential neoteric value term. Addressing Fabullus with this aesthetic epithet confirms his membership in Catullus's circle, where social charm (venustas) ranks among the highest virtues."
Repetition — cēnābis bene
Lines 1, 7
What's happening: "You will dine well" returns — the exact phrase from line 1 pops up again in line 7. But what a difference context makes! The first time, it sounds like a generous promise. The second time, after all those escalating demands, it's almost threatening: "you'll dine well... (because you're bringing everything yourself, mate)." The repetition creates a structural frame around the conditions, and the irony has now fully blossomed. Same words, completely different meaning.
In an exam: "The verbatim repetition of cēnābis bene ('you will dine well') in line 7 creates ring composition while transforming the phrase's meaning: the initially generous promise is now revealed as ironic, the 'good dining' depending entirely upon the guest's own provisions."
Self-Reference — tuī Catullī
Line 7
What's happening: "Your Catullus" — he names himself! And notice the pronoun: tuī, "your." Just as Fabullus was "my" Fabullus (mī Fabulle) in line 1, now Catullus is "your" Catullus. The possessives mirror each other, suggesting mutual belonging and reciprocal friendship. Even if Catullus can't provide dinner, he's offering something more valuable: himself, as a friend who belongs to Fabullus just as Fabullus belongs to him. Rather sweet, really.
In an exam: "The self-reference tuī Catullī ('your Catullus') creates lexical balance with mī Fabulle from line 1, the reciprocal possessives (tuī/mī) emphasising mutual friendship and suggesting that this relationship transcends material considerations."
Diminutive — sacculus
Line 8
What's happening: Not saccus (money bag) but sacculus — a "little money bag." The diminutive suffix -ulus makes everything sound smaller, cuter, more pathetic. Poor little Catullus with his poor little wallet! The diminutive adds affective colouring: we're meant to feel slightly sorry for him (while also laughing). It's self-deprecating humour, painting himself as charmingly impoverished rather than embarrassingly broke.
In an exam: "The diminutive sacculus ('little money bag') adds affective humour through its suffix, presenting Catullus's poverty in endearing rather than pitiable terms while maintaining the poem's light, self-deprecating tone."
Ironic Reversal — plēnus
Line 8
What's happening: "Full" — what a promising word! A full money bag sounds wonderful. But wait... full of WHAT? Cobwebs! The adjective sets up an expectation of abundance only to dash it hilariously. Plēnus normally implies good things (full granaries, full cups), but here fullness is the problem: the bag is so unused that spiders have moved in. It's like saying "my diary is completely booked... with nothing."
In an exam: "The adjective plēnus ('full') creates ironic reversal, initially suggesting abundance before the genitive arāneārum reveals that this 'fullness' actually signifies complete emptiness. The positive word becomes proof of poverty."
Comic Image — arāneārum
Line 8
What's happening: Cobwebs! What a brilliantly visual, almost proverbial image of neglect and emptiness. The money bag hasn't seen a coin in so long that spiders have set up home. This is poverty you can picture: dusty, abandoned, slightly creepy. It's funnier than just saying "I'm broke" because it's so concrete. You can imagine Catullus opening his wallet and a spider scuttling out. The genitive arāneārum is the punchline of the whole poverty section.
In an exam: "The genitive arāneārum ('of cobwebs') provides a vivid, almost proverbial image of disuse and poverty, the concrete visual detail transforming abstract financial hardship into memorable comic imagery while completing the ironic reversal begun with plēnus."
Pivotal Turn — sed contrā
Line 9
What's happening: "But in return..." — here the poem pivots from material poverty to spiritual wealth. Sed is the adversative conjunction ("but"), and contrā ("in return, on the other hand") emphasises the contrast. Catullus can't offer food, but he CAN offer something else. The turn is crucial to the poem's argument: what I lack in money, I make up for in love. It's the transition from joke to (semi-)serious statement of neoteric values.
In an exam: "The pivotal phrase sed contrā ('but in return') marks the poem's crucial turn from material poverty to spiritual wealth, signalling that Catullus's offering will transcend the physical provisions he cannot supply. The adversative structure sets up the contrast between commercial and aesthetic values central to neoteric ideology."
Neoteric Values — merōs amōrēs
Line 9
What's happening: "Pure love" — merus literally means "unmixed, undiluted" (like wine without water). So merōs amōrēs is love without additives, authentic friendship without ulterior motives. This is what Catullus offers instead of dinner: genuine affection, the real deal. The plural amōrēs might suggest multiple manifestations of love, or simply intensity. Either way, it's priceless — worth more than any meal.
In an exam: "The phrase merōs amōrēs ('pure, undiluted love') offers authentic friendship as recompense for material lack. The adjective merus ('unmixed'), normally applied to wine, transfers connotations of genuine quality and concentration to the abstract noun, suggesting love without pretence or self-interest."
Neoteric Term — suāvius
Line 10
What's happening: Suāvis means "sweet, pleasant, delightful" — it's one of the key aesthetic terms in neoteric vocabulary. The comparative suāvius ("sweeter") suggests there might be something even better than pure love, if such a thing exists. It's a term of sensory and emotional pleasure combined, the kind of refined enjoyment that Catullus's circle prized above all. Not just good, but suāvis.
In an exam: "The comparative suāvius ('sweeter') deploys a key neoteric aesthetic term, suāvis carrying connotations of refined sensory and emotional pleasure. The comparative form suggests an ascending scale of aesthetic value culminating in the gifts Catullus offers."
Neoteric Term — elegantius
Line 10
What's happening: Elegans means "tasteful, refined, discriminating" — the quality of making sophisticated choices. Elegantius ("more elegant") completes the neoteric triple: pure love (merōs amōrēs), sweetness (suāvius), elegance (elegantius). These are the values that matter in Catullus's world, far more than wealth. The poem essentially argues: I may be skint, but I've got taste, charm, and real affection. Beat that.
In an exam: "The comparative elegantius ('more elegant') completes a triad of neoteric value terms, elegantia denoting refined taste and discrimination. Together with suāvius, it articulates an aesthetic philosophy where charm and sophistication outweigh material wealth."
Gift of Perfume — unguentum
Line 11
What's happening: After all the abstract talk of love and elegance, here's something concrete: perfume! Unguentum is scented oil or ointment, a luxury item in the ancient world. But this isn't ordinary perfume — as we're about to learn, it's divine. The gift of perfume pivots the poem toward its absurd climax. Catullus can't offer food, but he can offer something from the gods themselves. The single concrete noun anchors all the abstract values that surround it.
In an exam: "The noun unguentum ('perfume, scented oil') introduces the poem's concrete gift after the abstract values of lines 9-10. As a luxury commodity with sensory appeal, perfume bridges the material and aesthetic realms, preparing for the divine origin that will be revealed."
Lesbia Reference — meae puellae
Line 11
What's happening: "My girlfriend" — mea puella. For readers of Catullus's other poems, this phrase is loaded with significance: it almost certainly refers to Lesbia, the great love of his life. The perfume was given to HER by the gods of love, and now Catullus is re-gifting it. There's something sweetly absurd about this: even his most precious possession, associated with his beloved, he's willing to share with his friend. Friendship runs that deep.
In an exam: "The phrase meae puellae ('my girlfriend') likely alludes to Lesbia, connecting this light poem to the central love relationship of Catullus's corpus. That the divine perfume was given to her suggests its supreme value, making Catullus's willingness to share it with Fabullus a significant gesture of friendship."
Plural Deities — Venerēs
Line 12
What's happening: "Venuses" — wait, plural? Isn't there only one Venus? Welcome to Hellenistic poetry! The plural of deities is a sophisticated Greek convention that Catullus gleefully adopts. Multiple Venuses suggests an overwhelming abundance of love and beauty, as if one goddess couldn't contain all that divine favour. It's excessive, playful, and very much in the neoteric spirit of learned allusion.
In an exam: "The plural Venerēs ('Venuses') adopts a Hellenistic poetic convention of multiplying divine figures, suggesting an abundance of love and beauty beyond what a single deity could represent. The learned allusion marks the poem's sophisticated literary register."
Plural Deities — Cupīdinēs
Line 12
What's happening: "Cupids" — a whole flock of love-gods! Like the plural Venuses, plural Cupids come from Hellenistic artistic and literary tradition (think of all those putti in Renaissance paintings — they inherited the idea). An army of Cupids gifting perfume to Catullus's girlfriend creates an image of overwhelming divine generosity. The combined plurals Venerēs Cupīdinēsque are almost comically abundant.
In an exam: "The plural Cupīdinēs ('Cupids') continues the Hellenistic convention of multiplied deities, the paired plurals Venerēs Cupīdinēsque creating an image of abundant divine love. The enclictic -que links the divine pairs in a single overwhelming gesture of favour."
Sensory Verb — olfaciēs
Line 13
What's happening: "You will smell" — after all this build-up about divine perfume, Catullus gets physical. The future tense olfaciēs creates anticipation: just wait until you catch a whiff of this! The sensory verb engages the reader's imagination directly. We can almost smell it ourselves. And this sensory engagement sets up the absurd punchline: the perfume is SO good that Fabullus will want to become nothing BUT a nose to appreciate it fully.
In an exam: "The future olfaciēs ('you will smell') creates vivid sensory anticipation, directly engaging the reader's imagination in preparation for the poem's climactic absurdity. The verb choice emphasises the perfume's overwhelming olfactory power, which will prompt Fabullus's bizarre wish."
Comic Climax — tōtum... nāsum
Line 14
What's happening: THE PUNCHLINE! "All nose" — tōtum nāsum. The perfume is so incredibly, overwhelmingly, divinely amazing that Fabullus will pray to be transformed into nothing but a giant nose, just to smell it better. It's gloriously absurd. The whole poem has been building to this: the escalating demands, the poverty reveal, the pivot to spiritual gifts, the divine perfume, and now... a wish to become a nose. Catullus ends with a laugh, as all good dinner parties should.
In an exam: "The comic climax tōtum... nāsum ('entirely nose') delivers the poem's absurd punchline, hyperbaton separating the words for emphasis. The image of Fabullus wishing to transform into pure olfactory organ comically hyperbolises the perfume's excellence while providing an unexpectedly physical conclusion to the poem's journey from material to spiritual values."
Ring Composition — Fabulle
Lines 1, 14
What's happening: The poem ends exactly as it began: with "Fabulle." This is ring composition, a structural device where the ending echoes the beginning, creating a satisfying sense of closure. We started with Catullus warmly addressing his friend; we end the same way. But what a journey in between! The repeated vocative frames the whole poem as an intimate address between friends, even as it delivers its punchline. Full circle, back to the friend who started it all.
In an exam: "The vocative Fabulle in line 14 creates ring composition with line 1, the repeated direct address framing the poem's journey from invitation to absurd climax. This structural closure reinforces the poem's nature as intimate communication between friends while satisfying audience expectations of formal completeness."