Another go...

mē pŏsitō pŭdĕat dēsuescĕrĕ pangĕre plectrō
     carmĭnă, frūstrāta est Mūsa rĕlictă sĭtū
at rĕvŏcārĕ dĭū lătĭtantēs pectŏre causās
     jam lĭbĕat: nam nōn pungĭt ămārus Ămor.
Orsus enim cecinī tener usque ā tē, Annă Marīă,
     docta pŏēta mea scrīpta relīqueram amans.
A, thĕsis est ŏcŭlīs victa et cēssēre capillīs
     Nostra tuīs studia; et vōce loquente tuā;
Quae mala passus erās, eadem sum, magne Catulle,
       Vix poteram tactus stare labante genu.

De Coetibus Doctissimorum Hominum

Concĭlĭum doctī, reverenda Scientia, adībunt
ut tē commendent; per sŭă scrīptă, mihi;
Scrībent, ut semper, tantă volūmĭnă totque
Juppiter! – et placeat cuique Minerva sua;

They'll come, revered Science, to the convention, learned throngs
to commend you to me, through their writings;
They'll write, as they always do, such great tomes, and so many
--Good god!  Let each be proud of their clever skill;

mē pŏsitō pŭdĕat dēsuescĕrĕ pangĕre plectrō

mē pŏsitō pŭdĕat dēsuescĕrĕ pangĕre plectrō

     carmĭnă, frūstrāta est Mūsa relictă sĭtū

ast rĕvŏcārĕ dĭū lătĭtantēs pectŏre causās

     jam libeat: nam nōn pungit ămārus Ămor.

Let me feel shame at growing unaccustomed to writing songs, 

my guitar pick put aside; 

the Muse frustrated, left behind in the dust.

Ah, but let it please me to recall the causes, 

long hidden in my heart,

For now bitter love doesn't prick.