You, Charidemus, who my cradle swung, And watched me all the days that I was young;
You, at whose step the laziest slaves awake, And both the bailiff and the butler quake; The barber’s suds now blacken with my beard, And my rough kisses make the maids afeared; But with reproach your awful eyebrows twitch, And for the cane, I see, your fingers itch.
If something daintily attired I go, Straight you exclaim: “Your father did not so.” And fuming, count the bottles on the board As though my cellar were your private hoard.
Enough, at last: I have done all I can, And your own mistress hails me for a man.