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