IN CHARIDEMUM .135
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.
You fear, Ligurra—above all, you long— That I should smite you with a stinging song. This dreadful honour you both fear and hope— Both all in vain; you fall below my scope. The Lybian lion tears the roaring bull, He does not harm the midge along the pool.