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; And 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PILGRIM [SONG], FR. THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS by JOHN BUNYAN THE RAT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY [1621] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON ON SOME BUTTERCUPS by FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN DEATH by EVGENY ABRAMOVICH BARATYNSKY BLACKSMITH PAIN by OTTO JULIUS BIERBAUM |