Classic Poem

You rocked my cradle, were my boyhood's guide,
And faithful comrade ever at my side;
And now my beard makes black the shaving-cloth
And these my bristles rouse my lady's wrath,
You think me still the child you used to chide,
My bailiff trembles, pale and terrified,
My roof, too, quakes when your reproof goes forth,
I'm only free to do what you decide.

So if I game or flirt, you mourn your woes;
I use some scent, you scarce refrain from blows.
For that my father never used to do;
So if I wear a cloak of Tyrian hue
Or drink a draught of wine, one might suppose
You had to pay. Bring grumbling to a close,
I hate a freedman who's a Cato too.
Am I a man you ask? My lady knows.