Classic Poem

The softest of eunuch's more manly than you,
Or Atys himself whom the castrated crew
Proclaim at Celaenae as lord of their rout
While they worship the Mother with maddening shout:
And yet of the seats in the theatre you prate,
Of edicts and stripes, Ides and clasps, and estate;
And point at us poor men the finger of scorn
Which with pumice-stone rubbings you love to adorn.
It may be perhaps you can sit as a knight;
But to sit with the husbands you've surely no right.