Classic Poem

Eight times, Clytus, in each year
Birthday gifts to you we bear.
Every month save three or four
Heralds in your natal hour.
Though your cheeks may smoother be
Then a stone worn by the sea,
And your hair more black withal
Than a mulberry ripe to fall;
Though you're softer far than down
Or new cheese, and though you own
Breasts as round and full as those
Virgin brides keep for their spouse;
Yet to us you seem quite worn
With old age, more often born
Than King Priam was of yore
Or the chief of Pylos' shore.
Prithee, cease, this thievish play,
In one year have one birthday.
Or if you don't stop your fun
I shall call you " No man's son."