Classic Poem

When your page is more wanton than young Ganymede,
And is far better dressed, as by all is agreed,
Than your sister or wife or your daughter or mother,
As they lie on the couches beside one another;
Do you want me instead at your ivories to stare,
Or seem for your lamps and your tables to care.
If you don't want to think of your guests any harm,
Let the pages who serve us be fresh from the farm,
Unkempt, underhung, without manners at table,
The sons of your herd reeking still of the stable.
Your tastes are betrayed by the look in your eyes;
For minions and morals do not harmonise.