Book XI, Epigram 39 (Ker)

You were the rocker of my cradle, Charidemus, and guardian of my boyhood, and my constant companion. By now the napkin grows black from the shavings of my beard, and my mistress complains of being pricked by my lips. But to you I have not grown: from you my steward shrinks, at you my treasurer, at you my very house is in a panic! You don't allow me to frolic, nor do you allow me to woo: you wish me to have no liberty, and wish to have all liberty yourself. You take me up, watch me, grumble, heave sighs, and your wrath scarce keeps your hand off the ferule. If I have put on a purple dress or anointed my hair, you cry out: "Never did your father do that "; and with knitted brow you count my cups, as if the jar they came from were one from your own cellar. Desist: I cannot stand a freedman Cato. That I am now a man my mistress will inform you.