"Labienus, each hair on your bosom that grows, On your arms, on your legs, with much trouble You shave, and your belly's appurtenance shews Like a newly mown field with its stubble, Thus blooming and sweet, as the breath of the morn. Your mistress entwines you, fond boy. But you've something behind, neatly shaven and shorn, That is scarcely a mistress's toy."