Labienus, each hair on your bosom that grows,
On your arms, on your legs, with much trouble
You shave, and your belly's appurtenance shows
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's scarcely a mistress's toy.