Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 1.6.3. lyrics

Still, if my character's flawed by only a few little Faults, and otherwise sound, just as you'd censure Perhaps the blemishes scattered over a noble body: And if no one can accuse me in fairness of greed, Meanness, debauchery, if in truth, in my own praise, I live purely, innocently, loved by my friends: It's due to my father, who though poor, on poor land, Wouldn't send me to Flavius' school, where fine lads The sons of fine centurions went with their tablets And satchel hanging from their left shoulders, carrying Their eight coins as fee on the Ides of each month, But instead he bravely whisked his son off to Rome, To be taught the sk**s senator or knight would expect To be taught his son. And if anyone noticed my clothes And attendants, a big city scene, he'd have thought The expenses were being met from ancestral wealth. He, the truest of guardians, toured all my teachers With me, too. What can I say? He guarded my innocence, And that's virtue's prime ornament, he kept me free Not only from shameful actions, but slander as well. He wasn't afraid someone might call him foolish If I'd only followed the trade of an auctioneer Or collector of dues like himself: I'd not have complained As it turns out I owe him still greater praise and thanks.