Book First, Ode Thirty-Eighth.
I hate the Persian banquet’s pride :1
Boy, fling that gaudy wreath aside ;2
Nor seek in what lone dell the rose,3
To form th’ autumnal chaplet, blows.4
Asks nothing more the myrtle band ;5
Add not a leaf, ’tis my command.6
Well fits it thee, that simple braid,7
Me, quaffing in the vine’s green shade.8