Their Persian finery I can’t abide,1
I like not, boy, their wreaths with linden tied ;2
Give o’er the search, through woods and sheltered closes,3
For late-blown roses.4
Plain myrtle does not misbecome my brow,5
Nor thine ; and nothing more elaborate now.6
Studious to please : but ’neath the embowering vine7
Serve me with wine.8