ODE 38

T O HIS S LAVE

P ERSIAN grandeur I abhor:
Linden-wreathed crowns, avaunt:
Boy, I bid thee not explore
Woods which latest roses haunt.
Try on naught thy busy craft
Save plain myrtle; so arrayed
Thou shalt fetch, I drain, the draugh!
Fitliest 'neath the scant vine-shade.