Odes From Horace. - To His Attendant. Book The First, Ode The Thirty-Eighth.

Boy, not in these Autumnal bowers Shalt thou the Persian Vest dispose, Of artful fold, and rich brocade; Nor tie in gaudy knots the sprays and flowers. Ah! search not where the latest rose Yet lingers in the sunny glade; Plain be the vest, and simple be the braid! I charge thee with the myrtle wreath Not one resplendent bloom entwine; We both become that modest band, As stretch'd my vineyard's ample shade beneath, Jocund I quaff the rosy wine; While near me thou shalt smiling stand, And fill the sparkling cup with ready hand.