Volume 3 — 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.