Amid her ruin'd halls she stoodUnblench'd, and fearless to the endGrasp'd the fell snakes, that all her bloodMight with the cold black venom blend,Death's purpose flushing in her face;Nor to our ships the glory gave,That she, no vulgar dame, should graceA triumph, crownless, and a slave.No Persian cumber, boy, for me;I hate your garlands linden-plaited;Leave winter's rose where on the treeIt hangs belated.Wreath me plain myrtle; never thinkPlain myrtle either's wear unfitting,Yours as you wait, mine as I drinkIn vine-bower sitting. The broils that from Metellus date,The secret springs, the dark intrigues,The freaks of Fortune, and the greatConfederate in disastrous leagues,