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,And arms with uncleansed slaughter red,A work of danger and distrust,You treat, as one on fire should treadScarce hid by treacherous ashen crust.