GetPassage urn:cts:latinLit:phi0893.phi001.perseus-eng2:1.38.5-2.1.12 urn:cts:latinLit:phi0893.phi001.perseus-eng2:1.38.5-2.1.12

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.Let Tragedy's stern muse be muteAwhile; and when your order'd pageHas told Rome's tale, that buskin'd footAgain shall mount the Attic stage,