A triumph, crownless, and a slave.




XXXVIII.

PERSICOS ODI.


No Persian cumber, boy, for me;
I hate your garlands linden-plaited;
Leave winter's rose where on the tree
It hangs belated.
Wreath me plain myrtle; never think
Plain myrtle either's wear unfitting,
Yours as you wait, mine as I drink
In vine-bower sitting.




BOOK II.


I.

MOTUM EX METELLO.