And the light Graces with the zone unbound.
TO HIS ATTENDANT.
BOOK I., ODE XXXVIII.
I hate the Persian’s costly pride:
The wreaths with bands of linden tied—
These, boy, delight me not;
Nor where the lingering roses bide
Seek thou for me the spot.
For me be naught but myrtle twined—
The modest myrtle, sweet to bind