Classic Poem

Nay , nay, my boy—'tis not for me,
This studious pomp of eastern luxury;
Give me no various garlands—fine
With linden twine,
Nor seek, where latest lingering blows
The solitary rose.
Earnest I beg—add not with toilsome pain,
One far sought blossom to the myrtle plain,
For sure, the fragrant myrtle bough
Looks seemliest on thy brow;
Nor me mis-seems, while, underneath the vine,
Close interweaved, I quaff the rosy wine.