Boy, I hate their empty shows,
Persian garlands I detest,
Bring not me the late-blown rose,
Lingering after all the rest.
Plainer myrtle pleases me,
Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;
Myrtle more becoming thee,
Waiting with thy master's wine.
Horace, Book I. Ode Xxxviii.
William Cowper
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Poem topics: hate, rose, bring, master, beneath, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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