The idle pomp of Persian state,
All ceremonious airs I hate;
Your costly wreathes I would not see
Twined with laborious care for me;
Cease, boy, to rob the leafy bow'rs
Of all their few remaining flow'rs;
The simple myrtle branch instead,
With emerald leaves, shall crown my head;
Whilst under the o'erhanging vine,
I drain the cup you fill with wine,
The myrtle suits your brow and mine.