TO HIS SERVANT.
Horace
Boy, I detest the pomp of the Persians; chaplets, which are woven with
the rind of the linden, displease me; give up the search for the place
where the latter rose abides. It is my particular desire that you make
no laborious addition to the plain myrtle; for myrtle is neither
unbecoming you a servant, nor me, while I quaff under this mantling
vine.
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