Horace - Ode 1.38 lyrics
My boy: I hate the filigree of Persia. Linden-sewn garlands chafe me with their glamor. Cease and desist your search for the decaying Last rose of summer. I wouldn't want you tangling or defiling Uncontrived myrtle. Myrtle's shade is proper For you who pour, and for me as I drink in Shade of the arbor.