Wilde

To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear This paltry ages gaudy livery, To let each base hand filch my treasury, To mesh my soul within a womans hair, And be mere Fortunes lackeyed groom, I swear I love it not! these things are less to me Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea, Less than the thistle-down of summer air Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in, Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin. A sophisticated traditional gentlemans cologne, with just the slightest taint of patchoulis passion, tonka beans decadence, the philanthropy of bergamot, moss cynicism, the sharp wit of lavender, and the hopeless romantic longing of jasmine and thyme.