And one did lie with garment well thrown back, Showing her snow-white bosom to the moon: Another, as she lightly danced, display'd The fair proportions of her lefthand side, Naked—a lovely picture for the air To wanton with; and her complexion white Strove with the darkening shades. Another bared Her lovely arms and taper fingers all: Another, with her robe high round her neck, Conceal'd her bosom, but a rent below Show'd all her shapely thighs. The Graces smiled, And love, not without hope, did lead me on. Then on th' inviting asphodel they fell, Plucking the dark leaves of the violet flower, And crocus, which, with purple petals rising, Copies the golden rays of the early sun. There, too, the Persian sweetly-smelling marjoram Stretch'd out its neck along the laughing meadow. 88. And the same poet, being passionately fond of flowers, says also in his Alphesibœa— The glorious beauty of her dazzling body Shone brilliant, a sweet sight to every eye; And modesty, a tender blush exciting, Tinted her gentle cheeks with delicate rose: Her waxy hair, in gracefully modell'd curls, Falling as though arranged by sculptor's hand, Waved in the wanton breeze luxuriant. [Sidenote: BEAUTY OF WOMEN.] And in his Io he calls the flowers children of spring, where he says— Strewing around sweet children of the spring. And in his Centaur, which is a drama composed in many metres of various kinds, he calls them children of the meadow— There, too, they did invade the countless host Of all the new-born flowers that deck the fields, Hunting with joy the offspring of the meadows. And in his Bacchus he says— The ivy, lover of the dance, Child of the mirthful year. And in his Ulysses he speaks thus of roses:— And in their hair the Hours' choicest gifts They wore, the flowering, fragrant rose, The loveliest foster-child of spring. And in his Thyestes he says— The brilliant rose, and modest snow-white lily. And in his Minyæ he says— There was full many a store of Venus to view, Dark in the rich flowers in due season ripe. 89. Now there have been many women celebrated for their beauty (for, as Euripides says— E'en an old bard may sing of memory)