"The barge she sat in, like a polished throne
Burned on the water: the decks were beaten gold;
The sails were purple, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sicke with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As if longing for their strokes.
For her own person, it beggared all description:
She did lie in her pavillion, on each side of her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With several-coloured fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheekes which they did coole."