The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
Burnt on the water.
The poop was beaten gold,
Purple the sails, and so perfumèd that
The winds were love-sick 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 amorous of their strokes.
For her own person,
It beggar'd all description: she did lie
In her pavilion—cloth of gold, of tissue—
O'er-picturing that Venus where we see
The fancy outwork nature.
Who knows where happy thoughts may lead engaged upon a pleasant task on a day such as this? I am most happy to share this day with you Will S. ***CV