Pasithea

I am the queen of Cypriotes. Mine oarsmen, labouring with brown throats, Sang of me many a tender thing. My maidens, girdled loose and braced With gold from bosom to white waist, Praised me between their wool-combing. All that praise Venus all night long With lips like speech and lids like song Praised me till song lost heart to sing. . . . . . . . . .