CLEOPATRA IN HER BARGE.

T he barge she sat tn,like a burnished throne,

Burn’d on the water,the poop was beaten gold

Purple the sails,and so perfumed,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.F or her own person

It beggared all descriiption,she did lie

In her pacturing -cloth-of gold-of tissue-

O’er picturing that Venus,where we see

The fancy out work nature,on each side her

Stood pretty – dimpled boys,like smiling cupids,

Whih divers-colourd fans,whose wind did seem

To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,

And what they undid did.