Antony and Cleopatra

I will tell you.

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Burned on the water. The poop was beaten gold,

Purple the sails, and so perfumèd that

The winds were lovesick 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,