The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, burned on the water; the poop was beaten gold; purple the sales, and so perfumed that the winds were lovesick with them; the oars were silver, which, to the tunes, the flutes kept stroke, and made the water, which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, it bettered all description: she did lie in her pavilion, cloth of gold of tissue, over picturing that Venus where we see the fancy outwork nature. On each side stood pretty dimple boys, like smiling cupids, with diverse colour fans, whose wind did seem to glow the delicate cheeks, which they did cool, and what they undid, did. Shakespeare
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