Her eyes of bright unwinking glaze
   All imperturbable do not
   Even make pretences to regard
   The justing absence of her stays,
   Where many a Tyrian gallipot
   Excites desire with spilth of nard.
   The bistred rims above the fard
   Of cheeks as red as bergamot
   Attest that no shamefaced delays
   Will clog fulfilment, nor retard
   Full payment of the Cyprian’s praise
   Down to the last remorseful jot.
   Hail priestess of we know not what
   Strange cult of Mycenean days!

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