The nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or hill:
Thither from green Tymolus they repair,
And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care;
Thither from fair Pactolus’ golden stream,
Drawn by her art, the curious Naids came.
Nor would the work, when finish’d, please so much
As while she wrought to view each graceful touch;
Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,
Or with quick motion turn’d the spindle round.
Met, vi.