No longer gleam with their ancestral fires.380
Her tears flow ever, and her cheeks are wet
With constant rain; as when, on Taurus' top,
The snows are melted by a warming shower.
But look, the palace doors are opening,
And she, reclining on her couch of gold,385
And sick of soul, refuses one by one
The customary garments of her state.
Phaedra: Remove, ye slaves, those bright and gold-wrought robes;
Away with Tyrian purple, and the webs