A bramble thicket, which by ill chance grew
Athwart her path, a cruel, hardy thorn
Pierced her white hand, and lo! the rose was born
From her red blood. But Venus, vexed with pain,
Lest any hurt should touch her hand again,
Bade all at once her unclad Graces sew
A leathern shelter for her hand of snow.
The lovely Graces, draped in floating hair,
No longer left their own hands free and bare,
But bound and covered them as Venus did.