Only by a few touches has Shakespeare excelled his copy in the words of Enobarbus: but he has merely heightened and nowhere altered the effect.
The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burn’d on the water: the poop was beaten gold:
Purple the sails and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar’d all description: she did lie
In her pavilion—cloth-of-gold of tissue—