To wash or scour would make her soft hands rough,
Her own ablutions give pursuit enough;
Three baths a day, with balms and perfumes rare,
Refresh her tender limbs. Her long rich hair
Each time she combs and decks with blooming flowers.
No spouse more fit than she the idle hours
Of wealthy lords or kings to recreate,
And grace the splendour of their courtly state;
For men of humbler sort no better guide
Heaven in its wrath to ruin can provide.