Mos umbris, inquit, consueta piacula nigras
Sub lucem pecudes.
It is men's wont to offer to the buried shades the proper expiations of black sheep on the verge of dawn.
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows.
Non voltus, non color unus,
Non comptae mansere comae; sed pectus anhelum,
Et rabie fera corda tument; majorque videri,
Nec mortale sonans.Æneid vi. 47.
Neither face nor hue remained unchanged, nor braided the locks of her hair: but the bosom heaves and the heart swells wild with frenzy, and she is more majestic to behold, and her voice has no mortal sound.
. . . . wingèd Mercury.