“
Fair Cʜᴜɴᴅᴀ smiles amid the burning waste, Her brow unturban’d, and her zone unbrac’d; Ten brother-youths with light umbrella’s shade, Or fan with busy hands the panting maid; Loose wave her locks, disclosing, as they break, The rising bosom and averted cheek; Clasp’d round her ivory neck with studs of gold Flows her thin vest in many a gauzy fold; O’er her light limbs the dim transparence plays, And the fair form, it seems to hide, betrays.
— ERASMUS DARWIN