XLI.

Her xaquetilla, to the shape most lithe, Was of cerulean velvet, room supplying For her full bosom’s play, when free and blithe She plied the oar, yet to her form close lying, Which no compression needed, art defying. Two billows heaved within, as on the tide She mastered, with its foam in whiteness vying; And from her ears to every turn of pride Two tiniest silver bells with tinklings sweet replied.