illam omnis tectis agrisque effusa iuventus turbaque miratur matrum et prospectat euntem, attonitis inhians animis ut regius ostro velet honos levis umeros, ut fibula crinem auro internectat, Lyciam ut gerat ipsa pharetram et pastoralem praefixa cuspide myrtum.
All the youth, streaming from house and field, and thronging matrons marvel, and gaze at her as she goes; agape with wonder at how the glory of royal purple drapes her smooth shoulders, how the clasp entwines her hair with gold, how her own hands bear a Lycian quiver and the pastoral myrtle tipped with steel.