On Pallas Bathing, from a Hymn of Callimachus

Nor oils of balmy scent produce,
Nor mirror for Minerva's use,
Ye nymphs who lave her! she, array'd
In genuine beauty, scorns their aid.
Not even when they left the skies
To seek on Ida's head the prize
From Paris' hand, did Juno deign,
Or Pallas, in the crystal plain
Of Simois' stream her locks to trace,
Or in the mirror's polish'd face,
Though Venus oft with anxious care
Adjusted twice a single hair.