Marcian, how can I describe her to you?
The words which suffice for common beauty sound meaningless when I would use them to depict Veranilda.

Shall I tell you that she has hair of the purest gold, eyes brighter than the sky at noon, lips like the flower of the pomegranate, a cheek so fair, so soft--nay, you may well laugh at these idle phrases--' 'Not your phrases,' said Marcian, 'but your voice as it utters them sets me smiling.

Talk on.

The chaste goddess who beams above us inspire you with worthy terms!' 'There you speak to the point,' pursued Basil ardently.

'For Veranilda is chaste as she is beautiful.