If you read every poem in every anthology of Greek poetry, you wouldn’t read one poem in which a character of the woman who’s loved is described or matters.
“Dwell, awful Silence, on the shady hills
Among the bleating flocks, and purling rills,
When Pan the reed doth to his lips apply,
Inspiring it with sacred harmony.
Hydriads, and Hamadryads at that sound
In a well order’d measure beat the ground.”
Thomas Stanley | “Pan Piping,” after the Greek of Plato