And if a kiss is no good, then nought avails. In another passage the same bard says, that were he suddenly on some occasion to feel himself tormented by agony and unrest, no one is to give him bitter medicine--for such he detests--but: Hand me the foaming juice of the vine, Jest and sing from your heart to mine, And if these prove not a remedy sure, Then a pair of red lips you must straight procure. But if these latter avail not to save, May I be laid deep down in the grave. W. F. H. In the case of lovers a kiss is everything; that is the reason why a man stakes his all for a kiss. In _Enthousiasme_ Aarestrup says: Ha, you’re blushing! What red roses Deck your lips! A man were fain to, If a chasm yawned before him, Straightway peril life to gain you. W. F. H. And man craves for it as his noblest reward: From beyond the high green mountains Lamentations fraught with sadness Issue, soft as from a girl’s voice. Then a youth the sound pursueth, And he sees a maiden shackled Fast in fetters thick of roses. Then the fair maid called unto him: “Doughty youth, come here and help me; I’ll be to you as a sister.” But the youth straightway made answer: “In my home I have a sister.” “Doughty youth, come here and help me, For a brother-in-law I’ll choose thee.” Then the lad again made answer: “In my home I have that title.” “Come, young hero, and assist me, And I’ll be thy heart’s belovèd.” Quickly kissed he then the maiden Ere he loosed her from her fetters, Then went homeward with his bride. W. F. H. Thus runs a Servian ballad, and innumerable analogues to it are to be found in the folk-lore of other countries, in ballads as well as tales. It is, you know, for a kiss from the princess’s lovely mouth that the swine-herd sells his wonderful pan. But women are aware, too, of the witchery that dwells on their lips, and the power that lies in their kiss. According to a remarkable _saga_ which forms the subject of one of Heine’s poems, King Harald Hårfager sits at the bottom of the sea in captivity to a mermaid. The king’s head is reposing on her bosom; but, suddenly, a violent tremor thrills him, he hears the Viking shouts which reach him from above, he starts from his dream of love and groans and sighs: And then the King from the depth of his heart Begins sobbing, and wailing, and sighing, When quickly the water-fay over him bends, With loving kisses replying. Man is the slave of the kiss; by a kiss woman tames the fiercest man; by means of a kiss man’s will becomes as wax. Our peasant girls in Denmark know this, too, right well. When they want one of the lads to do them a service they promise him “seven sweet kisses and a bit of white sugar on Whitsunday morning.” “But he will get neither,” they say to themselves.