In truth Catullus’ wants are small, And little can they really mean, Since he could even count them all. W. F. H. I must, however, take Catullus’ part to a certain extent; he is not so precise in his demands of Lesbia as Du Bellay makes out; in another poem he asks her: Thy kisses dost thou bid me count, And tell thee, Lesbia, what amount My rage for love and thee could tire, And satisfy and cloy desire? And the answer runs: Many as grains of Libyan sand Upon Cyrene’s spicy land From prescient Ammon’s sultry dome To sacred Battus’ ancient tomb; Many as stars that silent ken At night the stolen loves of men. Yes, when the kisses thou shall kiss Have reached a number vast as this, Then may desire at length be stayed, And e’en my madness be allayed: Then when infinity defies The calculations of the wise; Nor evil voice’s deadly charm, Can work the unknown number harm. This being the case, it is a divine blessing that, according to the Finnish saying, “the mouth is not torn by being kissed, nor the hand by being squeezed”: Suu ei kulu suudellessa, Kāsi kāttā annellessa. But even if the mouth is not exactly torn, yet much kissing may be almost harmful; but there is only one remedy to be found for this--“you must heal the hurts by fresh kisses.” Dorat, who may be regarded as a high authority on philematology, expressly says: A second kiss can physic The evil the first has wrought. W. F. H. And Heine, whose authority in these questions should hardly be inferior, holds quite the same theory: If you have kissed my lips quite sore, Then kiss them whole again; If we till evening meet no more, Then hurry will be vain. You have still yet the whole, whole night, My dearest heart, know this: One can in such a long, long night, Kiss much and taste much bliss. I make use of the last of the verses quoted as a transition to the next question we have to investigate, viz., the qualitative aspect of kissing, as I regard it apart from its merely gustative qualities, which have already been considered. The love kiss gleams like a cut diamond with a thousand hues; it is eternally changing as the sun’s shimmer on the waves, and expresses the most diverse states and moods, ranging from humble affection to burning desire. The love kiss “quenches the fire of the lips,” quells and stills longing and desire, but it also burns and arouses regret. Margaret sits at her spinning-wheel, and, in tremulous longing, calls to mind Faust’s ardent kiss: My peace is gone, My heart is sore: ’Tis gone for ever And evermore. And the magic flow Of his talk, the bliss In the clasp of his hand, And, oh, his kiss! My bosom yearns For him alone; Ah, dared I clasp him, And hold, and own!