Their fiery temperaments are ever questing for new delights, for variations, for delightful and artful ways of adding to the pleasure of love. There is a poem extant written by a young Spanish poet to his sloe-eyed, raven-tressed senorita.

No doubt it was sung by him under her balcony while the romantic moon streamed down liquid beams. But the poem quite amply describes this point of kissing with things other than your lips.

Then she kisses with her eyelids,
Kisses with her arching eye-brows,
With her soft cheek softly rubbing,
With her chin and hands and fingers,
All the frame of Manuela,
All her blood and all her spirit,
All melt down to burning kisses.

There, Perhaps fifteen feet away from him, was the light of her love. Yet, by means of her eyes, she was able to kiss him so that their love continued to flower.

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