There’s naught so sweet on earth — heaven may not match it! — as those swift glances of warm, wild bosoms in the dance, when the over-arboring arms hide such ripe, bursting grapes.

SICILIAN SAILOR. (Reclining.) Tell me not of it! Hark ye, lad — fleet interlacings of the limbs — lithe swayings — coyings — flutterings! Lip! Heart! Hip! All graze: unceasing touch and go! Not taste, observe ye, else come satiety. Eh, Pagan? (Nudging.)

TAHITAN SAILOR.

(Reclining on a mat.) Hail, holy nakedness of our dancing girls! — the Heeva-Heeva! Ah! Low veiled, high palmed Tahiti! I still rest me on thy mat, but the soft soil has slid! I saw thee woven in the wood, my mat! Green the first day I brought ye thence; now worn and wilted quite. Ah me! —