When you wait for me, throbbing with love, and you stretch me out with thick, moist lips, and from your warm body you release the unknown scent of strange flowers; when, all sighs and fervor, you are trapped in this prison of muscles, and to my satyr kisses you surrender, stealing the purple colors from the roses; Your eyes, inexpressively, half-closed, languid, tranquil, look at my sweet love, in such a way that, if they were to look at you like that, publicly, I should, forgive me, cover them with a discreet vine leaf. ("For propriety”- Artur Azevedo 1855–1908).