You tie your sounding crotals to your airy hands, Myrrhinidion my dear, and no sooner have you taken off your dress, than you stretch your tensing limbs. How pretty you are with arms flung in the air, arched flanks and rouge-red breasts!
You begin: your feet step one before the other, daintily hesitate, and softly slide. With body waving like a scarf, you caress your trembling skin and desire bathes your long and fainting eyes.
Suddenly you clap your castanets! Arch yourself on tip-toe, shake your flanks, fling your legs, and may your crashing hands call all the lusts in hordes about your fiercely twisting body.
Let us applaud wildly, whether, smiling over your shoulder, you twitch your convulsed and strongly-muscled croup, or undulate, almost stretched abroad, to the rhythm of your ardent memories.