about a "kiss in the bosoms Alpine snow." The kiss is a fair rose, and roses bloom everywhere in these tracks; through witch-craft two vigorous rosebuds sprouted forth on woman's white bosom:
Le bouton d'un beau sein est éclos du baiser;
Une rose y fleurit pour y marquer sa trace;
Fier de l'avoir fait naître, il aime à s'y fixer.
But if the object of one's affection is not within reach, and oscula corporalia are, for that reason, practically impossible, her image may be kissed, as a French song naïvely says:
I will make a portrait gay,
Like to thee, set in a locket;
Kiss it five score times a day
Guard it safely in my pocket.
But if one is not fortunate enough to possess an image of the object of one's affection, then anything that has in any way been associated with, or is reminiscent of, him or her may be kissed. Tovelille exults to King Volmer:
For all my roses I've kissed to death
Whilst thinking, dear love, of thee.
