From out these wide black eyes which are your spirit’s vent,
Heap fires less fierce upon me. O impenitent,
I am no tireless Styx to gird you nine times nine,
I am no lustful Fury to exhaust your lust,
To break your vigor or to make you bite the dust
Or in your bed’s hell turn into a Proserpine.
— Charles Baudelaire, from “Sed Non Satiata (Never Satisfied),” Fluers de mal/Flowers of Evil. Translated by William Aggeler (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954) Originally published 1857.