But when, as I say, “night, wine and youth”—youth, wine and night—come together—“night, the confidante of love and rest”—it is a wonder they are not all plunged head over heels in love. Youth is “material favourable and inclined to love,” highly combustible matter: naphtha itself, the fuel of love’s fire, ready to kindle it. If an ordinary household has seven servants, you will find at least three couples with some liking for one another. Among idle people, how could it be otherwise?

“Living in Rome,” says Aretino’s Lucretia, “at the height of my fortunes—rich, beautiful, young and so well brought up—my social graces, age, beauty and fortune made the whole world admire and love me.” Night alone is enough to set everything on fire. People in great households are so cunning that they make the most of it. Many a gentlewoman, conscious of her imperfections, cosmetics and deceptions, is unwilling to be seen by day; as Castiglione observes, she prefers the night. “She hates daylight like a dormouse and prefers torchlight above everything.” She hates the day like a dormouse and loves torches and candlelight best; if she must go out by day, she wants a very dim, obscure light, like that in a cloth merchant’s shop. She has good reason: “faults lie hidden at night,” and many a lovesick fool is taken in that way.

Gomesius, in On Salt, book 3, chapter 22, gives the example of a Florentine gentleman deceived in his choice of wife. She was so brilliantly decked out in rings and jewels, fine linen, scarves, lace, gold, spangles and showy ornaments that the young man took her for a goddess: he had only ever seen her by torchlight. But the morning after the wedding, when he saw her without her finery in clear daylight, she was so ugly—lean, yellow, wrinkled and so on—such a beastly creature in his eyes, that he could not bear to look at her.

Such matches are often made in Italy, where people have no opportunity to court except on going to church; or, as in Turkey, they see one another from a distance and must exchange few words, if any, until they marry. Then, as Sardus in On the Customs of Nations, book 1, chapter 3, and Boemus relate of the ancient Spartans, the bride is brought into the chamber with her hair bound about her; the bridegroom enters and unties the knot, and must not see her at all by daylight until he has fathered a child by her.

These practices are common in those hotter countries today. But in our northern regions—among Germans, Danes, French and Britons, in mainland Scandinavia and elsewhere—we take greater liberties in such matters. As Boemus says, we allow them to kiss on meeting and parting, “provided there is no lewdness, to take one another to a tavern,” to talk merrily, amuse themselves, play, sing and dance, so long as it is done modestly, and to visit alehouses and taverns together. There is nothing wrong with this, although Chrysostom, Cyprian, Jerome and some other Fathers speak bitterly against it. They condemn the abuse commonly seen at drunken gatherings, dissolute meetings and great unruly feasts.

“A young fellow with a neatly trimmed, pointed beard,” says Jerome, “will come with a string of compliments, support you by the arm as you walk, and squeeze your fingers, enticing you or being enticed himself. One drinks to you, another embraces you, a third kisses you, while the fiddler plays or sings a lewd song. A fourth chooses you as his dancing partner. One speaks through nods and signs, expressing by emotional gestures what he dares not say. Amid so many powerful incitements to pleasure, lust conquers even the hardest and most unyielding minds; scarcely can anyone remain chaste amid feasting and entertainments or at such great gatherings.”

For, as he continues, “She walks along and draws men’s eyes with the rustling of her clothes. Her shoes creak; her breasts are bound up; her waist is drawn in to make her look small. She is tightly girdled, her hair hangs loose about her ears, and her outer garment sometimes falls and sometimes lingers, exposing her bare shoulders. Then, as though she did not wish to be seen, she hastily covers what she deliberately showed.”

Nor only at feasts, plays, pageants and similar gatherings: as Chrysostom complains, these tricks are practised during church services and even at Communion itself. If such silent displays, signs and more veiled expressions of love have so much power, what will those do who have complete freedom to sing, dance, kiss, embrace, and indulge in every kind of conversation and dalliance? What can a man do when besieged on every side?

Whom so many rosy girls pursue, Whom elegant women desire, and love On every side, from everywhere, unceasingly— All Love surrounds him, Venus too, and Hymen.

Whom so many rosy maidens seek, Whom dainty dames and loving people desire, Courted everywhere, continually, at all times, Whom gods and gentle goddesses woo;

How can he restrain himself?

The very sound of some women’s voices—a pretty, pleasing way of speaking, an affected tone they adopt—can by itself captivate a young man. But when wit joins in, with art and eloquence, enchanting speech, pleasant conversation and graceful gestures, the Sirens themselves cannot cast such a spell. Paolo Giovio praises his Italian countrywomen for excelling in this art above all other nations, especially the ladies of Florence. Some prefer Roman and Venetian courtesans: their tongues are so pleasing and their speech so elegant that they could overcome a saint.

For many women, their voice has served as a procuress in place of beauty.