a bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me ... ointment and perfumes rejoice the heart ... perfumes and sweet spices ... beds of aromatic spices ...
Ben Jonson, the English dramatist, has Volpone, in the comedy of that name, offer Celia perfumed baths:
The milk of unicorns, and panthers’ breath Gathered in bags, and mixed with Cretan wines. Our drink shall be prepared gold and amber.
Onions in particular have for centuries possessed an aphrodisiac reputation. Onion is recommended for such intentions by the Greek and Roman poets. Ovid and Martial, and the later bucolic poet Columella urgently stress the eating of plenty of onions as both a rejuvenating and an animating agent. The Greek physician Galen also considered onions as having stimulating virtues.
In the East, onion seed is pounded, mixed with honey, and taken while one is fasting, in the hope of physiological urgency.
Among Arabs, onions boiled with spices, then fried in oil with egg yolks, are, if taken successively on a number of days, considered of high potency.
The seat of amorous passion was traditionally the liver. This concept is exemplified in _The Faithful Shepherdess_, by John Fletcher:
Amoret: Dear friend, you must not blame me, if I make A doubt of what the silent night may do, Coupled with this day’s heat, to move your blood. Maids must be fearful. Sure you have not been Wash’d white enough, for yet I see a stain Stick in your liver: go and purge again.
Perigot: Oh, do not wrong my honest simple truth! Myself and my affections are as pure As those chaste flames that burn before the shrine Of the great Dian; only my intent To drag you thither was to plight our troths, With interchange of mutual chaste embraces, And ceremonious tying of our souls. For to that holy wood is consecrate A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes Their stolen children, so to make them free From dying flesh and dull mortality. By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn, And given away his freedom, many a troth Been plight, which neither envy nor old time Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given In hope of coming happiness; by this Fresh fountain many a blushing maid Hath crown’d the head of her long-loved shepherd With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung Lays of his love and dear captivity. There grow all herbs fit to cool looser flames Our sensual parts provoke, chiding our bloods, And quenching by their power those hidden sparks That else would break out, and provoke our sense To open fires; so virtuous is that place. Then, gentle shepherdess, believe and grant. In troth, it fits not with that face to scant Your faithful shepherd of those chaste desires He ever aim’d at, and ...