Let red Aurora blush, my dear,
And Phœbus laughing follow;
Thou only art Aurora here,
Let me be thy Apollo.
It is to envy at our bliss
That they do rise before us:
Is there such hurt in this or this?
Arabella. Nay, fie! why, Castadorus!
Castadorus. What, Arabella, can one night
Of wanton dalliance tire you?
I could be ever if I might:
One hour let me desire you.
Arabella. Fie, fie, you hurt me; let me go!
If you so roughly use me,
What can I say or think of you.
Castadorus. I prithee, Love, excuse me.
Thy beauty and my love defend
I should ungently move thee:
'Tis kisses sweet that I intend:
Is it not I that love thee?
Arabella. I do confess it is, but then—
Since you do so importune
That I should once lie down again—
Vouchsafe to draw the curtain.
Aurora and Apollo, too,
May visit silent fields;
By my consent they ne'er shall know
The bliss our pleasure yields.
From John Dowland's Third Book of Songs or Airs, 1603.
WHEN Phœbus first did Daphne love,
And no means might her favour move,
He craved the cause: "The cause," quoth she,
"Is I have vowed virginity."
Then in a rage he sware and said,
Past fifteen years that none should live a maid.