But not to make
The cure more loathsom than the foul disease:
Was't not enough you took me to your bed,
Tir'd with loose dalliance, and with emptie veins,
All those abilities spent before and wasted,
That could confer the name of mother on me?
But that (to perfect my account of sorrow
For my long barr[en]ness) you must heighten it
By shewing to my face, that you were fruitfull
Hug'd in the base embraces of another?