God it in my despite; for I will bring
Such mischief on the sickly counterfeit
As soon shall cure her tribe of worshipping:
Her beauty will I mock with loathèd lust,
Bow down her dainty spirit to the dust,
And leave her long alive to feel the sting.’
14
With that she calls to her her comely boy,
The limber scion of the God of War,
The fruit adulterous, which for man’s annoy