I must share in that shame,

Since from the womb of some poor woman

Each evil one came—

Every hot and blundering thought,

Every hag-rid will,

And every haut king pride-distraught

That drove men out to kill.

A woman's womb did fashion him,

Her bosom was his nurse,

And many women's eyes are dim

To see their sons a curse.

Had I the wit some women have

To one such I would say,

"Think you this love the good Lord gave

Is yours to take away?"

O Hand divine that for a sign

Didst bend the rose-red bow,

Betokening wrath was no more Thine

With man's Cain-branded brow—

What now, O Lord, shouldst Thou accord

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