  A page, a huntsman, and a priest of God, Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety, Equally claiming the sole parenthood Of him the perfect crown of their variety. Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell; That always was her fate, she loved too well. “But, many-fathered little one,” she said, “Whether of high or low, of smooth or rough, Here is your mother whom you brought to bed. Acknowledge only me, be this enough, For such as worship after shall be told A white dove sired you or a rain of gold.” |
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