Behold me, this Hell-ward forced to eat scabs
Of wounds e'er dehiscent--queer Lenten meat,
Seasoned with cuckoldry's age-old defeat,
For penitent husbands of wives become drabs
(Such wound-lickers know no savor more sweet).
But, oh, you wronged husband, is justice complete
Without your fair false one infested with crabs,
And her cowardly 'complice topped with French crown?
Will you suck sores and not wish her quince
Variously verminous, known through the town
As bruised, blighted fruit that makes ev'ry man wince
From the strange nether burning to ev'ry man known?
Yes! May he burn--and more, that he dabs
On salves that soothe not from Satan's own labs.
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