For Lady Asterion “Your love’s a horn of plenty, heavy and rank with juices. Orange and red ripe gourds plump out of it. Can one man sop such sluices? Zeus’ goat Pumped putrid pap through dry dugs by comparison. Thicker Food than Rome’s twins split while She-wolf would sit Brooding: I’ll lap that liquor. The Lote Tree, of farthest boundary, spiced with cinnamon and clove, Jade and ruby laden, is not summit High to your copious love,” I gloat.
— Aldous Asterion