Consider this sense of biology from The Problemes of Aristotle,
a well-used Elizabethan medical guide that emphasizes male procreativity,
sub-ordinating the role of the female:

The seede [of the male] is the efficient beginning of the childe, as the builder is the efficient cause of the house, and therefore is not the materiall cause of the childe….The seedes [ie both male and female] are shut and kept in the wombe: but the seede of the man doth dispose and prepare the seede of the woman to receive the forme, perfection, or soule, the which being done, it is converted into humiditie, and is fumed and breathed out by the pores of the matrix, which is manifest, bicause onely the flowers [ie the menses] of the woman are the material cuase of the young one.

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Nay, but this dotage of our general’s
O’erflows the measure: those his goodly eyes,
That o’er the files and musters of the war
Have glow’d like plated Mars, now bend, now turn,
The office and devotion of their view
Upon a tawny front: his captain’s heart,
Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst
The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper,
And is become the bellows and the fan
To cool a gipsy’s lust….
Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra. I.i.1-10

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When summer swims off, mild and pale, they have already sucked up love like sponges, and they’ve turned back into animals, childish and wicked, with fat bellies and dripping breasts, completely shapeless, and with wet, clinging arms like slimy squids. And their bodies disintegrate, and are sick unto death. And with a ghastly outcry, as if a new world were on the way, they give birth to a small piece of fruit. They spit out in torment what once they had sucked up in lust
Bertolt Brecht, Baal.

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Do you have a prayer book in your kerchief?
Do you have golden tresses down to your shoulders?
Do you lower your eyes quickly down to your apron?
Do you hold onto your mother’s skirts?
. . .
It is no good; were my arms as long
As pine branches or spruce limbs–
I know I could not hold her far enough away
To set her down from me unsoiled and pure.
Henrik Ibsen, Peer Gynt.

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I wanted to create that pure woman in the form in which I saw her awakening on Resurrection Day. Not astonished at anything new or unfamiliar or unimagined, but filled with a sacred joy as she discovers herself again–unchanged–she, the woman of the earth–in the higher, freer, happier regions–after the long dreamless sleep of death.
Henrik Ibsen, When We Dead Awaken.

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her body was all wrong, the peacock’s claws. Yes, even at that early stage, definitely all wrong. Poppata, big breech, Botticelli thighs, knock-knees, ankles all fat nodules, wobbly, mammose, slobbery-blubbery, bubbubbubbub, a real button-bursting Weib, ripe. Then, perched aloft this porpoise prism, the loveliest little pale firm cameo of a birdface he ever clapped his blazing blue eyes on. By God he often thought she was the living spit of Madonna Lucrezia del Fede.
Samuel Beckett, Dream of Fair to Middling Women.