Make rich some other prophetess with woe!
Lo! where Apollo looks, and sees me now
Doff this diviner’s garb, the self-same weeds
He tricked me erst withal, to live for him,
The public scorn, the scoff of friends and foes,
The mark of every ribald jester’s tongue,
The homeless girl, the raving mountebank,
The beggar’d, wretched, starving maniac.
And now who made the prophetess unmakes her,
And leads me to my doom—ah! not beside