There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she; 

She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three; 

And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity. 



There is no hope for such as I on earth, nor yet in Heaven; 

Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven; 

A loathed jade, I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven. 



I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate; 

Mine eyes with wine I make them shine, that man may seek and sate; 

With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait 



Until they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame; 

Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones -- 'tis I who know their shame. 

The gods, ye see, are brutes to me -- and so I play my game. 



For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan; 

And Woman in a bitter world must do the best she can -- 

Must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man; 



Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire, 

Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire; 

For every man since life began is tainted with the mire. 





And though you know he love you so and set you on love's throne; 

Yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone, 

Lest you be left (as I was left) attainted and alone. 



From love's close kiss to hell's abyss is one sheer flight, I trow, 

And wedding ring and bridal bell are will-o'-wisps of woe, 

And 'tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know. 

Wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey, 

With siren smile and serpent guile I make the wolf-pack pay -- 

With velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay. 



One who in youth sought truest truth and found a devil's lies; 

A symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice. 

Yet shall I blame on man the shame? Could it be otherwise? 



Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride? 

The Maker marred, and, evil-starred, I drift upon His tide; 

And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide. 



Fate has written a tragedy; its name is The Human Heart. 

The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer's part; 

The Devil enters the prompter's box and the play is ready to start