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 room 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're 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

'Till on 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, must bear the yoke, must 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

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