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That thou, a maiden born beyond the seas,

Dost as a native know and tell aright

Tales of a city of an alien tongue.

That is my power—a boon Apollo gave.

God though he were, yearning for mortal maid?

Ay! what seemed shame of old is shame no more.

Such finer sense suits not with slavery.

He strove to win me, panting for my love.

Came ye by compact unto bridal joys?

Nay—for I plighted troth, then foiled the god.

Wert thou already dowered with prescience?

Yea—prophetess to Troy of all her doom.

How left thee then Apollo's wrath unscathed?

I, false to him, seemed prophet false to all.