The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white fingers Hooked in the stones of the wall, The storm-wrack hair and the screeching mouth: does it matter, Cassandra, Whether the people believe Your bitter fountain? Truly men hate the truth; they'd liefer Meet a tiger on the road. Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but religion- Venders and political men Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised for kindly Wisdom. Poor bitch, be wise. No: you'll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to men And gods disgusting.-You and I, Cassandra.