The priestess of Phoebus; I look oh her as my mother. Creusa Until thou earnest unto man’s estate, what nurture hadst thou? Ion The altar fed me, and the bounty of each casual guest. Creusa Woe is thy mother, then, whoe’er she was! Ion Maybe my birth was some poor woman’s wrong. Creusa Hast thou any store, for thy dress is costly enough? Ion The god I serve gives me these robes to wear. Creusa Wert thou never eager to inquire into thy birth? Ion Ah! yes, lady! but I have no clue at all to guide me. Creusa Alas! I know another woman who hath suffered as thy mother did.