Theatre Of Tragedy - Cassandra

He gave to her, yet tenfold claim'd in return - She hath no life but the one he for her wrought; Proffer'd to her his wauking heart - she turn'd it down, Ripostéd with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn. Prophetess or fond?, Tho' her parle of truth: «I ken to-morrow - refell me if ye can!», Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane - Sëer of the future, not of twain, «Sicker!», quoth Cassandra. Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne, a sight divine? - A mistress fuell´d by his prest haughtiness - If he did grant, wherefore then did he not foresee, Belike egal as it to him might be?! Prophetess or fond?, Tho' her parle of truth: «I ken to-morrow - refell me if ye can!», Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane - Sëer of the future, not of twain, «Sicker!», quoth Cassandra. 'Or was he an æriéd being, 'Or was he weening - alack nay mo; Her naysay' raught his heart, Her daffing was the grave of all hope - She beliéd her own words, He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge, She held him august, yet wee; He left her ne'er without his heart.