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,
Riposted 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 eried being,
'Or was he weening - alack nay mo;
Her naysay' raught his heart,
Her daffing was the grave of all hope
She belied 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.
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