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
Ripost'd 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 éri'd being
'Or was he weening - alack nay mo;
Her naysay' raught his heart
Her daffing was the grave of all hope -
She beli'd 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