Cassandra - Theatre Of Tragedy

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