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