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 -
S?er 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 -
S?er of the future, not of twain,
?Sicker!?, quoth Cassandra.

'Or was he an ?ri?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