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Cassandra - Theatre of Tragedy |
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He gave to her yet tenfold claim'd in return |
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She hath no life but the one he for her wrought |
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Proffer'd to her his wauking heart she turn'd it down, |
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Riposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn. |
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Prophetess or fond? |
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Tho' her parle of truth |
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"I ken to-morrow - refell me if ye can!" |
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Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane |
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Seer of the future, not of twain, |
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"Sicker!", quoth Cassandra. |
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Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne, a sight divine? |
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A mistress fuell'd by his prest haughtiness |
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If he did grant, wherefore then did he not foresee, |
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Belike egal as it to him might be |
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Prophetess or fond? |
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Tho' her parle of truth |
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"I ken to-morrow - refell me if ye can |
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Yet the kiss and breath - Apollo's bane |
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Seer of the future, not of twain |
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"Sicker!" quoth Cassandra |
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'Or was he an eried being, |
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'Or was he weening alack nay mo |
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Her naysay raught his heart, |
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Her daffing was the grave of all hope |
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She belied her own words |
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He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge |
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She held him august, yet wee; |
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He left her ne'er without his heart |
