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,
 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
 Seer 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
 Seer 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