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, 
Ripostéd with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn. 

Prophetess or fond?, 
Tho' her parle of [bad word]  
«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? - 
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 [bad word]  
«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 æriéd being, 
'Or was he weening - alack nay mo; 
Her naysay' raught his heart, 
Her daffing was the grave of all hope - 
She beliéd 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.