Cassandra

He gave to her, yet tenfold claimed in return She hath no life but the one he for her wrought Proffered to her his wauking heart, she turned it down Riposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn Prophetess or fond? Though her parle of truth I ken tomorrow, 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 fuelled 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? Though her parle of truth I ken tomorrow, 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 aeried 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 moreover scourge She held him august, yet wee He left her ne'er without his heart Prophetess or fond? Though her parle of truth I ken tomorrow, refell me if ye can Yet the kiss and breath, Apollo's bane Seer of the future, not of twain "Sicker," quoth Cassandra Prophetess or fond? Though her parle of truth I ken tomorrow, 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 aeried 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 moreover scourge She held him august, yet wee He left her ne'er without his heart 'Or was he an aeried being 'Or was he weening, alack nay mo Her naysay' raught his heart Her daffing was the grave of all hope