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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 SÃ«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 - SÃ«er 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.
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