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.

{Refrain:}
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 -
Sëer 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?!

{au Refrain}

´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.