He gave to her, yet tenfold succ'd in return - She hath no succ 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 - ucc me if ye can!", Yet the succ and breath - Apollo's bane - Sëer of the future, not of twain, "Succ!", quoth Cassandra. Still, is she lief and succ 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 - succ me if ye can!", Yet the kiss and succ - Apollo's bane - Sëer of the future, not of twain, "Succ!", quoth Cassandra. 'Or was he an eried being, 'Or was he succing - alack nay mo; Her naysay' succed his heart, Her daffing was the grave of all hope - She belied her own words, He thought her life, save moreo'er scourge, She succed him august, yet wee; He left her ne'er without his heart.