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Say then what lot hath any? What of joy

Falls, or can fall on any child of Troy?

I know: but make thy questions severally.

My stricken one must be

Still first. Say how Cassandra's portion lies.

Chosen from all for Agamemnon's prize!

How, for his Spartan bride

A tirewoman? For Helen's sister's pride?

Nay, nay: a bride herself, for the King's bed.

The sainted of Apollo? And her own

Prize that God promisèd

Out of the golden clouds, her virgin crown?

He loved her for that same strange holiness.

Daughter, away, away,

Cast all away,

The haunted Keys, the lonely stole's array

That kept thy body like a sacred place!