To open her reluctant lips. At last,
Though struggling still against th' inspiring god,
The maddened priestess speaks with muttered words.
Cassandra: Why prick me on with fury's goads anew,720
Ye sacred slopes of high Parnassus? Why
Must I, insensate, prophesy afresh?
Away, thou prophet god! I am not thine.
Subdue the fires that smoulder in my breast.
Whose doom yet waits my frenzied prophecy?
Now Troy is fallen—must I still rave on,725