Cassandra 歌词

	作词 : Theatre of Tragedy
	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 -
	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?!
	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.'
	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.

	zuo ci : Theatre of Tragedy
	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 telltale lore of lies and scorn.
	Prophetess or fond?,
	Tho' her parle of truth:" I ken tomorrow refell me if ye can!",
	Yet the kiss and breath
	Apollo' s bane
	S 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 tomorrow refell me if ye can!",
	Yet the kiss and breath
	Apollo' s bane
	S 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.

	zuò cí : Theatre of Tragedy
	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 telltale lore of lies and scorn.
	Prophetess or fond?,
	Tho' her parle of truth:" I ken tomorrow refell me if ye can!",
	Yet the kiss and breath
	Apollo' s bane
	S 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 tomorrow refell me if ye can!",
	Yet the kiss and breath
	Apollo' s bane
	S 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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