Cassandra — текст песни (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 -
Sлer 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 -
Sлer 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.