Cassandra Lyrics

	作词 : Theatre of Tragedy
	He gave to her, yet tenfold claimed in return -
	She hath no life but the one he for her wrought;
	Proffered to her his walking heart - she turned it down,
	Reposted with a tell-tale lore of lies and scorn.

	Prophetess or fond?,
	Though her parle of truth:
	"I can 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 eye, a sight divine? -
	A mistress fueled 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?,
	Though her parle of truth:
	"I can 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' rought 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.

	Though her parle of truth:
	"I can 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' rought his heart,
	Her daffing was the grave of all hope -

	zuo ci : Theatre of Tragedy
	He gave to her, yet tenfold claimed in return
	She hath no life but the one he for her wrought
	Proffered to her his walking heart she turned it down,
	Reposted with a telltale lore of lies and scorn.

	Prophetess or fond?,
	Though her parle of truth:
	" I can 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 eye, a sight divine?
	A mistress fueled 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?,
	Though her parle of truth:
	" I can 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' rought 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.

	Though her parle of truth:
	" I can 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' rought his heart,
	Her daffing was the grave of all hope

	zuò cí : Theatre of Tragedy
	He gave to her, yet tenfold claimed in return
	She hath no life but the one he for her wrought
	Proffered to her his walking heart she turned it down,
	Reposted with a telltale lore of lies and scorn.

	Prophetess or fond?,
	Though her parle of truth:
	" I can 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 eye, a sight divine?
	A mistress fueled 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?,
	Though her parle of truth:
	" I can 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' rought 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.

	Though her parle of truth:
	" I can 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' rought his heart,
	Her daffing was the grave of all hope

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