| Song | Montecute |
| Artist | Coil |
| Album | The Angelic Conversation |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Coil | |
| To me, fair friend, | |
| you never can be old. | |
| For as you were, when first your eye, | |
| I eyed, | |
| such seems you beuaty still. | |
| Three winters cold have full forrests shook three summers pride. | |
| Three beautious springs to yellow autumn turned. | |
| In process of the seasons have I seen, | |
| three april perfumes in three hot junes burned. | |
| Since first I saw you fresh which later waned. | |
| Ahh, yet doth beauty like a dour hand | |
| steal from his figure, only pace percieved. | |
| So your sweet hue, which me thinks still doth stand | |
| hath motion and mine eye may be decieved. | |
| For fear of which, hear this thou age unbread | |
| air you were born was beatious summer dead. |
| zuo ci : Coil | |
| To me, fair friend, | |
| you never can be old. | |
| For as you were, when first your eye, | |
| I eyed, | |
| such seems you beuaty still. | |
| Three winters cold have full forrests shook three summers pride. | |
| Three beautious springs to yellow autumn turned. | |
| In process of the seasons have I seen, | |
| three april perfumes in three hot junes burned. | |
| Since first I saw you fresh which later waned. | |
| Ahh, yet doth beauty like a dour hand | |
| steal from his figure, only pace percieved. | |
| So your sweet hue, which me thinks still doth stand | |
| hath motion and mine eye may be decieved. | |
| For fear of which, hear this thou age unbread | |
| air you were born was beatious summer dead. |
| zuò cí : Coil | |
| To me, fair friend, | |
| you never can be old. | |
| For as you were, when first your eye, | |
| I eyed, | |
| such seems you beuaty still. | |
| Three winters cold have full forrests shook three summers pride. | |
| Three beautious springs to yellow autumn turned. | |
| In process of the seasons have I seen, | |
| three april perfumes in three hot junes burned. | |
| Since first I saw you fresh which later waned. | |
| Ahh, yet doth beauty like a dour hand | |
| steal from his figure, only pace percieved. | |
| So your sweet hue, which me thinks still doth stand | |
| hath motion and mine eye may be decieved. | |
| For fear of which, hear this thou age unbread | |
| air you were born was beatious summer dead. |