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.