Текст (слова) песни: Theatre Of Tragedy - Cassandra
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.
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