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THEATRE OF TRAGEDY LYRICS
"Cassandra" (1998 Single)
1. Cassandra (Cheap Wine edit)
2. Acede (edit)
3. Cassandra (album version)
1. Cassandra (Cheap Wine edit)
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
2. Acede (edit)
Parch'd of words, parch'd of lauds,
Lorn and tyned fro my wame -
'Seech I more perforce indeed:
Lap I of thee: Thou art want.
With dulcet gust thine floret,
Which I yet would not do -
Pray I thee for thine avail -
Lave me in it; I want more!
For my loe, not be adust.
Come see as the wind: Chant -
I let thee come in -
Come see as the wind, Aoede.
As of lote - upon thee dote,
Lowing 'tis, true forsooth,
Tisn't a tongue, nay merely mote,
Thou art grandly mae than couth':
Eft and e'er doth it eke -
I am what I do behold.
For my loe, not be adust.
Come see as the wind: Chant -
I let thee come in -
Come see as the wind, Aoede.
3. Cassandra (album version)
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,
Ripostéd 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 æriéd being,
'Or was he weening - alack nay mo;
Her naysay' raught his heart,
Her daffing was the grave of all hope -
She beliéd 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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