Aégis
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Cassandra
He gave to her, yet tenfold claim'd in return - Prophetess or fond?, Still, is she lief and quaint in his eyne, a sight divine? - Prophetess or fond?, 'Or was he an æriéd being, Lorelei
Færie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a façade; Lorelei, Dædally didst thou perform the tragic pasquinade, Lorelei, Perchance author I thee this ikon'd apologue for aught, Angélique
Thou dawdl'd not bringing me fro æther to Nether, 'Vaunt! - Devil tyne - Perforce and grinningly shall I maim in the vie - 'Vaunt! - Devil tyne - 'Come not wont to this uncouth Devil!, 'Vaunt! - Devil tyne -
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.
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.
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?!
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 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.
A serenade siren'd to lure - Zounds! not to court me?
A mænad, yet the sweetest colleen -
Certes didst thou me unveil meekly life pristine.
A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,
Yet who the hell was I to dare?
Lorelei,
Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?
Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
For all years a damndest and driegh'd accolade -
Caus'd for all eyes mazéd to behold a mêlée;
In the midst did I swainly cast thee my bouquet:
The one and sole faggot that feedeth the fire,
Bellow´d bidingly by my heart's quailing quire.
A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,
Yet who the hell was I to dare?
Lorelei,
Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?
Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Doth the wecht burthen thee?, then bethink thine afterthought:
'Tween Æther and 'Nether art thou the peerless phœnix -
Prithee, darlingmost! - court me rather than the peevish prolix.
Still, duringly cling I on to this heather -
Dew-scentéd blossom; thou wast pristine,
The sweven of thee ne'er will I cede, my colleen.
Drat this creature of memories ill,
Foolhardy and fey I may be, yet him I shall quell.
Wadst thou wane fore'ermae;
Daunt - sinsyne thence,
Ta'en as a dint, Angélique?
Alas dastard! - hanging by the noose die.
Wadst thou wane fore'ermae;
Daunt - sinsyne thence,
Ta'en as a dint, Angélique?
Lest to a Devil thou wilt translate...my Angel.
Wadst thou wane fore'ermae;
Daunt - sinsyne thence,
Ta'en as a dint, Angélique?
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Fro my heart wilt thou ne'er Be left without - come! Thine voice is oh so sweet, Ryking for me: «List and heed», thou say'st Chancing to lure. How I wish for thee again, Will I give thee it: Troth. Thine voice is oh so sweet, Ryking for me: «List and heed», thou say'st Chancing to lure. |
Haste not thine wisdom, for the hollow is ta'en - By whom, know I not; 'lack! am I of twain - And as a crux - cede I my words - Have I been 'sooth sinsyne. I speer thine pine, Ryking for thee; Wistful, whistful - Chancing to lure, Skirl and skreigh, but for thine ears, aye, lown 'tis - Dodge na 'way herefro, do come here in eath! Mayhap luréd by the scent of lote - 'Od! - the fœtid - eft hie back I mote; For what I did my soul atrouncéd, O! do believe me, 'twasn't a frounce. I speer thine pine, Ryking for thee; Wistful, whistful - Chancing to lure, Skirl and skreigh, but for thine ears, aye, lown 'tis - Dodge na 'way herefro, do come here in eath! |
Samantha (Bonus track)
Cede the wherefores and do na chide, Riddance, Venus
Circa mea pectora multa sunt suspiria Venus! - I trow'd thou wast my friend - Iam amore virginali totus ardeo. Venus! - I trow'd thou wast my friend - Iam amore virginali totus ardeo.
Maybe I am peenging - ween of joy;
Cede the wherefores and do na chide -
Thrawn and slab of leer I hold thee, and yore was 'gal.
Sith the one.
De tua pulchritudine, que me ledunt misere.
Professed to Heaven thou wouldst send;
As a disciple of a villain
Didst thou act the tragedienne.
Amor volat undique, captus est libidine.
Professed to Heaven thou wouldst send;
As a disciple of a villain
Didst thou act the tragedienne.
Circa mea pectora multa sunt suspiria
De tua pulchritudine, que me ledunt misere.
Tui lucent oculi sicut solis radij,
Sicut splendor fulguris, qui lucem donat tenebris.