The Harpy

	作曲 : Service, VonTill
	There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she;
	She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three;
	And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.
	There is no room for such as I on earth, nor yet in Heaven;
	Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven;
	A loathed jade, I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.
	I paint my cheeks, for they're white, and cheeks of chalk men hate;
	Mine eyes with wine I make them shine, that man may seek and sate;
	With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait
	'Till on they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame;
	Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones -- 'tis I who know their shame.
	The gods, ye see, are brutes to me -- and so I play my game.
	For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan;
	And Woman in a bitter world must do the best she can --
	Must yield the stroke, must bear the yoke, must serve the will of man;
	Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire,
	Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire;
	For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.
	Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride?
	The Maker marred, and, evil-starred, I drift upon His tide;
	And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.
	Fate has written a tragedy; its name is "The Human Heart".
	The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer's part;
	The Devil enters the prompter's box and the play is ready to start.

	zuò qǔ : Service, VonTill
	There was a woman, and she was wise woefully wise was she
	She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three
	And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.
	There is no room for such as I on earth, nor yet in Heaven
	Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven
	A loathed jade, I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.
	I paint my cheeks, for they' re white, and cheeks of chalk men hate
	Mine eyes with wine I make them shine, that man may seek and sate
	With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait
	' Till on they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame
	Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones ' tis I who know their shame.
	The gods, ye see, are brutes to me and so I play my game.
	For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan
	And Woman in a bitter world must do the best she can
	Must yield the stroke, must bear the yoke, must serve the will of man
	Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire,
	Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire
	For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.
	Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride?
	The Maker marred, and, evilstarred, I drift upon His tide
	And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.
	Fate has written a tragedy its name is " The Human Heart".
	The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer' s part
	The Devil enters the prompter' s box and the play is ready to start.