A SONNET TO MOURN THE DEATH OF TYBALT
By Caterina Santelli a.k.a. W.M. Achrya
Oh, barbed rose, whose wicked prickly spines
Do hide and shelter a most lovely scent;
Whose sharp defence its tenderness confines
And shows the world a bellicose intent!
Thy lovely lips, like unto Cupid's bow,
So sweetly, gently, tenderly did kiss...
Oh, rose-like lover -- ever lost are thou,
Never again shall we taste Venus' bliss.
Thy manly pride, thy honour called to arms!
Oh, what is Honour, more than just a word?
A whore who lured thee with her painted charms:
Thou tookst the sword and perish'st by the sword.
Beloved Tybalt, my sweet thorny rose,
The Lord On High grant thee a calm repose.