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.