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O
Tybalt
,
love
,
Tybalt
,
awake
me
not
yet
,
Around
my
soft
pillow
while
softer
dreams
flit
,
For
what
are
the
joys
that
in
waking
we
prove
,
Compared
with
these
visions
,
O
,
Tybalt
,
my
love
?
Let
the
birds
to
the
rise
of
the
mist
carol
shrill
,
Let
the
hunter
blow
out
his
loud
horn
on
the
hill
,
Softer
sounds
,
softer
pleasures
,
in
slumber
I
prove
,
--
But
think
not
I
dreamt
of
thee
,
Tybalt
,
my
love
.
"
A
dainty
song
,
"
said
Wamba
,
when
they
had
finished
their
carol
,
"
and
I
swear
by
my
bauble
,
a
pretty
moral
!
--
I
used
to
sing
it
with
Gurth
,
once
my
playfellow
,
and
now
,
by
the
grace
of
God
and
his
master
,
no
less
than
a
freemen
;
and
we
once
came
by
the
cudgel
for
being
so
entranced
by
the
melody
,
that
we
lay
in
bed
two
hours
after
sunrise
,
singing
the
ditty
betwixt
sleeping
and
waking
--
my
bones
ache
at
thinking
of
the
tune
ever
since
.
Nevertheless
,
I
have
played
the
part
of
Anna-Marie
,
to
please
you
,
fair
sir
.
"
The
Jester
next
struck
into
another
carol
,
a
sort
of
comic
ditty
,
to
which
the
Knight
,
catching
up
the
tune
,
replied
in
the
like
manner
.
