Knight.
Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun, Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free, Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie. Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn, The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn, The echo rings merry from rock and from tree, ’Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie. Wamba. 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.
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