Of the division that an envy breeds.
Lives one who envies not Sir Launcelot?
If it be fault,
I must confess to it. Fame he has and love,
And therefore stands the envy of the world.
Where is the man’s hand can prevail against him,
Or where the heart of woman?
When in the bright lists Launcelot rode on me
How was I dazzled? Not by him alone;
I marvelled at the red sleeve which he wore,