That which I do my will does; I am borne
Onward, and cannot stay. The graves are dug
For all mortality; our woes have been
Wept for from the beginning of the world.
I feel the creeping of the rust that dims.
Excalibur, and those lamenting Queens
That come to take me draw like shadows near
Upon the shores of time.
Gawaine
This is ill done, and no good comes of it.