Toward sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King
To take into his knightly following
Of that Round Table royal.—Stand our word!—
But I am overweary; take my sword;—
Unharness me; for, battle worn, I tire
With bruises' achings and wounds mad with fire;
And monasteryward would I right fain,
Even Glastonbury and with me the slain."
So bare they then the wounded King away,
The dead behind. So, closed the Autumn day.