By Mordred’s hand hath lost both life and crown.
There Gilla wounded Cador, Cornish duke,
In hope to win the dukedom for his meed.
The Norway king, the Saxon’s duke, and Picts,
In woeful sort fell grovelling to the ground.
There prince and peasant both lay hurl’d on heaps:
Mars frown’d on Arthur’s mates: the fates wax’d fierce,
And jointly ran this race with Mordred’s rage.
Conan. But with what joy (alas) shall he return,
That thus returns the happier for this field?