Yet none the less of stateliest stature, O mighty Queen.
Swift, keen be his glances as lightning, and flash still to and fro:
Dour and quick unto anger his spirit shall be, I trow.
For the youngest, of all praise worthy he seemeth in mine eyes.
A gallant knight we account him, yet withal of such winsome guise
That the grace of a maiden shineth through all his mien high-born;
Yet verily might all tremble to deal to him scathe or scorn.
For all his gentle bearing and his goodlihead withal,
Yet many a comely woman should weep for her lover’s fall,
If his wrath to the battle were kindled: right sinewy-shapen is he,