“I quail not at aught in the struggle of life,
I’m not all unproved even now in the strife,
But the wreath that I win, all unaided—alone,
Round a faltering brow it shall never be thrown!”
“Now fie on thy manhood, to deem it a sin
That she loveth the glory thy falchion might win,
Let them doubt of thy prowess and fortune no more,
Up! Sir Knight, for thy lady—and do thy devoir!”
“She hath shrunk from my side, she hath failed in her trust,
Not relied on my blade, but remembered its rust;