1st Swineherd. Him want allus twa foight.
Gwaine. Yea, he spoileth for a bout, ’tis often a right cure.
I will try it, God give it may bring him round.
(To Launcelot.) Ho there, Fellow!
Laun. Ho thyself, Windbag. Thou hast a fine voice, Friend.
Can’st thou call back memory?
Gwaine. Yea I can.
Laun. Can’st thou find Spring time? I loved, I loved,—
Gwaine. Oh damn love—dost thou know me?
Laun. Know thee? know thee? I know thou art a man. Wilt thou fight, Friend?