Laun. I may not, this hurt be too deep.
Gwaine. Damn thy hurt, man! thou art sound as I.
Laun. ’Tis a deep hurt, Launcelot fights no more. Here will I die.
Gwaine. Better go a Monk, thou art a fool, Man. This love is a girl’s folly. Fighting is a man’s trade and his sword his true mistress. Gwaine will have no other. Come, thou art not dead yet.
Laun. Aye Gwaine thou wastest words, Launcelot is ended.
Gwaine. Damn thee! I gave my word I would bring thee, will I have to go foresworn else carry thee on my back. Have I cured thy madness but for this?
Laun. Nay, nay, make peace best thou canst. Thou art a good fellow, but I cannot. Launcelot will die here.
Gwaine. I say, damn thee, thou shalt come!
Laun. Thou liest! (Both spring to their feet and draw.) (Trumpets without.) (Enter the King’s Messengers.)
Gwaine. Who comes?