This leaguer goes but feebly. I am sick
Of losing battles to this Launcelot,
Whose strength and prowess in far kinder days,
Was my heart’s pride. Arthur thy star grows dark.
Thou canst not keep the love of woman. Nay,
Men’s friendships turn to traitor on the lips.
Oh, Merlin; couldst thou now but see thine Arthur.
Enter Messenger.
Arthur. Well!
Mess. Sir Launcelot met Sir Gwaine beneath the wall.