Arthur. So far the battle’s ours, this edge at least
Of Britain’s soil doth Arthur own to-night.
What be this?
Gwaine. ’Tis Gwaine, King, brought to bay at last.
Arthur. Thou wert mad to fight.
Gwaine. ’Twas madness not to fight with all that battle
Ringing its clarion thunders in mine ears.
All life be madness and death but the healing of it.
I have reft some brain-pans, i’ my time, ha! ha!
Tell traitor Launcelot.—Yea turn me softly,