Beneath a royal mantle, fair
With goodly work of lustrous vair,
Girt fast against her side she bare
A sword whose weight bade all men there
⁠Quail to behold her face again.
Save of a passing perfect knight
Not great alone in force and fight
It might not be for any might
⁠Drawn forth, and end her pain.

So said she: then King Arthur spake:
'Albeit indeed I dare not take
Such praise on me, for knighthood's sake
And love of ladies will I make
⁠Assay if better none may be.'
By girdle and by sheath he caught
The sheathed and girded sword, and wrought
With strength whose force availed him nought
⁠To save and set her free.