So spake he ere they parted, nor
Took shame or fear to counsellor,
As one whom none laid ambush for;
And wist not how Sir Launceor,
⁠The wild king's son of Ireland, hot
And high in wrath to know that one
Stood higher in fame before the sun,
Even Balen, since the sword was won,
⁠Drew nigh from Camelot.

For thence, in heat of hate and pride,
As one that man might bid not bide,
He craved the high king's grace to ride
On quest of Balen far and wide
⁠And wreak the wrong his wrath had wrought.
'Yea,' Arthur said, 'for such despite
Was done me never in my sight
As this thine hand shall now requite
⁠If trust avail us aught.'