Poem by Thomas Malory
Of Lancelot du Lake
tell i no more
But this by leave
these ermytes seven.
But still Kynge Arthur
lieth there, and Quene Guenever,
As I you newyn.
And Monkes
That are right of lore
Who synge with moulded stewyn
Ihesu, who hath woundes sore,
Grant us the blyss of Heaven.
Of Lancelot du Lake
tell i no more
But this by leave
these ermytes seven.
But still Kynge Arthur
lieth there, and Quene Guenever,
As I you newyn.
And Monkes
That are right of lore
Who synge with moulded stewyn
Ihesu, who hath woundes sore,
Grant us the blyss of Heaven.