LVIII
So after the boar the bowmen hied them, Aim’d at him arrows and hit him full oft; But the points could not pierce the pith of his shields, And the sharpest barb on his brawn would not bite Though the shaven shaft shinder’d in pieces; The arrow-head, where it hit, ever rebounded. But the dints at last of their dree strokes dazed him, And frenzied with the fray he forth on them rush’d, Wounded them wickedly whéreso he sallied, That many were adread, and drew them adree. But the lord on a light horse launces him after, Bold man on bent his bugle he blows, And rides on a race through roan and thicket, Pursuing this swine, till the sun breaks through. So this day they drive with doings afield While our lovesome liege is lying abed, Gawain graithly at home, in gear full rich Of sheen. The lady not forgat, To greet him she came in, Full early was him at Seeking his will to win.