Now bestirs him Sir Gawain and steps to his mass,
And then dinner was dight, and daintily served.
He laik’d with the ladies the livelong day,
While the lord over laund launces full often
Pursuing his swine, that swung by the banks
And of the best of his bratches the backs bit in sunder
Where he bode at the bay, till the bowmen him shifted
And máde him máuger his héad to move to the open;
So many shafts flew, where the fólk him beset.
Yet the stoutest at whiles to start did he make,
Till so daunted and fordone, he could dree it no more,
But as hard as he might made off to a hole,
On a bank, by a rock, with the burn beside it;
There, the bank at his back, to scrape he began
With the froth at his chops foaming for fierceness,
And his white tusks whetted; they wounded him still,
Those bowmen so bold, about him that stood,
Till awearied they were, yet they would not him near,
so wroth.
For many his thrusts had borne,
Well seemèd all were loth
Be more with tusks betorn;
He was fierce and frenzied both.