>But after, when her damsels, and herself, >And those three knights all set their faces home, >Sir Pelleas followed. She that saw him cried, >“Damsels—and yet I should be shamed to say it— >I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back >Among yourselves. Would rather that we had >Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way, >Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride >And jest with: take him to you, keep him off, >And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will, >Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, >Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys. >Nay, should ye try him with a merry one >To find his mettle, good: and if he fly us, >Small matter! let him.” This her damsels heard, >And mindful of her small and cruel hand, >They, closing round him through the journey home, >Acted her hest, and always from her side >Restrained him with all manner of device, >So that he could not come to speech with her. >And when she gained her castle, upsprang the bridge, >Down rang the grate of iron through the groove, >And he was left alone in open field. >“These be the ways of ladies,” Pelleas thought, >“To those who love them, trials of our faith. >Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, >For loyal to the uttermost am I.”
Why would you go this far if you have a vow of chastity anyway?
>>25510484Tennyson sucks so fucking much
>>25511250
>>25511287The blank verse of Milton to that of Tennyson is like comparing a real medieval castle to a bouncy hosuse.
>>25511300>The best of the school of poets at present received in Great Britain and America is Alfred Tennyson. He is the bard of ennui and of the aristocracy and their combination into love. This love is the old stock love of playwrights and romancers, Shakspeare the same as the rest. It is possessed of the same unnatural and shocking passion for some girl or woman, that wrenches it from its manhood, emasculated and impotent, without strength to hold the rest of the objects and goods of life in their proper positions. It seeks nature for sickly uses. It goes screaming and weeping after the facts of the universe, in their calm beauty and equanimity, to note the occurrence of itself, and to sound the news, in connection with the charms of the neck, hair, or complexion of a particular female.>Poetry, to Tennyson and his British and American eleves, is a gentleman of the first degree, boating, fishing, and shooting genteely through nature, admiring the ladies, and talking to them in company with that elaborate half-choked deference that is to be made up by the terrible license of men among themselves. The spirit of the burnished society of upper-class England fills this writer and his effusions from top to toe. Like that, he does not ignore courage and the superior qualities of men, but all is to show forth through dandyfied forms. He meets the nobility and gentry half-way. The models are the same both to the poet and the parlors. Both have the same supercilious elegance, both love the reminiscences which extol caste, both agree on the topics proper for mention and discussion, both hold the same undertone of church and state, both have the same languishing melancholy and irony, both indulge largely in persiflage, both are marked by the contour of high blood and a constitutional aversion to any thing cowardly and mean, both accept the love depicted in romances as the great business of a life or a poem, both seem unconscious of the mighty truths of eternity and immortality, both are silent on the presumptions of liberty and equality, and both devour themselves in solitary lassitude. Whatever may be said of all this, it harmonizes and represents facts. The present phases of high life in Great Britain are as natural a growth there as Tennyson and his poems are a natural growth of those phases. It remains to be distinctly admitted that this man is a real poet, notwithstanding his ennui and his aristocracy.
Was choosing to send Gawain and Ettare a message, rather than killing them, for cuckolding him a chad move or a simp move?
Incel Knight
>>25511250Shan't be allowing such opinions on this board.
For me, it's Sir Gareth >Then Gareth, “Here be rules. I know but one— >To dash against mine enemy and win. >Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust, >And seen thy way.” “Heaven help thee,” sighed Lynette.
