Launcelot's Defiance

My liege the King, why burns the flame of wrath
Upon thy cheek? Is it for Guinevere?
Ah, well, sweet lord, I know that she is Queen
Of Britain and of towered Camelot;
But I am king of all the mettled knights
Who sit at Arthur's board when wine is red.
No, Arthur! sheathe thy sword! Excalibir
Is naught beside the wrath of Launcelot;
For I can pierce the sun, the stars, the moon,
And fiends of Hell do crouch with limping fear
When I am clothed in dark displeasure's robes.
The right is mine and I will draw my blade
Into the breach! For Christ and Guinevere!