L'Immorte D'Arthur

thus King Arthur battled Lancelot, one who has never been his equal. wounded and beset by old age, yet stubborn and never relenting, he dualed with many fouls and played many feints, to which Lancelot only sighed, and overcame with patient skill. Arthur then retreated a while and took from his squire a bow, tried to shoot Lancelot in the knee, but good knight parried. henceforth finally cast away Arthur his helm, and too his shield; as if surrendering but ever tall and unyielding standing was his shamefaced pride.

 "Lancelot, thou art worthy! May the Heart of my wife Gwenevere be yours, take it! by my decree and sworn oath. Under the SIGN I submit my bodily form."

Lancelot, who yet again received good news of his triumph on earth, smiled, invincible knight blessed by stars now even more convinced of his faith in himself. He turned to Gwenevere as always a victor towards his plundered prize. though King Arthur grabbed then the guard of his sword in reverse, and set to flight the King's right as if an arrow and the thrusting killing pierced Lancelots throat to spill warm and red moan and dried up screeches.

 Ambushed as if a civilian by a lawless bandit he was slain in but a bewildering moment and was no more. Although the King stood in place of a band of high way men alone in his guilty solitude, staring away at his most noble and mighty knight's fallen carcass, dropping big shameless crystal tears upon his mud-sullied, dishonorable face.

"though victory upon this earth shall always be mine. by the sword, I conquer. even betraying my own honour."

pausing for a moment, he then added "against this SIGN, I shall never surrender. none upon earth shall put to rest the anger of a disgraced King, even this SIGN cannot."

solemn and dreary was mood hanging above the gathering of host, retinue and camp followers, mute in ignorant fear or quibbling in theorization. some grow to despise the craven and rapatious King. some think it is all a joke. some feel a little sympathy for his pitiable cuckoldry. the most philosophical, looking at the earth below their own stature instead of the king and the corpse, does nothing but suffer quietly the pain and shame implied, by Kings action, that are owed to all mortal things.

and after his tears of righteous dishonour had dried too, the king wounded in the loin turned to his lawful wife, and spake in a proud, kingly voice:

Gwenevere, my wife. heart of my hearts.

Lancelot, he...

thus he has stolen thine heart, handsome thief with his own stolen virtue, then let he have it. the judgement be just. Lancelot the bandit.

but thou, Woman, who has in store a plan making the worse of him, from or against a thief's fickle nature would want constant love, and impose chastity, a tyrannt's reign? Gwenevere. 

lustful dominatrix, red Caeser. thou art most martial and calculating.

Sanguine blood pumping in the heart I offered up, but thou hast rejected me, and forced me to spill it. Thus the gift of cordial love you have spurned, so may you have none of it. the heart of hearts of this good man, without virtue thou shalt claim not your own. I have too by my own right as a King upon earth stolen it like a debaucher of beautiful virgin. 

Gwenevere, and so many of Ye. white lilies of dubious perfume, scions of a damaged middle age. let earth red soak up all the salty tears of virtuous men and women, passion might triumph with reason and Art. but this ill flame of the kind of dogs licking their masters feet in prostration, the courtly love and its worries sung against my advice, let the Worm eat it till leaving bleached bones.

 the heart of righteousness shall not be claimed without true knightly merit. and let the earth remember the redness of perished roses of tenderer passion, and forget the sickly perfume worn by too many a worm-ridden paler flowers. let the world be rid of the tyranny of artificial scent meant as a web to ensnare those wounded in the hearts. and may those who bloom do so with colours meet for the eye, and scent makes drunk young boys not lose manly passion to fear, but possess it with pride.

I am King Arthur, the gay assassin, bandit and troubadour. To this sign I submit my aged bodily frame, against this I shall have immortaly against all effete and self-denying false virtues and undeserving vices.

This is the Immortality of Arthur. 
I have tossed away my sword (Excalibur?) to kill my foes. and I do not possess a Graal. What fear have I against my own demise? If she comes, I shall move yet nimble as a panther pouncing in the field and deadly as a snake hiding in the bushes, and even if old age allows she to overcome me, I will bite into her cold and pale skin, so her flesh might become swollen, and her spirit shall taste a dose of her own medicine!
after King Arthur finished up his words, the grovelling coadjutors took it upon themselves and rushed to the Kings side, imploring for his sentence of judgement to be delivered upon Queen Gwenevere. To which Arthur simply replied, 

"let her live, 

but never as my equal on earth"

(well, friends. since nowadays we are all so busy and so many of us business-men and -women, normally we would just sue for divorce or anullment of marriage, in the court of eternal justice of Man).