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Thou sir Launcelot there thou lyest that thou were neuer matched of erthely knyghtes hande
& thou were the curtest knyght that euer bare shelde
& thou were the truest frende to thy louar that euer bestrade hors
& thou were the trewest louer of a synful man that euer loued woman
& thou were the kyndest man that euer strake wyth swerde
& thou were the godelyest persone þt euer cam emonge prees of knyghtes
& thou was the mekest man & the Ientyllest that euer ete in halle emonge ladyes
& thou were the sternest knyght to thy mortal foo that euer put spere in the breste
than there was wepyng & dolour out of mesure
Thus they kepte syr Launcelots corps on lofte xv dayes & than they buryed it with grete deuocyon
& than at leyser they wente al with the bysshop of canterburye to his ermytage & there they were to gyder more than a monthe.
–Sir Thomas Mallory, The Morte D’Arthur lib xxi, cap xiii (ca. 1460)
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“Shelby is waiting for something. He himself does not know what it is. When it comes he will either go back into the world from which he came, or sink out of sight in the morass of alcoholism or despair that has engulfed other vagrants.”