Then he moves to Sir Mordred   among all his knightes,
And met him in the mid-sheld   and malles him through,
But the shalk for the sharp   he shuntes a little;
He share him on the short ribbes   a shaftmond large.
The shaft shuddered and shot   in the shire berne
That the sheddand blood   over his shank runnes
And shewed on his shin-bawde   that was shire burnisht!
And so they shift and shove   he shot to the erthe,
With the lush of the launce   he light on his shoulders
An acre-lenghe on a laund   full lothly wounded.
Then Gawain gird to the gome   and on the grouf falles;
All his gref was graithed;   his grace was no better!
He shockes out a short knife   shethed with silver
And sholde have slotted him in   but no slit happened;
His hand slipped and slode   o-slant on the mailes
And the tother slely   slinges him under;
With a trenchand knife   the traitour him hittes
Through the helm and the hed   on high on the brain;
And thus Sir Gawain is gone,   the good man of armes,
Withouten rescue of renk,   and rew is the more!

Alliterative Morte Arthur