King Mandricardo's courser, who abhorred The whistling of the steel which round him flew, Saved, with sore mischief to himself, his lord;
In that he backed the faulchion to eschew:
Aimed at his master, not at him, the sword Smote him across the head, and cleft it through.
No Trojan helm defends the wretched horse, Like Mandricardo, and he dies parforce.
