Wit from the mead-horn doth often flow;
By the mead-cup oft is the fool exposed.
GESTUR.
I pass’d on a road, where three roads met,
Yet these roads never touch’d each other.
Howe’er ingenious thy mother wit,
Here’s a nut to crack, thy brains will bother.
SKIRNIR.
To a frost-bound river thou didst come,
And o’er the ice thou didst glide with speed,