And lead her straight to Freya’s grove:
Gluing to Gerda’s lips of rose
Her own, what joy each Disa shows!
And every Asa courts the bliss
Her well-turned lily hand to kiss.
Of Frey’s content I need not speak,
Therein must fail my harpings weak.
He who hath courted, and hath known
What ’tis to call his maid his own,
He knows and feels it too; while naught