Nor here thy odious form intrude!
My lance, I swear, when next we meet,
Shall pierce thy heart, and drink thy blood.
LOK.
More kind and decent was thy tone,
When, dress’d as lowly waiting-maid,
Thou turn’dst the silly Rinda’s head,
Heiress of Garderike’s throne:
Clothed in the garment of a slave,
Was conduct that for Odin fit?