To soil; ’tis casting coals on snow.
Fly, caitiff, to thy rocks remote!
Cease to disturb the social hour!
Bark, an it give thee joy, without,
Like mastiff chain’d at Ægir’s door!
LOK.
Hold thy tongue, Odin! blind, in troth,
Are thy awards i’ th’ tented field.
The bold must oft to witchcraft yield,
When Odin boils the magic broth.