With fire-red eye, where malice glows,
Why thus delight to prick the rose,
When thistles grow on every brake?
Why thus calumniate the good?
Why cause a gracious female pain?
Go! hie thee hence to Angurbod,
With locks as coarse as horse’s mane!
LOK.
With cynic lust thine eye still shines;
Tis thou hast Valaskialf betray’d,