Our ears with ribald taunts to shock.
Thy sparks of wit proceed, I trow,
But from the fumes of mead and ale;
Its emptiness we all do know:
Thy sarcasms here must ever fail.
LOK.
Ha! Lok must now succumb, ’tis plain,
Since pompous Heimdal threatens too;
Think’st thou I fear thy famous bow,
Made of mere vapour, sleet, and rain?