She’s just the dame for Thrymur’s taste; soft, delicate, and thin
Must be the fingers, that can draw the silken thread so fine.
Her skin the lily’s hue presents, her cheek the peach’s bloom,
Her lips are red as blood, I’m told; the rest all white as foam:
With brightest gold in colour her silken tresses vie,
And three times can she wind them around her forehead high.
They say she’s in affliction, her husband she has lost;
Good sense this doth not argue to be so deeply crost:
But it denotes fidelity; and that, one may surmise,
Supposes that she too upon fidelity relies: