Long on my face and fed his dreamings there.
He came to me by stealth, in secrecy,
And laid his hand upon my hand, and spake:
‘Brunhild, beware of Merow, for he thinks
To poison thee, and so to make his peace
With Fredegonde, who thus has tempted him.
And she has sent him poisons, which the art
Of Lapland sorcerers distilled for her,
From herbs accurséd, in the moon’s eclipse,
Bidding him mix the draught into thy wine.