For any hope of fame.
Hervör:
There lives, O Angantyr, a maid
Who yearns to handle the keen-edged blade,
And such a maid am I!
And what care I though the tomb fires blaze!
They sink and tremble before my gaze,
They quiver out and die!
Angantyr:
O Hervör, 'tis folly and madness dire