Speak, honored Frey, and tell me right:

Why spends my lord the tedious day

In his lone hall, to grief a prey?

FREY:

Oh, how shall I, fond youth, disclose

To you my bosom’s heavy woes?

The ruddy god shines every day,

But dull to me his cheerful ray.

SKIRNER:

Your sorrows deem not I so great