SKIRNER:
Nor elf am I, nor asas’ son;
Nor from the wiser vanas sprung:
Yet o’er the bickering flames I rode
Alone to visit your abode.
Eleven apples here I hold,
Gerd, for you, of purest gold;
Let this fair gift your bosom move
To grant young Frey your precious love.
GERD: