Thy caitiff’s bones to a meal I’ll pound,
As a mill-stone crusheth the grain.
When Loke that naught booted his magic found,
He took straight his own form again.
And what if thou scatter’st my limbs in air?
He spake, will it mend thy case?
Will it gain back for Sif a single hair?
Thou’lt still a bald spouse embrace.
But if now thou’lt pardon my heedless joke,—
For malice sure meant I none,—