SIEGFRIED.
So it is,
My Queen!
GISELHER.
So is it! Nothing more? And scarce
Those few words could he utter! Dost thou grudge
The king his bride? Or hast thou lamed thy tongue
In battle? That was never known before.
But no, for thou could'st use it fast enough
To tell me of Brunhilda's dark brown eyes
And raven tresses.
SIEGFRIED.
Prithee, say not so!
GISELHER.
How hotly he denies it! See him raise
On high three fingers, swearing that he loves
Blue eyes—light hair!
UTE.
This is an arrant rogue!
He is nor boy nor man, sapling nor tree.
And long hath he outgrown his mother's rod,
Nor ever hath he felt his father's whip.
Ungoverned is he as a yearling colt,
That's never known the bridle or the whip.
We must forgive or punish him!