Over the floods. And now there fills my bosom
A maiden adorned with rings; or I may be robbed
Of my gems, and hard and headless lie; or hang
Prettily on the wall where warriors drink,
Trimmed with trappings. Sometimes as an ornament brave
Folk-warriors wear me on horseback; wind
From the bosom of a man must I, in gold-hues bright,
Swallow then. Sometimes to the wine
I invite with my voice the valiant men;
Or it rescues the stolen from the robbers’ grasp,