To dance in the yellow fire-light. You hang your head,
Young man, as if it was not a good life;
And yet what’s better than to hurl the spear,
And hear the long-remembering harp, and dance?
Friendship grows quicker in the murmuring dark;
But I can see there’s no more need for words
And that you’ll be my friend now.
First Old King.
Concobar,
Forbid their friendship, for it will get twisted