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(The bowl can Gods and men deceive);
Or dost thou at thy honours grieve?
What heroes croud thy palace gate,
And Gods thy vengeful malice sate?

XLVI.
Much have I said; but said in vain:
Mem’ry flies thy troubled brain.
Thy friends deceitful press around:
I see thy faulchion on the ground.
The faulchion of my host is dy’d!
The blood runs purpling from his side!

XLVII.
Ygger soon shall point the blade,
For deed of rightful veng’ance made,
Thy days are past, I now predict:
Now the Deſtinies afflict.
With flames encircled, Odin see!
Geirrod! Geirrod! rescue me.