Fridthjof, 'tis time for your folly's abating;
Sigh and lament for a false woman's loss!
Earth is, alas, but too full of such dross;
One may be lost, still a thousand are waiting.
Say but the word, of such goods I will bring
Quickly a cargo,-- the Southland can spare them,
Red as the rose, mild as lambs in the Spring;
Then we'll cast lots, or as brothers we'll share them.

FRIDTHJOF.

Bjorn, you're as frank and as joyous as Frey,
Bold to wage war and with wisdom advising;
Odin and Thor you ne'er think of despising,--
Freyja, the heavenly, you dare to gainsay.
Let us not question her power supernal,
Rather beware lest we waken her ire;
Once, though now slumbering, the sparkle eternal
Mortals and gods shall enkindle to fire.

BJORN.

Go not alone, lest return be prevented.

FRIDTHJOF.

Singly I go not, my sword goes with me.

BJORN.