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Nidingr

Lokasenna

Talk of weapons and might in war*
You are swollen with pride
Bale and hatred i bring for you
O sons of the glorious gods

Ithun you are of women most lustful in love
Since thy washed-bright arms did wind about
Your brothers slayer

Ægir
No such feast shall you make no more
Over all you have which is here within
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Shall play the flickering flame

Though on the rocks the gods bind me
With bowels torn
Forth from my frost-cold son
I was first and last

I mix their mead with venom
I Wolf-Father