Nor elf am I, nor asas’ son; Nor from the wiser vanas sprung: Yet o’er the bickering flames I rode Alone to visit your abode. Eleven apples here I hold, Gerd, for you, of purest gold; Let this fair gift your bosom move To grant young Frey your precious love. GERD: Eleven apples take not I From man as price of chastity: While life remains, no tongue shall tell That Frey and I together dwell. SKIRNER: Gerd, for you this wondrous ring, Burnt on young Balder’s pile, I bring, On each ninth night shall other eight Drop from it. all of equal weight. GERD: I take not, I, that wondrous ring, Though it from Balder’s pile you bring: Gold lack not I, in Gymer’s bower; Enough for me my father’s dower. SKIRNER: Behold this bright and slender wand, Unsheathed and glittering in my hand! Refuse not, maiden! lest your head Be severed by the trenchant blade. GERD: Gerd will ne’er by force be led To grace a conqueror’s hateful bed; But this I trow, with main and might Gymer shall meet your boast in fight. SKIRNER: Behold this bright and slender wand, Unsheathed and glittering in my hand! Slain by its edge your sire shall lie, That giant old is doomed to die. As this has no effect upon Gerd’s mind, Skirner heaps blows upon her with a magic wand, and at the same time he begins his incantations, scoring runic characters as he sings: