I hang the poison in the Sun, a wine-skin in a vintner's house, He will not die, nor shall we die: his path is far: he whom Bay Horses bear hath turned thee to sweet meath.
This little bird, so very small, hath swallowed all thy poison up. She will not die, nor shall we die: his path is far: he whom Bay Horses bear hath turned thee to sweet meath.
The three-times-seven bright sparks of fire have swallowed up the poison's strength. They will not die, nor shall we die: his path is far: he whom Bay Horses bear hath turned thee to sweet meath.
Of ninety rivers and of nine with power to stay the venom's course,— The names of all I have secured: his path is far: he whom Bay Horses bear hath turned thee to sweet meath.