Ef einnhverr ýta, tungusætr, hygz að makligleikum að skorða orðum mjúkan dikt af heiðri þínum í kvæði, mín drotning, er líkast því sem ráðlauss seggr rasi og reiki, fældr og byrgðr, að ýmsum veggjum, og feti hvergi í burt ór völundarhúsi, þó fúss.

If some man, sweet of tongue, intends fittingly to support with words a supple poem about your honour in verse, my queen, it would be as if a bewildered man should stumble and stagger, panic-stricken and hemmed in, from wall to wall and was not at all able to make his way away out of a labyrinth, although he was eager to.