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With no good in her heart She donned her gold byrny, Ere she thrust the sword point Through the midst of her body: On the boister's far side Sank she adown, And, smitten with sword, Still bethought her of redes. "Let all come forth Who are fain the red gold, Or things less worthy To win from my hands; To each one I give A necklace gilt over, Wrought hangings and bed=gear, And bright woven weed."