I gnaw the bindings of mine own dark hate
Immured in my lugubrious heart’s cell.
Nothing but blood can mine own vengeance sate,
Or else will plunge my soul deep into hell.

How dost the base-born mortal, Tuor, dare
To touch thee, silver maiden, with his hand?
The argent bridal gown thy lithe form wears.
How much more torment can my soul yet stand?

My torment greater is than thou canst know,
Within the love of thy own father’s house.
To Tuor deepest scorn I will not show:
But burn inside for hate of mortal louse.

I gnaw the bindings of mine own deep hate.
Beware lest thou partake of my dark fate.