Paroles de Ira

Selre bið æghwæm þæt he his freond wrece, þonne he fela murne. Aris, rices weard, uton hraþe feron Grendles magan gang sceawigan Ic hit þe gehate: no he on helm losaþ Ne on foldan fæþm, ne on fyrgen-holt, Ne on gyfenes grund, ga þær he wille. ac he hraþe wolde Grendle forgyldan guð-ræsa fela, ðara þe he geworhte to West-Denum Oftor micle ðonne on ænne sið þonne he Hroðgares heorð-geneatas sloh on sweofote. He him þæs lean forgeald, ond hine þa heafde becearf.