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.