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Epta Astera
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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.
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