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Author: Anonymous (10th cent.) (-)
Byrhtwold maþelode, bord hafenode se wæs ealde geneat – æsc acwehte; he ful baldlice beornas lærde: "Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre, mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað. Her lið ure ealdor eall forheawen, god on greote. A mæg gnornian se ðe nu fram þis wigplegan wendan þenceð. Ic eom frod feores. Fram ic ne wille, ac ic me be healfe minum hlaforde, be swa leofan men licgan þence." Byrhtwold spoke, an old warrior. He lifted his shield, brandished his spear. Boldly he exhorted the fighters: "Harder will be our temper, braver our hearts, higher our spirits, as our strength lessens. Here lies our leader, all cut to pieces, the good man on the ground. Who now thinks to leave this war-play, may he for ever rue it. I am old in years. I will not go from here, but will rather lie slain beside my beloved lord." Tr. R.J.