Bebeorh the done bealo-nid, Beowulf leofa, secg betsta, ond the thaet selre geceos, ece raedas; ofer-hyda ne gym, maere cempa! Nu is thines maegnes blaed ane hwile; eft sona bid thaet thec adl odde ecg eafothes getwaefed, odde fyres feng odde flodes wylm odde gripe meces odde gares fliht odde atol yldo, odde eagena bearhtm forsited ond forsworced; semninga bid, thaet dec, dryht-guma, dead oferswyded. O flower of warriors, beware of that trap. Choose, dear Beowulf, the better part, eternal rewards. Do not give way to pride. For a brief while your strength is in bloom but it fades quickly; and soon there will follow illness or the sword to lay you low, or a sudden fire or a surge of water or jabbing blade or javelin from the air or repellent age. Your piercing eye will dim and darken; and death will arrive, dear warrior, to sweep you away.