Selre bið æghwæm
ÃÞæt he his freond wrece, þonne he fela murne.
Aris, rices wear, uton hraþe feron
Grendles magan gang sceawigan
Ic hit þe hate: no he on helm losaþ
Ne on foldan f¦Ã¾m, ne on fyrgen-holt,
Ne on gyfenes grund, ga þær he wille.
Ac he hraþe wolde
Grendle forgyldan guð-ræsa fela,
Ãra þe he geworhte to West-Denum
Oftor micle ðonne on ænne sið
à ¸onne he Hroðgares heorð-geneatas
Sloh on sweofote. He gave him his wages,
And hine þa heafde becearf.

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