“Bebeorh þé ðone bealo-níð, Béowulf léofa, secg betsta, ond þé þæt sélre gecéos, éce rǽdas; ofer-hýda ne gým, mǽre cempa! Nú is þines mægnes blǽd áne hwíle; eft sóna bið þæt þec ádl oððe ecg eafoþes getwǽfeð, oððe fýres feng oððe flódes wylm oððe gripe méces oððe gáres fliht oððe atol yldo, oððe éagena bearhtm forsiteð ond forsworceð; semninga bið, þæt ðec, dryht-guma, déað oferswýðeð. O flower of warriors, beware of that trap. Choose, dear Béowulf, 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.”