Hwt! W Grdena in gardagum odcyninga rym gefrnon h elingas ellen fremedon.

. Oft Scyld Scfing sceaena ratum monegum magum meodosetla oftah egsode Eorle syan arest wear fasceaft funden h s frfre gebd wox under wolcnum weormyndum h o t him aghwylc ra ymbsittendra ofer hronrde hran scolde, gomban gyldan t ws gd cyning.

Listen! We --of the Spear-Danes in the days of yore, of those clan-kings-heard of their glory. how those nobles performed courageous deeds. Often Scyld, Scef's son, from enemy hosts from many peoples seized mead-benches; and terrorised the fearsome Heruli after first he was found helpless and destitute, he then knew recompense for that:he waxed under the clouds, throve in honours,

10

until to him each of the bordering tribes beyond the whale-road had to submit, and yield tribute:that was a good king!

Bowulf maelode bearn Ecgowes: 'Geenc n, se mara maga Healfdenes snottra fengel n ic eom ses fs goldwine gumena, hwt wit go spracon: gif ic t earfe nre scolde aldre linnan t m ware forgewitenum on fder stale wes mundbora mnum magoegnum hondgesellum gif mec hild nime swylce mdmas, m sealdest, Hrgr lofa, Higelce onsend mg onne on am golde ongitan Gata dryhten, geson sunu Hradles onne h on t sinc stara t ic gumcystum gdne funde baga bryttan brac onne mste. Ond Hunfer lat ealde lfe wratlc wagsweord wdcne man heardecg habban ic m mid Hruntinge dm gewyrce oe mec da nime.'

1473 Beowulf spoke,

1478

1483

1488

the son of Edgetheow: 'Think now, glorious kinsman of Half-Dane, wise chieftain, now I am eager for the adventure, gold-friend of man, what we spoke of earlier: if I in employment of yours should be parted from life, that you for me ever would be, having passed on, in the place of a father; be you hand-bearer to my young retainers, hand-companions, if battle takes me, so too you the treasures, those which you gave me, beloved Hrothgar, send on to Hygelac; he then will able to in the gold observe, the lord of the Geats, to perceive, the son of Hrethel, when he on that treasures stares, that I one of noble virtues, a good king, had found, dispenser of rings, enjoyed while I could. And let Unferth the old heirloom, the glorious wave-sword, (let) the widely-known man have that hard-edged (sword); I for myself with Hrunting will gain glory, unless Death takes me.

THE STORY OF BEOWULF Beowulf is a long poem that somebody wrote down around 1000 AD. The poem is in Old English, so whoever wrote it probably lived in England. It's one of the oldest poems written in English (but not the oldest).

But the poem tells a story about things that happened in the early 500's AD - nearly 500 years before the poem was written down. The story takes place in Denmark and Sweden, and involves real people who lived in the early 500's AD, who we know about from other written stories in Swedish and also from archaeology. When Beowulf was being composed and written, the Anglo-Saxons had only recently moved from Denmark and Sweden to England, so they still had a lot of friends and relatives back home, and they told stories about the things these people were doing.

In the story, Beowulf (BAY-oh-wolf) is a great warrior and hero. He sails to Denmark to save his relative King Hrothgar from a terrible monster called Grendel (GRENNdell). There's a fight, and Beowulf tears off Grendel's arm, so Grendel goes home and bleeds to death.

Denmark

The next night, Grendel's mother comes and attacks King Hrothgar's hall, so Beowulf fights and kills her too with a magic sword. Everyone is very happy and Beowulf gets lots of rewards.

Beowulf goes on to have more adventures. He helps out with a Viking raid on Frisia led by King Hygelac (which is also mentioned by Frankish sources so we know it happened in 516 AD). Eventually he becomes King of the Geats, and he rules the Geats until he is an old man, for fifty years. But then he hears about a new monster that is scaring everybody: this time it is a dragon. Even though he is very old, Beowulf is still a hero, so he goes out and kills the dragon. But this time the dragon succeeds in killing Beowulf too.

The Prologue - Middle English Middle English | Modern English Whan that aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of march hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open ye (so priketh hem nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; And specially from every shires ende Of engelond to caunterbury they wende, The hooly blisful martir for to seke, That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. Bifil that in that seson on a day, In southwerk at the tabard as I lay Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage To caunterbury with ful devout corage, At nyght was come into that hostelrye Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye,

Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle, That toward caunterbury wolden ryde. The chambres and the stables weren wyde, And wel we weren esed atte beste. And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, So hadde I spoken with hem everichon That I was of hir felaweshipe anon, And made forward erly for to ryse, To take oure wey ther as I yow devyse. But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, Er that I ferther in this tale pace, Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun To telle yow al the condicioun Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, And whiche they weren, and of what degree, And eek in what array that they were inne; And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne The Prologue - Modern Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury When April with his showers sweet with fruit The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, Quickened again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in sundry lands. And specially from every shire's end Of England they to Canterbury wend, The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who help ed them when they lay so ill and weal Befell that, in that season, on a day In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay Ready to start upon my pilgrimage To Canterbury, full of devout homage, There came at nightfall to that hostelry Some nine and twenty in a company

Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all That toward Canterbury town would ride. The rooms and stables spacious were and wide, And well we there were eased, and of the best. And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest, So had I spoken with them, every one, That I was of their fellowship anon, And made agreement that we'd early rise To take the road, as you I will apprise. But none the less, whilst I have time and space, Before yet farther in this tale I pace, It seems to me accordant with reason To inform you of the state of every one Of all of these, as it appeared to me, And who they were, and what was their degree, And even how arrayed there at the inn; And with a knight thus will I first begin. ROMEO AND JULIET, SHAKESREARE

Juliet: O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love And I'll no longer be a Capulet. Romeo: [Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? Juliet: 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy: Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O be some other name! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.

Romeo And Juliet Act 2, scene 2, 3349