Exeter Riddles
Riddle 4
Mec gesette soð sigora waldend The culminant lord of victories, Christ,
Crist to compe. Oft ic cwice bærne, Created me for battle. Often I burn unrimu cyn eorþan getenge, Countless living creatures on middle-earth, næte mid niþe, swa ic him no hrine, Treat them to terror though I touch them not, þonne mec min frea feohtan hateþ. 5 When my lord rouses me to wage war. 5
Hwilum ic monigra mod arete, Sometimes I lighten the minds of many, hwilum ic frefre þa ic ær winne on Sometimes I comfort those I fought fiercely feorran swiþe-- hi þæs felað þeah, Before. They feel this high blessing swylce þæs oþres, þonne ic eft hyra As they felt that burning, when over the surge ofer deop gedreag drohtað bete. 10 And sorrow, I again grace their going. 10
Riddle 6
Ic þurh muþ sprece mongum reordum, I am a mimic with many tongues, wrencum singe, wrixle geneahhe Warbling tunes, shifting tones, heafodwoþe, hlude cirme, jugging the city with head-song. healde mine wisan, hleoþre ne miþe. Old night-singer, song-shaper,
Eald æfensceop, eorlum bringe 5 Pleasure-poet -- I keep a clear calling, 5 blisse in burgum, þonne ic bugendre Wind melody for men. These sit stefne styrme; stille on wicum Bowed in quiet in the curve of song. sittað nigende. Saga hwæt ic hatte, Say who I am who sing like a minstrel þe swa scirenige sceawendwisa 10 Soft clamor of court and mime the world wilcumena fela woþe minre. In harlequin play, boding bright welcome Riddle 9 Hrægl is min hasofag, hyrste beorhte, My dress is silver, shimmering gray, reade ond scire on reafe hafu. Spun with a blaze of garnets. I craze
Ic dysge dwelle ond dole hwette Most men: rash fools I run on a road unrædsiþas, oþrum styre Of rage, and cage quiet
Mec gesette soð sigora waldend The culminant lord of victories, Christ,
Crist to compe. Oft ic cwice bærne, Created me for battle. Often I burn unrimu cyn eorþan getenge, Countless living creatures on middle-earth, næte mid niþe, swa ic him no hrine, Treat them to terror though I touch them not, þonne mec min frea feohtan hateþ. 5 When my lord rouses me to wage war. 5
Hwilum ic monigra mod arete, Sometimes I lighten the minds of many, hwilum ic frefre þa ic ær winne on Sometimes I comfort those I fought fiercely feorran swiþe-- hi þæs felað þeah, Before. They feel this high blessing swylce þæs oþres, þonne ic eft hyra As they felt that burning, when over the surge ofer deop gedreag drohtað bete. 10 And sorrow, I again grace their going. 10
Riddle 6
Ic þurh muþ sprece mongum reordum, I am a mimic with many tongues, wrencum singe, wrixle geneahhe Warbling tunes, shifting tones, heafodwoþe, hlude cirme, jugging the city with head-song. healde mine wisan, hleoþre ne miþe. Old night-singer, song-shaper,
Eald æfensceop, eorlum bringe 5 Pleasure-poet -- I keep a clear calling, 5 blisse in burgum, þonne ic bugendre Wind melody for men. These sit stefne styrme; stille on wicum Bowed in quiet in the curve of song. sittað nigende. Saga hwæt ic hatte, Say who I am who sing like a minstrel þe swa scirenige sceawendwisa 10 Soft clamor of court and mime the world wilcumena fela woþe minre. In harlequin play, boding bright welcome Riddle 9 Hrægl is min hasofag, hyrste beorhte, My dress is silver, shimmering gray, reade ond scire on reafe hafu. Spun with a blaze of garnets. I craze
Ic dysge dwelle ond dole hwette Most men: rash fools I run on a road unrædsiþas, oþrum styre Of rage, and cage quiet