Buðlungr Leopold, se þe feng to Miercena rice, wæron gefullode mid Cristes gelefan þurh godcundre willan.
Heold se cyning his rice mid bisgum mægenes ond godum dæde, ac na yfele, for gelyfaþ he tid gramfærnesse dages fenelæcþ, ðæt sceall man don dæd-bote.
Ac hafast he life heardan, ðæt he ðolaþ ond drefð mid sare sorgum. ðus cwæð his pectus æfre: 'Salva me fons pietatis.'
1 Hark! In short lines | shall I lament
2 Swan-song in mid-earth | spring-storm in heaven
3 That set in my life-end | seen in my lone-soul.
4 Have I skills supreme | suffer yet sorrow,
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