"Up then came / a worthy warrior, Oak-tall, oak-strong / shorn-locked, short-shaven, Dark as leather / dyed in walnut; Clad in canvas / white as moonlight. Up he strode / fearless, noble, where Geatlings gathered. / Scorning arms He spoke these words: / "Look upon me. Now upon yourselves. / Again upon me. You are not me." / Deep his voice Like thunder's cry / or breath of God. Woe to the warriors! / How they trembled! Then again spoke / the white-garbed warrior: "Nor have your coats / the smell of me, For rather smell you / of maidens' nosegays Or worse, of dead fish / silver fish hand-caught." Shame befell / the men of Geatland. And one man spoke: / "Woe to the dragon That slew great Beowulf! / Were he living, This great shame / would not now haunt us." Once more spoke / the white-garbed warrior: "But this I say: / bathe in Gamol-léac, The old and noble herb / and you will be men Who smell like me." / He raised his hand And wonder seized / the men of Geatland, For now they stood / on deck of ship..."