The Terror of Banishment

There lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords.
Ha, banishment! be merciful, say 'death;'
For exile hath more terror in his look.
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, doing more murders in this loathsome world.
Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous?
Thus with a kiss I die

Þær lȳgþ māre forðfēa in þīnum ēagan þanne twentig heora seorde.
Ha, ǣxen! bēo mildheort, sǣ 'deað;'
For ūtwæm hæfþ māre ege in his onsǣon.
Þār is þīn gyld, wyrse swāþe to manna sāwle, dōn mōre morðras in þis āwihtscipe worulde.
Sceal ic gelēfan þæt unspere niðdeað is lufsum?
Swā mid cīsse ic fordyra.