iddle 33 Mec se wæta wong,     wundrum freorig,   The earth was my mother--I was raised   of his innaþe     ærist cende.   From her cold, wet womb. I know in my mind   Ne wat ic mec beworhtne     wulle flysum,   I was not woven from hair or wool   hærum þurh heahcræft,      hygeþoncum min:   By skillful hands. I have no winding   wundene me ne beoð wefle,     ne ic wearp hafu, 5 Weft or warp, no thread to sing 5 ne þurh þreata geþræcu     þræd me ne hlimmeð,   Its rushing song; no whirring shuttle   ne æt me hrutende     hrisil scriþeð,   Slides through me, no weaver's sley   ne mec ohwonan      sceal am cnyssan.   Strikes belly or back No silkworms spin   Wyrmas mec ne awæfan     wyrda cræftum,   With inborn skill their subtle gold   þa þe geolo godwebb     geatwum frætwað. 10 For my sides, yet warriors call me   10 Wile mec mon hwæþre seþeah     wide ofer eorþan   A coat of joy. I do not fear   hatan for hæleþum     hyhtlic gewæde.   The quiver's gift, the deadly arrow's flight.   Saga soðcwidum,     searoþoncum gleaw,   If you are clever and quick with words,   wordum wisfæst,     hwæt þis gewæde sy.   Say what this strange coat is called.   solution