iddle 79 Frod wæs min fromcynn     [ . . . . . . . ]   My race is old, my seasons many,   biden in burgum,    siþþan bæles weard   My sorrows deep. I have dwelt in cities   [ . . . . . . ] wera     life bewunden,   Since the fire-guardian wrought with flame   fyre gefælsad.    Nu me fah warað   My clean beginning in the world of men,   eorþan broþor,    se me ærest wearð 5 Purged my body with a circling fire. 5 gumena to gyrne.     Ic ful gearwe gemon   Now a fierce earth-brother stands guard,   hwa min fromcynn     fruman agette   The first to shape my sorrow--I remember   eall of earde;    ic him yfle ne mot,   Who ripped our race, hard from its homeland,   ac ic hæftnyd    hwilum arære   Stripped us from the ground. I cannot bind   wide geond wongas.     Hæbbe ic wundra fela, 10 Or blast him, yet I cause the clench of slavery 10 middangeardes    mægen unlytel,   Round the world. Though my wounds are many   ac ic miþan sceal     monna gehwylcum   On middle-earth, my strength is great.   degolfulne dom     dyran cræftes,   My craft and course, power and rich passage,   siðfæt minne.     Saga hwæt ic hatte.   I must hide from men. Say who I am.   solution