Hávamál: “Cattle die, kinsmen die”

Haltr ríðr hrossi, hiǫrð rekr handarvanr, daufr vegr ok dugir, blindr er betri, en brendr séi: nýtr manngi nás.

The lame man rides a horse, the handless man drives a herd, the deaf man fights and is of use; better to be blind than burned: no one has use for a corpse.

Sonr er betri, þótt sé síð of alinn ept genginn guma: sialdan bautasteinar standa brauto nær, nema reisi niðr at nið.

A son is better, though he is born late, after the man has passed away: seldom do memorial stones stand by the road unless kinsman raises them for kinsman.

Tveir ro eins heriar, tunga er hǫfuðs bani, er mér í heðin hvern handar væni.

Two are one man's undoing; the tongue is the slayer of the head; under every fur cloak I expect a hand.

Nótt verðr feginn, sá er nesti trúir: skammar ro skips rár; hverf er haustgríma fiǫlð um viðrir á fimm dǫgom, en meira á mánaði.

He is glad of the night who trusts his provisions; short are a ship's yards; an autumn night is changeable; the weather changes much in five days, and more in a month.

Veita hinn, er vetki veit; margr verðr af lǫðrom api; maðr er auðigr, annarr óauðigr, skylit þann vitka vár.

He who knows nothing does not know that many a man is made a fool by riches; one man is rich, another poor; he should not be blamed for that misfortune.

Deyr fé, deyia frændr, deyr siálfr it sama; en orztírr deyr aldregi, hveim er sér góðan getr.

Cattle die, kinsmen die, you yourself die the same; but a good name never dies for the one who wins it.

Deyr fé, deyia frændr, deyr siálfr it sama; ek veit einn, at aldri deyr: dómr um dauðan hvern.

Cattle die, kinsmen die, you yourself die the same; I know one thing that never dies: the judgement on each one dead.

Fullar grindr sá ek fyr Fitiungs sonom: nú bera þeir vánar vǫl; svá er auðr sem auga bragð: hann er valtastr vina.

Full pens I saw for Fitjung's sons: now they carry a beggar's staff; wealth is like the blink of an eye: it is the most fickle of friends.

Ósnotr maðr, ef eignaz getr fé eða flióðs munoð: metnaðr hánom þróaz, en manvit aldregi; fram gengr hann driúgt í dul.

The unwise man, if he comes to own wealth or a woman's love: his pride grows, but never his good sense; he goes steadily on in his conceit.

Þat er þá reynt, er þú at rúnom spyrr, inom reginkunnom, þeim er gørðo ginnregin ok fáði fimbulþulr: þá hefir hann batst, ef hann þegir.

That is proved when you ask about the runes of divine origin, which the great gods made and the mighty sage painted: then he does best if he keeps silent.