of the passages pertaining to riddles that i work with, this is one of the saddest:

Ða gewearð hit þæt þæs mædenes fostor-modor into ðam bure eode. & geseah hi ðar sittan on micelre gedrefednesse. & hire cwæð to. Hwíg eart þu hlæfdige swa gedrefedes modes. Ðæt mæden hyre &swerode. Leofe fostor-modor. nu to dæg forwurdon twegen æðele naman on þisum bure. Seo fostor-modor cwæð. Hlæfdige be hwam cwist þu þæt. Heo hyre &wirde & cwæð. Ær ðam dæge minra brid-gifta. ic eom mid mánfulre scilde besmiten. Ða cwæð seo fostor-modor. Hwa wæs æfre swa dirstiges modes þæt dorste cynges dohtor gewæmman ær ðam dæge hyre bryd-gifta. & him ne ondrede þæs cyninges irre. Ðæt mæden cwæð. Arleasnes þa scilde on me gefremode. Seo fostor-modor cwæð. Hwi ne segst þu hit þinum fæder. Ðæt mæden cwæð. Hwar is se fæder. Soðlice on me earmre is mines fæder náma reowlice forworden. & me nu forðam deað þearle gelicað.

from the Old English Apollonius of Tyre