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Modern English
They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar, things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.
They say miracles are a thing of the past; and now we have our intellectuals, to make things supernatural and unexplainable, seem ordinary and familiar. This is why we turn real fears into jokes, hiding behind false knowledge, when we should face an unknown fear.
Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times.
Well, it’s the most remarkable thing to happen in our times.
And so ’tis.
And so it is.
To be relinquish’d of the artists,--
To be rid of the doctors,--
So I say.
Yes, that’s what I mean.
Both of Galen and Paracelsus.
Both Galen and Paracelsus.
So I say.
Yes, exactly.
Of all the learned and authentic fellows,--
All the learned and trusted men,--
Right; so I say.
Right; exactly what I mean.
That gave him out incurable,--
Who declared him incurable,--
Why, there ’tis; so say I too.
Yes, that’s it; I agree.
Not to be helped,--
Impossible to fix,--
Right; as ’twere, a man assured of a--
Exactly; like a man who knows he has--
Uncertain life, and sure death.
An uncertain life and certain death.
Just, you say well; so would I have said.
Yes, you’re right; I would have said the same.
I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.
I can honestly say, this is something new to the world.
It is, indeed: if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in--what do you call there?
It really is: if you want to see it demonstrated, you can read about it in--what do you call it?
A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.
A display of a heavenly result in a mere human actor.
That’s it; I would have said the very same.
That’s it; I would have said exactly the same thing.
Why, your dolphin is not lustier: ’fore me, I speak in respect--
Why, your dolphin isn’t any stronger: honestly, I’m speaking with respect--
Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange, that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he’s of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the--
No, it’s strange, really strange, that’s the short version and the long version of it; and he’s got a really wicked attitude if he won’t admit it’s the--
Very hand of heaven.
Very hand of heaven.
Ay, so I say.
Yes, that’s what I’m saying.
In a most weak--
In a very weak--
and debile minister, great power, great transcendence: which should, indeed, give us a further use to be made than alone the recovery of the king, as to be--
and ineffective minister, great power, great greatness: which should, really, give us a greater reason to be used than just the recovery of the king, like to be--
generally thankful.
generally thankful.
I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.
I would’ve said that; you said it well. Here comes the king.
Lustig, as the Dutchman says: I’ll like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head: why, he’s able to lead her a coranto.
Lively, as the Dutchman says: I’ll like a girl better as long as I’ve got a tooth in my mouth: why, he’s capable of leading her in a dance.
Mort du vinaigre! is not this Helen?
Damn the vinegar! is that Helen?
’Fore God, I think so.
By God, I think so.
Go, call before me all the lords in court. Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side; And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive The confirmation of my promised gift, Which but attends thy naming.
Go, bring all the lords in court before me. Sit, my savior, by your patient’s side; And with this healthy hand, whose lost senses You’ve restored, receive again The confirmation of my promised gift, Which only waits for your name.
Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing, O’er whom both sovereign power and father’s voice I have to use: thy frank election make; Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.
Fair lady, look at them: these young men Of noble birth are here for me to give away, Over whom both royal authority and my fatherly word I have the right to exercise: make your choice freely; You have the power to choose, and they have no right to reject you.
To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress Fall, when Love please! marry, to each, but one!
To each of you, may a fair and virtuous woman Fall, when Love wills it! Marry, to each one, but only one!
I’ld give bay Curtal and his furniture, My mouth no more were broken than these boys’, And writ as little beard.
I’d give my horse, Bay Curtal, and all his gear, My mouth would be as whole as theirs, And I’d have just as little beard.
Peruse them well: Not one of those but had a noble father.
Look them over carefully: Not one of them but has a noble father.
Gentlemen, Heaven hath through me restored the king to health.
Gentlemen, Heaven has healed the king through me.
We understand it, and thank heaven for you.
We understand, and thank Heaven for you.
I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest, That I protest I simply am a maid. Please it your majesty, I have done already: The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me, ’We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused, Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever; We’ll ne’er come there again.’
I’m a simple girl, and in that way the richest, For I swear I am truly just a maid. If it pleases your majesty, I have already done it: The blushes on my face seem to say, ‘We’re embarrassed that you should choose; but, if rejected, Let death stay on your face forever; We’ll never come here again.’
Make choice; and, see, Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.
Choose now; and see, Whoever avoids your love, avoids all my love as well.
Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, And to imperial Love, that god most high, Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit?
Now, Diana, I leave your altar, And to imperial Love, the highest god, My sighs flow. Sir, will you listen to my request?
And grant it.
And grant it.
Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.
Thank you, sir; the rest is silent.
I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life.
I’d rather be part of this choice than gamble with my life.
The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes, Before I speak, too threateningly replies: Love make your fortunes twenty times above Her that so wishes and her humble love!
The honor, sir, that shines in your eyes, Before I even speak, answers me too strongly: May Love make your fortunes twenty times greater Than hers who wishes you well and loves you humbly!
No better, if you please.
No better, if you please.
My wish receive, Which great Love grant! and so, I take my leave.
Receive my wish, Which may Love grant! And so, I take my leave.
Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine, I’d have them whipped; or I would send them to the Turk, to make eunuchs of.
Do they all refuse her? If they were my sons, I’d have them whipped; or I’d send them to the Turks, to be made eunuchs.
Be not afraid that I your hand should take; I’ll never do you wrong for your own sake: Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!
Don’t be afraid that I should take your hand; I’ll never hurt you for your own good: Bless you and your vows! and in your marriage I hope you find better luck, if you ever marry!
These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her: sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em.
These young men are cold-hearted, they won’t take her: surely, they must be illegitimate Englishmen; the French didn’t have anything to do with them.
You are too young, too happy, and too good, To make yourself a son out of my blood.
You’re too young, too happy, and too good, To make yourself a son from my blood.
Fair one, I think not so.
Beautiful lady, I don’t think that’s true.
There’s one grape yet; I am sure thy father drunk wine: but if thou be’st not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known thee already.
There’s one more chance; I’m sure your father drank wine: but if you’re not a fool, I’m only fourteen; I’ve known you for a long time already.
[To BERTRAM] I dare not say I take you; but I give Me and my service, ever whilst I live, Into your guiding power. This is the man.
[To BERTRAM] I can’t say I take you; but I give Myself and my service, forever as long as I live, Into your control. This is the man.
Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she’s thy wife.
Then, young Bertram, take her; she’s your wife.
My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness, In such a business give me leave to use The help of mine own eyes.
My wife, my lord! I beg your majesty, For this matter, let me use The help of my own eyes.
Know’st thou not, Bertram, What she has done for me?
Don’t you know, Bertram, What she has done for me?
Yes, my good lord; But never hope to know why I should marry her.
Yes, my good lord; But never expect me to explain why I should marry her.
Thou know’st she has raised me from my sickly bed.
You know she’s the one who saved me from my sickbed.
But follows it, my lord, to bring me down Must answer for your raising? I know her well: She had her breeding at my father’s charge. A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain Rather corrupt me ever!
But does it follow, my lord, that just because she helped me I must marry her? I know her well: She was raised at my father’s expense. A poor physician’s daughter as my wife! I’d rather Be corrupted forever!
’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off In differences so mighty. If she be All that is virtuous, save what thou dislikest, A poor physician’s daughter, thou dislikest Of virtue for the name: but do not so: From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignified by the doer’s deed: Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone Is good without a name. Vileness is so: The property by what it is should go, Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair; In these to nature she’s immediate heir, And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn, Which challenges itself as honour’s born And is not like the sire: honours thrive, When rather from our acts we them derive Than our foregoers: the mere word’s a slave Debosh’d on every tomb, on every grave A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said? If thou canst like this creature as a maid, I can create the rest: virtue and she Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.
It’s only the title you’re rejecting in her, which I can change. It’s strange that our bloodlines, Of different colors, weights, and temperatures, mixed together, Would confuse the distinctions, yet still stand apart In such powerful differences. If she is All that’s virtuous, except for what you don’t like, A poor physician’s daughter, you dislike Only the name of virtue: but don’t be like that: When good things come from the lowest places, The place is made noble by the deed of the doer: But when wealth increases, and virtue does not, It’s a bloated honor. Good is good even without a name. So is evil: What something is should be defined by what it is, Not by its title. She is young, wise, and beautiful; These are qualities she inherits directly from nature, And these qualities bring honor: but dishonor Is when you try to claim honor simply because it’s been passed down And is not like its origins: true honor thrives, When we derive it from our actions Rather than our ancestors: the mere word is a slave, Debased on every tomb, on every grave, A false memorial, often silent Where dust and forgotten oblivion bury real honor. What should I say? If you can accept this woman as a maid, I can offer you the rest: virtue and she Is her own dowry; honor and wealth are mine to give.
I cannot love her, nor will strive to do’t.
I cannot love her, nor will I try to.
Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.
You’re wrong if you think you should try to choose.
That you are well restored, my lord, I’m glad: Let the rest go.
I’m glad that you’re well again, my lord: Let everything else go.
My honour’s at the stake; which to defeat, I must produce my power. Here, take her hand, Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift; That dost in vile misprision shackle up My love and her desert; that canst not dream, We, poising us in her defective scale, Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know, It is in us to plant thine honour where We please to have it grow. Cheque thy contempt: Obey our will, which travails in thy good: Believe not thy disdain, but presently Do thine own fortunes that obedient right Which both thy duty owes and our power claims; Or I will throw thee from my care for ever Into the staggers and the careless lapse Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.
My honor is on the line; and to protect it, I have to show my power. Here, take her hand, You arrogant, disrespectful boy, who doesn’t deserve this good gift; You who foolishly imprison My love and her worth; you who can’t even imagine, That we, balancing ourselves in her unfair judgment, Will tip the scales in our favor; you who won’t understand, That we have the power to plant your honor wherever We choose for it to grow. Stop your contempt: Obey our will, which works for your own good: Don’t trust your pride, but right now Do what’s right for you, as both your duty and our power require; Or I will cast you out of my concern forever Into the confusion and recklessness Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hatred Will fall on you, in the name of justice, Without any mercy. Speak; what’s your answer?
Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit My fancy to your eyes: when I consider What great creation and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now The praised of the king; who, so ennobled, Is as ’twere born so.
Forgive me, my lord; I surrender My feelings to your judgment: when I think about What great honor and what loss of status Go wherever you command, I realize that she, who once Was in my higher thoughts the most unworthy, is now The one praised by the king; and now, so honored, She seems as if she were born into that honor.
Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoise, if not to thy estate A balance more replete.
Take her by the hand, And tell her she is yours: to whom I promise A reward, if not to match your current wealth, A balance even greater.
I take her hand.
I take her hand.
Good fortune and the favour of the king Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief, And be perform’d to-night: the solemn feast Shall more attend upon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lovest her, Thy love’s to me religious; else, does err.
May good luck and the king’s favor Bless this agreement; whose ceremony Shall seem right for the brief moment we have, And be carried out tonight: the grand feast Will follow in due time, Expecting the return of absent friends. As you love her, Your love for me is sacred; otherwise, it’s misguided.
[Advancing] Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you.
[Advancing] Do you hear me, sir? I need a word with you.
Your pleasure, sir?
Your wish, sir?
Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.
Your lord did well to take back his words.
Recantation! My lord! my master!
Take back his words! My lord! My master!
Ay; is it not a language I speak?
Yes; is it not a language I speak?
A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master!
A very harsh one, and one that would be understood only By bloody consequences. My master!
Are you companion to the Count Rousillon?
Are you a companion to Count Roussillon?
To any count, to all counts, to what is man.
To any count, to all counts, to whatever man.
To what is count’s man: count’s master is of another style.
To what is a count’s man: the count’s master is of A different kind.
You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.
You’re too old for this, sir; let it be enough to say, you’re too old.
I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee.
I have to tell you, boy, I’m a man; and no matter how old you get, age can’t change that.
What I dare too well do, I dare not do.
What I’m confident I can do well, I’m too afraid to actually do.
I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass: yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burthen. I have now found thee; when I lose thee again, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking up; and that thou’t scarce worth.
I used to think you were a pretty clever guy for a regular fellow; you managed to talk a good bit about your travels, and it seemed okay: but all the fancy ribbons and little flags around you made me doubt that you were carrying anything of real substance. Now that I’ve figured you out, I don’t care if I lose track of you again. You’re good for nothing except picking things up off the ground, and even then, you’re not worth much.
Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee,--
If it weren’t for your age, you wouldn’t be talking to me like this,
Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial; which if--Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well: thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.
Don’t get too angry, or you’ll rush into something that’ll make it worse; if you do, God help you for acting like a fool! So, my good little peep-hole in the window, goodbye: I don’t need to open you up, I can see right through you. Give me your hand.
My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.
My lord, you’re treating me with such outrageous disrespect.
Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.
Yes, with all my heart; and you deserve every bit of it.
I have not, my lord, deserved it.
I haven’t earned it, my lord.
Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple.
Oh, yes, you have, every little bit of it; and I won’t take anything back.
Well, I shall be wiser.
Well, I’ll be more careful from now on.
Even as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o’ the contrary. If ever thou be’st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know.
You’d better be, because you’ve got a long way to go against the opposite side of things. If you ever get caught up in your own troubles and beaten down, you’ll see what it’s like to be proud of your own suffering. I want to stay acquainted with you, or at least know you well enough that I can say, "He’s someone I know."
My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.
My lord, you’re giving me the most unbearable frustration.
I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal: for doing I am past: as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave.
I wish it were hell’s own pain for your sake, and my poor efforts eternal; because I’m done trying, as soon as I’m allowed by my age.
Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I’ll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I’ll have no more pity of his age than I would of--I’ll beat him, an if I could but meet him again.
Well, your son will take this disgrace off my back; dirty, old, disgusting, filthy lord! Well, I’ll have to be patient; I can’t challenge authority. I’ll beat him, I swear, if I get the chance, even if he were a hundred lords. I won’t feel any more pity for his age than I would for--I’ll beat him if I can just find him again.
Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; there’s news for you: you have a new mistress.
Hey, your lord and master’s married; here’s some news for you: you’ve got a new mistress.
I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs: he is my good lord: whom I serve above is my master.
I sincerely beg you, my lord, to hold back your anger: he’s my good lord: the one I serve above is my master.
Who? God?
Who? God?
Ay, sir.
Yes, sir.
The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion? dost make hose of sleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I’ld beat thee: methinks, thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee: I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.
The devil, that’s your master. Why are you rolling up your sleeves like that? Are you making pants out of sleeves? Do other servants dress like this? You should put your lower half where your nose is. By my honor, if I were just two hours younger, I’d beat you: I swear, you’re a walking insult, and everyone should beat you: I think you were made just so people could take out their anger on you.
This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.
This is harsh and undeserved, my lord.
Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond and no true traveller: you are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the commission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I’ld call you knave. I leave you.
Come on, you were beaten in Italy for picking a seed out of a pomegranate; you’re a wanderer, not a true traveler: you’re more arrogant with lords and honorable people than your birth and virtue would suggest. You’re not worth another word, or else I’d call you a fool. I’m done with you.
Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good; let it be concealed awhile.
Fine, very fine; it’s settled then: fine, very fine; let it stay hidden for a while.
Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
I’m ruined, lost to worry forever!
What’s the matter, sweet-heart?
What’s wrong, my dear?
Although before the solemn priest I have sworn, I will not bed her.
Even though I swore before the priest, I will not sleep with her.
What, what, sweet-heart?
What, what, my dear?
O my Parolles, they have married me! I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
Oh my Parolles, they’ve married me! I’m going to the Tuscan wars, and will never sleep with her.
France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!
France is a dump, and it’s not worth the step of a man’s foot: to the wars!
There’s letters from my mother: what the import is, I know not yet.
There are letters from my mother: I don’t know what they say yet, I haven’t read them yet.
Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars! He wears his honour in a box unseen, That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions France is a stable; we that dwell in’t jades; Therefore, to the war!
Yes, we should know. To the wars, my friend, to the wars! He keeps his honor hidden in a box, He stays home with it, fooling around here, Wasting his strength in her arms, When he should be out fighting the battles of Mars. To other places, France is a stable; we who live here are the horses; So, go to the war!
It shall be so: I’ll send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled; write to the king That which I durst not speak; his present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields, Where noble fellows strike: war is no strife To the dark house and the detested wife.
It’ll be done: I’ll send her to my house, I’ll tell my mother I hate her, And explain why I ran away; I’ll write to the king What I couldn’t say to him in person; his gift to me Will help me go to those Italian fields, Where brave men fight: war is nothing Compared to the dark home and the woman I despise.
Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure?
Will you really go through with this? Are you sure?
Go with me to my chamber, and advise me. I’ll send her straight away: to-morrow I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.
Come with me to my room and help me decide. I’ll send her away right now: tomorrow I’ll go to the war, and she’ll stay home, miserable.
Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it. ’Tis hard: A young man married is a man that’s marr’d: Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go: The king has done you wrong: but, hush, ’tis so.
Why, these plans are crazy; there’s a lot going on. It’s tough: A young man who marries is a man who’s trapped: So, leave her, and leave her boldly; go: The king has wronged you: but, hush, it’s true.