Original
Modern English
It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.
Everything has happened as I wanted, except That he’s not here with her.
By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.
Truly, I think my young lord is a very Melancholy man.
By what observance, I pray you?
What makes you say that?
Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.
Why, he’ll look at his boot and sing; fix his collar and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a guy who did this sad act and sold a nice estate just for a song.
Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.
Let me see what he’s written, and when he plans to come.
I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: our old ling and our Isbels o’ the country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o’ the court: the brains of my Cupid’s knocked out, and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.
I’m not interested in Isbel since I was at court: our old country girls and our Isbels from the countryside aren’t anything like your fancy court girls: the charm of my Cupid’s lost, and I’m starting to love, like an old man loves money, with no real desire.
What have we here?
What’s this?
E’en that you have there.
Just what you’ve got there.
[Reads] I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the ’not’ eternal. You shall hear I am run away: know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your unfortunate son, BERTRAM. This is not well, rash and unbridled boy. To fly the favours of so good a king; To pluck his indignation on thy head By the misprising of a maid too virtuous For the contempt of empire.
[Reads] I’ve sent you a daughter-in-law: she’s healed the king, and ruined me. I’ve married her, but not slept with her; and sworn to keep the ‘not’ forever. You’ll hear that I’ve run away: know this before anyone else finds out. If there’s enough space in the world, I’ll keep my distance. My duty to you. Your unlucky son, BERTRAM. This is not good, reckless and uncontrolled boy. To run from the favor of such a great king; To bring down his anger on your head By rejecting a maid too virtuous For the contempt of royalty.
O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers and my young lady!
Oh madam, there’s terrible news going around between two soldiers and my young lady!
What is the matter?
What’s going on?
Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would.
Well, there’s some good news in it, some good news; your son won’t be killed as soon as I thought he would.
Why should he be killed?
Why would he be killed?
So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does: the danger is in standing to’t; that’s the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more: for my part, I only hear your son was run away.
I ask myself the same thing, madam, if he’s running away, as I hear he is: the real danger is in staying there; that’s where men lose their lives, though it’s where children are made. Here they come, they’ll tell you more: as for me, all I know is that your son has run away.
Save you, good madam.
Hello, good lady.
Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.
Lady, my husband is gone, gone forever.
Do not say so.
Don’t say that.
Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen, I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief, That the first face of neither, on the start, Can woman me unto’t: where is my son, I pray you?
Think about being patient. Please, gentlemen, I’ve experienced so many ups and downs, That I can’t react to either joy or grief right now: Where is my son, please?
Madam, he’s gone to serve the duke of Florence: We met him thitherward; for thence we came, And, after some dispatch in hand at court, Thither we bend again.
Lady, he’s gone to serve the Duke of Florence: We met him on the way there; we came from there, And after some business at court, We’re heading back that way.
Look on his letter, madam; here’s my passport.
Look at his letter, madam; here’s my permit.
When thou canst get the ring upon my finger which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband: but in such a ’then’ I write a ’never.’ This is a dreadful sentence.
When you can get the ring on my finger which will never come off, and show me a child born from your body that I’m the father of, then call me your husband: but in that “then,” I write “never.” This is a terrible message.
Brought you this letter, gentlemen?
Did you bring this letter, gentlemen?
Ay, madam; And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our pain.
Yes, madam; And because of its contents, we’re sorry for the pain it brings.
I prithee, lady, have a better cheer; If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, Thou robb’st me of a moiety: he was my son; But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?
Please, lady, try to be more cheerful; If you take on all the griefs, you’re taking them from me, You’re stealing part of my sorrow: he was my son; But I’ll erase his name from my blood, And you are now my child. Is he going to Florence?
Ay, madam.
Yes, madam.
And to be a soldier?
And is he going to be a soldier?
Such is his noble purpose; and believe ’t, The duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims.
That is his noble intention; and believe it, The Duke will give him all the honor That he deserves.
Return you thither?
Will you be going back there?
Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.
Yes, madam, as fast as possible.
[Reads] Till I have no wife I have nothing in France. ’Tis bitter.
[Reads] Until I have no wife, I have nothing in France. It’s hard to take.
Find you that there?
Did you find that there?
Ay, madam.
Yes, madam.
’Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which his heart was not consenting to.
It’s probably just the boldness of his hand, maybe, which his heart didn’t fully agree with.
Nothing in France, until he have no wife! There’s nothing here that is too good for him But only she; and she deserves a lord That twenty such rude boys might tend upon And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?
Nothing in France, until he has no wife! There’s nothing here that’s too good for him Except her; and she deserves a man Who could have twenty rude boys serving her And calling her "mistress" every hour. Who was with him?
A servant only, and a gentleman Which I have sometime known.
Just a servant, and a gentleman Whom I’ve known for some time.
Parolles, was it not?
Parolles, wasn’t it?
Ay, my good lady, he.
Yes, my good lady, it was.
A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness. My son corrupts a well-derived nature With his inducement.
A very corrupt man, full of wickedness. My son is ruining his naturally good nature With his influence.
Indeed, good lady, The fellow has a deal of that too much, Which holds him much to have.
Indeed, good lady, The man has a lot of that, and too much, Which makes him think he deserves more.
You’re welcome, gentlemen. I will entreat you, when you see my son, To tell him that his sword can never win The honour that he loses: more I’ll entreat you Written to bear along.
You’re welcome, gentlemen. I’ll ask you, when you see my son, To tell him that his sword can never win The honor that he loses: and I’ll ask you To carry a letter for me.
We serve you, madam, In that and all your worthiest affairs.
We serve you, madam, In that and in all your other important matters.
Not so, but as we change our courtesies. Will you draw near!
Not just that, but as we exchange our courtesies. Will you come closer!
’Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.’ Nothing in France, until he has no wife! Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France; Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is’t I That chase thee from thy country and expose Those tender limbs of thine to the event Of the none-sparing war? and is it I That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride upon the violent speed of fire, Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air, That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord. Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast, I am the caitiff that do hold him to’t; And, though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: better ’twere I met the ravin lion when he roar’d With sharp constraint of hunger; better ’twere That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon, Whence honour but of danger wins a scar, As oft it loses all: I will be gone; My being here it is that holds thee hence: Shall I stay here to do’t? no, no, although The air of paradise did fan the house And angels officed all: I will be gone, That pitiful rumour may report my flight, To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day! For with the dark, poor thief, I’ll steal away.
’Until I have no wife, I have nothing in France.’ Nothing in France, until he has no wife! You’ll have none, Rousillon, none in France; Then you’ll have everything back. Poor lord! Is it I Who chase you from your country and expose Those fragile limbs of yours to the dangers Of ruthless war? And is it I Who drive you from the lively court, where you Were admired with loving eyes, to be the target Of smoky guns? Oh, you heavy messengers, That ride on the wild speed of fire, Fly with wrong aim; stir the quiet air, That sings with piercing; don’t harm my lord. Whoever shoots at him, I put him there; Whoever charges at his chest, I am the villain who pushes him to it; And, though I don’t kill him, I am the cause His death happens: it would be better If I met the starving lion when he roared With the sharp pain of hunger; it would be better If all the miseries that nature owes Were mine all at once. No, come home, Rousillon, Where honor wins scars from danger, As often as it loses everything: I will leave; My staying here is what keeps you here: Should I stay here to do it? No, no, even if The air of paradise fanned the house And angels served all: I will leave, So that sad rumors can tell of my escape, To comfort your ears. Come, night; end, day! For with the dark, poor thief, I’ll slip away.