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Modern English
You have not given him his mother’s letter?
Haven’t you given him his mother’s letter?
I have delivered it an hour since: there is something in’t that stings his nature; for on the reading it he changed almost into another man.
I gave it to him an hour ago: there’s something in it that really upset him; when he read it, he almost became a completely different man.
He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.
He’s got a lot of blame for rejecting such a good wife and such a sweet lady.
Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.
Especially, he has earned the king’s permanent anger, who had even set up his generosity to bring him happiness. I’ll tell you something, but you must keep it to yourself.
When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I am the grave of it.
Once you’ve told me, it’s as good as dead, and I’ll keep it buried.
He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown; and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.
He has corrupted a young woman here in Florence, known for her purity; and tonight, he’s ruining her honor: he’s given her his family ring, and thinks that makes him part of her dishonor.
Now, God delay our rebellion! as we are ourselves, what things are we!
God help us if we rebel! Look at us, what have we become?
Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself.
We’re simply betrayers of ourselves. And just like all traitors, we end up exposing ourselves, until we reach our disastrous end. He who betrays his own honor ends up ruining himself.
Is it not meant damnable in us, to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night?
Isn’t it a terrible thing for us to announce our illegal plans? So, we won’t be seeing him tonight?
Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour.
Not until after midnight; he has set a time for himself.
That approaches apace; I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.
That time is coming quickly; I’d love to see him face his own actions, so he can learn from the mess he’s created.
We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other.
We won’t do anything until he gets here; his presence will be the punishment for the other.
In the mean time, what hear you of these wars?
In the meantime, have you heard anything about the wars?
I hear there is an overture of peace.
I hear there’s a possibility of peace.
Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.
No, I assure you, peace has already been agreed upon.
What will Count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France?
What will Count Rousillon do then? Will he go further, or come back to France?
I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.
I can tell by your question that you’re not really in his inner circle.
Let it be forbid, sir; so should I be a great deal of his act.
Let’s hope not, sir; that would make me complicit in his actions.
Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and, there residing the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.
Sir, his wife ran away from him two months ago: she claimed she was going on a pilgrimage to Saint Jacques le Grand. She completed that holy journey with great seriousness, but there, away from him, her grief overtook her, and she died, and now she’s in heaven.
How is this justified?
How is this explained?
The stronger part of it by her own letters, which makes her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place.
The most convincing part of it is in her own letters, which prove her story is true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which she couldn’t announce as coming, was confirmed as true by the rector of the place.
Hath the count all this intelligence?
Does the count know all this information?
Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, so to the full arming of the verity.
Yes, and the specific confirmations, point by point, completely proving the truth of it.
I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.
I’m truly sorry that he’ll be pleased by this.
How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!
Sometimes, it’s amazing how we find comfort in our losses!
And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.
And how, at other times, we drown our successes in tears! The great honor that his courage has earned for him here will be met at home with an equally large shame.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.
The web of our life is made from mixed threads, good and bad together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults didn’t humble them; and our crimes would despair, if they weren’t supported by our virtues.
How now! where’s your master?
How’s it going? Where’s your master?
He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.
He met the duke in the street, sir, and has said a formal goodbye: his lordship will leave for France tomorrow morning. The duke has given him letters of recommendation to the king.
They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.
Those letters will be no more than necessary there, unless they are more than what they can actually recommend.
They cannot be too sweet for the king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now.
They can’t be too sweet for the king’s harshness. Here’s his lordship now.
How now, my lord! is’t not after midnight?
How’s it going, my lord? Isn’t it past midnight?
I have to-night dispatched sixteen businesses, a month’s length a-piece, by an abstract of success: I have congied with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourned for her; writ to my lady mother I am returning; entertained my convoy; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs; the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet.
I’ve finished sixteen tasks tonight, each one the size of a month’s worth of work: I’ve said goodbye to the duke, bid farewell to his closest relatives; buried my wife, mourned for her; written to my mother that I’m coming back; entertained my escort; and between these major tasks, I’ve handled many smaller things; the last was the biggest, but I haven’t finished it yet.
If the business be of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.
If this task is difficult, and you’re leaving this morning, your lordship needs to hurry.
I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the fool and the soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit module, he has deceived me, like a double-meaning prophesier.
I mean, the task isn’t finished, as I fear I’ll hear more about it later. But should we have this conversation between the fool and the soldier? Come on, bring out this fake man, he’s tricked me, like a fortune teller who speaks in riddles.
Bring him forth: has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.
Bring him out: he’s been in the stocks all night, poor gallant fool.
No matter: his heels have deserved it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?
Doesn’t matter: he deserved it, for wearing his spurs so long. How’s he holding up?
I have told your lordship already, the stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be understood; he weeps like a wench that had shed her milk: he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i’ the stocks: and what think you he hath confessed?
I’ve already told your lordship, the stocks are carrying him. But to answer you clearly; he cries like a girl who’s lost her milk: he’s confessed to Morgan, whom he thinks is a friar, from when he first remembers, all the way up to this disaster of being put in the stocks: and what do you think he’s confessed?
Nothing of me, has a’?
Nothing about me, has he?
His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face: if your lordship be in’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it.
His confession’s been taken, and we’ll read it to him: if you’re in it, as I think you are, you’ll have to be patient and listen.
A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me: hush, hush!
A curse on him! He’s covered up! He can’t say anything about me: quiet, quiet!
Hoodman comes! Portotartarosa
Hoodman comes! Portotartarosa
He calls for the tortures: what will you say without ’em?
He’s asking for torture: what will you say without it?
I will confess what I know without constraint: if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more.
I’ll confess what I know without any force: if you press me like a pie, I can’t say anything more.
Bosko chimurcho.
Bosko chimurcho.
Boblibindo chicurmurco.
Boblibindo chicurmurco.
You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.
You’re a kind general. Our general orders you to answer to what I’ll ask you from this list.
And truly, as I hope to live.
And truly, as I hope to live.
[Reads] ’First demand of him how many horse the duke is strong.’ What say you to that?
[Reads] ’First, ask him how many horses the duke has.’ What do you think about that?
Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit and as I hope to live.
Five or six thousand; but they’re really weak and useless: the soldiers are all scattered, and the commanders are all bad guys, I swear it’s true, on my honor and as I hope to stay alive.
Shall I set down your answer so?
Should I write down your answer like that?
Do: I’ll take the sacrament on’t, how and which way you will.
Yes: I swear it’s true, write it however you want.
All’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!
It doesn’t matter to him. What a liar this guy is!
You’re deceived, my lord: this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist,--that was his own phrase,--that had the whole theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practise in the chape of his dagger.
You’re mistaken, my lord: this is Monsieur Parolles, the so-called expert on military matters, -- that was his own term,-- who claimed to know everything about war just from the knot in his scarf, and the theory from his dagger.
I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean. nor believe he can have every thing in him by wearing his apparel neatly.
I’ll never trust a man again just because his sword is clean, or think he knows everything just because his clothes are neat.
Well, that’s set down.
Alright, that’s written down.
Five or six thousand horse, I said,-- I will say true,--or thereabouts, set down, for I’ll speak truth.
Five or six thousand horses, I said,-- I’ll tell you the truth,-- or somewhere around that number, write it down, because I’ll speak honestly.
He’s very near the truth in this.
He’s very close to the truth here.
But I con him no thanks for’t, in the nature he delivers it.
But I don’t thank him for it, not in the way he says it.
Poor rogues, I pray you, say.
Poor bastards, I swear, say it.
Well, that’s set down.
Alright, that’s written down.
I humbly thank you, sir: a truth’s a truth, the rogues are marvellous poor.
Thank you kindly, sir: a truth is a truth, the soldiers are terribly poor.
[Reads] ’Demand of him, of what strength they are a-foot.’ What say you to that?
[Reads] ’Ask him how strong they are on foot.’ What do you think about that?
By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty; Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred and fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred and fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake snow from off their cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces.
Honestly, sir, if I had to live this very hour, I’d tell you the truth. Let me think: Spurio, a hundred and fifty; Sebastian, the same; Corambus, the same; Jaques, the same; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred and fifty each; my own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred and fifty each: so, all together, the whole army, good and bad, honestly, doesn’t add up to more than fifteen thousand men, half of whom wouldn’t even dare shake the snow off their coats, for fear they’ll fall apart.
What shall be done to him?
What should be done to him?
Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the duke.
Nothing, just let him be thanked. Ask him about my situation, and what influence I have with the duke.
Well, that’s set down.
Alright, that’s written down.
’You shall demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke; what his valour, honesty, and expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt him to revolt.’ What say you to this? what do you know of it?
’You should ask him if a Captain Dumain is in the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke; what his courage, honesty, and skill in battle are; or if he thinks it’s impossible, even with large amounts of gold, to bribe him to rebel.’ What do you think of this? What do you know about it?
I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter’gatories: demand them singly.
I beg you, let me answer each question separately: ask them one by one.
Do you know this Captain Dumain?
Do you know this Captain Dumain?
I know him: a’ was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child,--a dumb innocent, that could not say him nay.
I know him: he was an apprentice to a butcher in Paris, and was whipped for getting the sheriff’s fool pregnant,-- a mute simpleton who couldn’t refuse him.
Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.
No, please, stop; even though I know his brain is at risk from the next tile that falls.
Well, is this captain in the duke of Florence’s camp?
Well, is this captain in the duke of Florence’s camp?
Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.
To my knowledge, yes, and he’s filthy.
Nay look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.
Don’t look at me like that; we’ll hear about your status soon enough.
What is his reputation with the duke?
What is his reputation with the duke?
The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine; and writ to me this other day to turn him out o’ the band: I think I have his letter in my pocket.
The duke knows him as nothing more than a poor officer of mine; and he wrote to me recently to fire him from the group: I think I have his letter in my pocket.
Marry, we’ll search.
Well, we’ll search for it.
In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there, or it is upon a file with the duke’s other letters in my tent.
Honestly, I don’t know; it’s either in there, or it’s with the duke’s other letters in my tent.
Here ’tis; here’s a paper: shall I read it to you?
Here it is; here’s a letter: should I read it to you?
I do not know if it be it or no.
I don’t know if that’s the one or not.
Our interpreter does it well.
Our translator is doing a good job.
Excellently.
Perfectly.
[Reads] ’Dian, the count’s a fool, and full of gold,’--
[Reads] ’Dian, the count’s a fool, and full of gold,’–
That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish: I pray you, sir, put it up again.
That’s not the duke’s letter, sir; that’s an advertisement for a nice young woman in Florence, named Diana, warning her about Count Rousillon, a foolish, lazy boy, but still very reckless: please, sir, put it away again.
Nay, I’ll read it first, by your favour.
No, I’ll read it first, if you don’t mind.
My meaning in’t, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity and devours up all the fry it finds.
My intention, I swear, was very honest on behalf of the girl; because I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lustful boy, who’s like a whale to virginity and swallows up every young woman it finds.
Damnable both-sides rogue!
Damnable two-faced scoundrel!
[Reads] ’When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it; After he scores, he never pays the score: Half won is match well made; match, and well make it; He ne’er pays after-debts, take it before; And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this, Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss: For count of this, the count’s a fool, I know it, Who pays before, but not when he does owe it. Thine, as he vowed to thee in thine ear, PAROLLES.’
[Reads] ’When he swears oaths, tell him to drop gold and take it; After he wins, he never pays the debt: Half done is a good deal; complete it, and do it well; He never pays debts afterward, take it before; And say a soldier, Dian, told you this, Men are for messing with, but boys are not for kissing: Because of this, the count’s a fool, I know it, Who pays before, but never when he owes it. Yours, as he promised to you in your ear, PAROLLES.’
He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme in’s forehead.
He should be whipped through the army with this rhyme written on his forehead.
This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist and the armipotent soldier.
This is your loyal friend, sir, the versatile linguist and the mighty soldier.
I could endure any thing before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me.
I could tolerate anything except a cat, and now he’s a cat to me.
I perceive, sir, by the general’s looks, we shall be fain to hang you.
I can tell, sir, by the general’s expression, we might end up having to hang you.
My life, sir, in any case: not that I am afraid to die; but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature: let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or any where, so I may live.
My life, sir, in any case: not because I’m afraid to die, but because I have so many offenses, I’d rather repent the rest of my life: let me live, sir, in a dungeon, in stocks, or anywhere, as long as I can live.
We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely; therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain: you have answered to his reputation with the duke and to his valour: what is his honesty?
We’ll see what can be done, if you confess openly; so, once again, about Captain Dumain: you have spoken of his reputation with the duke and his courage: what about his honesty?
He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus: he professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking ’em he is stronger than Hercules: he will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool: drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk; and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bed-clothes about him; but they know his conditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty: he has every thing that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should have, he has nothing.
He’ll steal, sir, even an egg from a monastery: for rape and violence, he’s just like Nessus: he doesn’t bother to keep his promises; when he breaks them, he’s stronger than Hercules: he’ll lie, sir, with such smooth talk that you’d think truth was a fool: being drunk is his best quality, because he’ll be completely wasted; and when he sleeps, he does little harm, except to his bedclothes around him; but they know his ways and put him in straw. I have just a little more to say, sir, about his honesty: he has everything an honest man shouldn’t have; what an honest man should have, he has nothing.
I begin to love him for this.
I’m starting to like him for this.
For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me, he’s more and more a cat.
For this description of his honesty? Damn him for me, he’s more and more a coward.
What say you to his expertness in war?
What do you think of his skills in war?
Faith, sir, he has led the drum before the English tragedians; to belie him, I will not, and more of his soldiership I know not; except, in that country he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files: I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.
Honestly, sir, he’s led the drum before the English actors; I won’t lie about him, and I don’t know much more about his military skills; except, in that area he had the honor to be the officer at a place called Mile-end, teaching how to double the files: I’ll give the man any honor I can, but I’m not sure about this.
He hath out-villained villany so far, that the rarity redeems him.
He’s outdone evil so much, that his rarity makes him somewhat redeemable.
A pox on him, he’s a cat still.
Damn him, he’s still a coward.
His qualities being at this poor price, I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt.
With qualities like these, I don’t need to ask you if gold will make him betray us.
Sir, for a quart d’ecu he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually.
Sir, for a small amount of money, he’ll sell the right to his soul, the whole thing; and cut off any future claims to it, for all eternity.
What’s his brother, the other Captain Dumain?
What’s his brother, the other Captain Dumain?
Why does be ask him of me?
Why do you ask me about him?
What’s he?
Who is he?
E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil: he excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is: in a retreat he outruns any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp.
He’s just like him, but not as bad: not as great in goodness, but much worse in evil: he’s worse than his brother for being a coward, even though his brother is thought to be one of the best around: in retreat, he outruns any servant; but when it comes to advancing, he gets cramps.
If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?
If your life is spared, will you agree to betray the Florentine?
Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rousillon.
Yes, and the captain of his horse, Count Rousillon.
I’ll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.
I’ll speak with the general and find out his plan.
[Aside] I’ll no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the count, have I run into this danger. Yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?
[Aside] I’m done with drumming; damn all drums! The only reason I’ve gotten myself into this mess is to pretend I’m worthy and to fool that lustful young man, the count. Who would’ve thought I’d fall into a trap like this?
There is no remedy, sir, but you must die: the general says, you that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.
There’s no way out, sir, you have to die: the general says that because you’ve so treacherously revealed the secrets of your army and spread such damaging rumors about men who are held in high regard, you’re of no use to the world in an honest way; so you must die. Come on, executioner, take off his head.
O Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see my death!
Oh God, sir, let me live, or at least let me see my death!
That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.
You’ll get both, and you can say goodbye to all your friends.
So, look about you: know you any here?
So, look around you: do you recognize anyone here?
Good morrow, noble captain.
Good morning, noble captain.
God bless you, Captain Parolles.
God bless you, Captain Parolles.
God save you, noble captain.
God keep you, noble captain.
Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am for France.
Captain, what message do you have for my Lord Lafeu? I’m heading to France.
Good captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? an I were not a very coward, I’ld compel it of you: but fare you well.
Good captain, would you give me a copy of the sonnet you wrote to Diana on behalf of Count Roussillon? If I weren’t such a coward, I’d make you give it to me; but take care.
You are undone, captain, all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet
You’re finished, captain, except for your scarf; that still has a knot on it.
Who cannot be crushed with a plot?
Who can’t be destroyed by a scheme like this?
If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France too: we shall speak of you there.
If you could find a country where only women had received such disgrace, you could start an impudent new nation. Goodbye, sir; I’m going to France too: we’ll talk about you there.
Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great, ’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more; But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft As captain shall: simply the thing I am Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this, for it will come to pass that every braggart shall be found an ass. Rust, sword? cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive! There’s place and means for every man alive. I’ll after them.
But still, I’m grateful: if my heart were bigger, It would break at this. I won’t be a captain anymore; But I’ll eat, drink, and sleep as well As any captain does: simply being who I am Will make me live. Whoever knows he’s a braggart, Let him fear this, because it will happen that every braggart will be revealed as a fool. Rust, sword? cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live Safest in shame! being tricked, thrive on foolishness! There’s room and opportunity for everyone. I’ll go after them.