Original
Modern English
Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,-- That were excusable, that, and thousands more Of semblable import,--but he hath waged New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it To public ear: Spoke scantly of me: when perforce he could not But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly He vented them; most narrow measure lent me: When the best hint was given him, he not took’t, Or did it from his teeth.
No, no, Octavia, it’s not just that-- That would be excusable, that, and a thousand more Of the same kind,--but he has started New wars against Pompey; made his will, and read it In public: He spoke poorly of me: when he couldn’t But had to give me honorable terms, cold and sickly He said them; gave me very little credit: When the best opportunity was given to him, he didn’t take it, Or did it reluctantly.
O my good lord, Believe not all; or, if you must believe, Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady, If this division chance, ne’er stood between, Praying for both parts: The good gods me presently, When I shall pray, ’O bless my lord and husband!’ Undo that prayer, by crying out as loud, ’O, bless my brother!’ Husband win, win brother, Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway ’Twixt these extremes at all.
Oh my good lord, Don’t believe everything; or, if you must believe, Don’t take it all to heart. No more unlucky lady, If this split happens, ever stood in this position, Praying for both sides: The good gods help me now, When I pray, ‘O bless my lord and husband!’ But then undo that prayer, by shouting just as loud, ‘O, bless my brother!’ Husband wins, wins brother, Prays, and destroys the prayer; there’s no middle ground Between these extremes.
Gentle Octavia, Let your best love draw to that point, which seeks Best to preserve it: if I lose mine honour, I lose myself: better I were not yours Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested, Yourself shall go between ’s: the mean time, lady, I’ll raise the preparation of a war Shall stain your brother: make your soonest haste; So your desires are yours.
Gentle Octavia, Let your love focus on what seeks To preserve it best: if I lose my honor, I lose myself: better I weren’t yours Than to be yours without it. But, as you asked, You shall go between us: in the meantime, lady, I’ll prepare for war That will dishonor your brother: hurry back; Then your desires will be fulfilled.
Thanks to my lord. The Jove of power make me most weak, most weak, Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would be As if the world should cleave, and that slain men Should solder up the rift.
Thank you, my lord. The powerful Jove make me most weak, most weak, Your reconciler! Wars between you two would be Like the world splitting open, and dead men Trying to mend the break.
When it appears to you where this begins, Turn your displeasure that way: for our faults Can never be so equal, that your love Can equally move with them. Provide your going; Choose your own company, and command what cost Your heart has mind to.
When it becomes clear to you where this starts, Direct your anger there: for our faults Can never be so equal that your love Could move with them. Prepare your departure; Choose your companions, and decide what cost Your heart is willing to bear.