Original
Modern English
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
What, my young master? O, my gentle master! O my sweet master! O you memory Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here? Why are you virtuous? why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcome The bonny priser of the humorous duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. Know you not, master, to some kind of men Their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master, Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. O, what a world is this, when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it!
What, my young master? Oh, my gentle master! Oh, my sweet master! Oh, you reminder Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what are you doing here? Why are you so virtuous? Why do people love you? And why are you kind, strong, and brave? Why would you be foolish enough to take on The ridiculous challenge from the fickle duke? Your praise has come back too quickly before you. Don’t you know, master, that for some people Their virtues end up as their enemies? Yours do too: your good qualities, my dear master, Are now traitors to you, working against you. Oh, what a world this is, when what is beautiful Ends up poisoning the one who has it!
Why, what’s the matter?
What’s wrong?
O unhappy youth! Come not within these doors; within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives: Your brother--no, no brother; yet the son-- Yet not the son, I will not call him son Of him I was about to call his father-- Hath heard your praises, and this night he means To burn the lodging where you use to lie And you within it: if he fail of that, He will have other means to cut you off. I overheard him and his practises. This is no place; this house is but a butchery: Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Oh, unlucky youth! Don’t come inside these doors; within this house The enemy of all your virtues lives: Your brother—no, not your brother; he’s the son— No, not the son, I won’t call him your son The man I was about to call your father— Has heard of your good reputation, and tonight He plans to burn the place where you sleep And you with it: if he fails at that, He’ll find other ways to get rid of you. I overheard him and his plans. This is no place for you; this house is like a slaughterhouse: Avoid it, fear it, don’t go in.
Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
Where should I go, Adam?
No matter whither, so you come not here.
It doesn’t matter where, just don’t come here.
What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food? Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce A thievish living on the common road? This I must do, or know not what to do: Yet this I will not do, do how I can; I rather will subject me to the malice Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
What, do you want me to go and beg for food? Or with a cheap and noisy sword force A thief’s life on the public road? This is what I must do, or I won’t know what to do: But I won’t do that, no matter what; I’d rather face the cruelty Of a deceived and violent brother.
But do not so. I have five hundred crowns, The thrifty hire I saved under your father, Which I did store to be my foster-nurse When service should in my old limbs lie lame And unregarded age in corners thrown: Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold; And all this I give you. Let me be your servant: Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood, Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo The means of weakness and debility; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you; I’ll do the service of a younger man In all your business and necessities.
Don’t do that. I have five hundred crowns, The savings I made while working for your father, Which I set aside to be my support When age made me too weak to work And left me in a corner forgotten: Take this, and may the one who feeds the ravens, Yes, the one who provides for the sparrows, Be kind to my old age! Here’s the money; And I give you all of it. Let me serve you: Though I’m old, I’m still strong and healthy; In my youth I never drank hot blood, Nor did I shamelessly pursue Weakness and dependence; So my age is like a strong winter, Cold, but generous: let me go with you; I’ll work like a younger man In all your tasks and needs.
O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that, do choke their service up Even with the having: it is not so with thee. But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree, That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry But come thy ways; well go along together, And ere we have thy youthful wages spent, We’ll light upon some settled low content.
Oh good old man, how well in you shows The steadfast service of the old days, When work was done out of duty, not for rewards! You’re not like the people of these times, Who will only work for advancement, And once they’ve got that, they stop working, Even though they still have it: it’s not like that with you. But, poor old man, you’re trimming a dying tree, That can’t even produce a flower In return for all your hard work and care. But come along; we’ll go together, And before we’ve spent your young wages, We’ll find a simple, peaceful life.
Master, go on, and I will follow thee, To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. From seventeen years till now almost fourscore Here lived I, but now live here no more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek; But at fourscore it is too late a week: Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well and not my master’s debtor.
Master, go on, and I will follow you, To the very end, with loyalty and truth. From seventeen years old until now, almost eighty, I’ve lived here, but now I no longer live here. At seventeen, many people go after their fortune; But at eighty, it’s too late to change. Yet fortune can’t reward me any better Than to die honorably and not owe my master anything.