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Modern English
I think he be transform’d into a beast; For I can no where find him like a man.
I think he’s turned into a beast; Because I can’t find him acting like a man anywhere.
My lord, he is but even now gone hence: Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
My lord, he just left: He was here just now, happy, listening to a song.
If he, compact of jars, grow musical, We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.
If he, full of contradictions, starts becoming musical, We’ll soon have chaos in the heavens. Go, find him: tell him I want to talk to him.
He saves my labour by his own approach.
He saves me the trouble by coming on his own.
Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company? What, you look merrily!
Well, well, monsieur! What kind of life is this, That your poor friends have to beg for your company? What’s this, you look happy!
A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest, A motley fool; a miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun, And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms and yet a motley fool. ’Good morrow, fool,’ quoth I. ’No, sir,’ quoth he, ’Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune:’ And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, ’It is ten o’clock: Thus we may see,’ quoth he, ’how the world wags: ’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ’twill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale.’ When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep-contemplative, And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.
A fool, a fool! I met a fool in the forest, A silly fool; a terrible world! As sure as I live by eating, I met a fool Who lay down and soaked up the sun, And complained about Lady Fortune, but in a polite way, Using proper words, and still a silly fool. "Good morning, fool," I said. "No, sir," he replied, "Don’t call me a fool until heaven gives me good luck:" And then he pulled out a clock from his pocket, And, looking at it with a dull eye, Said very wisely, "It’s ten o’clock: This shows how the world goes: Just an hour ago it was nine, And in one more hour, it will be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we grow and grow, And then, from hour to hour, we decay and decay; And that’s the story." When I heard The silly fool talk so seriously about time, I started crowing like a rooster, Amazed that fools could be so thoughtful, And I laughed nonstop For an hour by his clock. Oh, noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley is the only outfit.
What fool is this?
What fool is this?
O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier, And says, if ladies be but young and fair, They have the gift to know it: and in his brain, Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm’d With observation, the which he vents In mangled forms. O that I were a fool! I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Oh, worthy fool! One who used to be a courtier, And says, if women are young and beautiful, They have the gift to know it: and in his mind, Which is as empty as the last cracker in the box After a long journey, he has strange ideas Packed inside it, Which he shares in mixed-up ways. Oh, how I wish I were a fool! I long to wear a motley coat.
Thou shalt have one.
You shall have one.
It is my only suit; Provided that you weed your better judgments Of all opinion that grows rank in them That I am wise. I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please; for so fools have; And they that are most galled with my folly, They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so? The ’why’ is plain as way to parish church: He that a fool doth very wisely hit Doth very foolishly, although he smart, Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not, The wise man’s folly is anatomized Even by the squandering glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley; give me leave To speak my mind, and I will through and through Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine.
It’s all I ask; But only if you get rid of any opinion That makes you think I’m wise. I must have freedom Just like the wind, To blow on whoever I choose; because fools have that right; And those who are most upset by my foolishness, They are the ones who must laugh. And why must they laugh? The reason is as simple as a path to the village church: He who hits a fool very wisely Acts foolishly, even if it hurts, Trying not to seem unaware of the joke: if not, Then the wise man’s foolishness is examined Even by the quick glances of the fool. Dress me in my motley; let me speak my mind, And I will completely cleanse the corrupted world, If they will listen to my medicine.
Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.
Shame on you! I know what you’re up to.
What, for a counter, would I do but good?
What? What would I do but good?
Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin: For thou thyself hast been a libertine, As sensual as the brutish sting itself; And all the embossed sores and headed evils, That thou with licence of free foot hast caught, Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
Most wicked sin, criticizing sin: For you yourself have been a wild one, As reckless as the sting of a beast; And all the obvious sins and visible evils, That you’ve picked up by living freely, You would spill into the world.
Why, who cries out on pride, That can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, Till that the weary very means do ebb? What woman in the city do I name, When that I say the city-woman bears The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? Who can come in and say that I mean her, When such a one as she such is her neighbour? Or what is he of basest function That says his bravery is not of my cost, Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits His folly to the mettle of my speech? There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein My tongue hath wrong’d him: if it do him right, Then he hath wrong’d himself; if he be free, Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies, Unclaim’d of any man. But who comes here?
Well, who calls out against pride, Can they point to any one person in particular? Doesn’t it flow as openly as the sea, Until even the strong tide eventually fades? What woman in the town do I speak of, When I say that the woman in the city bears The weight of royalty on unworthy shoulders? Who can step up and say I mean her, When someone just like her lives right next door? Or who is the lowest person Who says their appearance isn’t at my expense, Thinking that I mean him, but in fact he fits My criticism perfectly? There, then; how’s that? What’s the issue? Let me think about Where my words have wronged him: if I’m right, Then he’s wronged himself; if he’s innocent, Then my criticism, like a wild goose, flies, Unclaimed by anyone. But who’s coming here?
Forbear, and eat no more.
Stop, and eat no more.
Why, I have eat none yet.
Why, I haven’t eaten anything yet.
Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.
And you won’t, until it’s necessary.
Of what kind should this cock come of?
What kind of rooster are you?
Art thou thus bolden’d, man, by thy distress, Or else a rude despiser of good manners, That in civility thou seem’st so empty?
Are you this bold, man, because of your distress, Or are you just a rude person who doesn’t respect manners, That you act so crude in civil society?
You touch’d my vein at first: the thorny point Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred And know some nurture. But forbear, I say: He dies that touches any of this fruit Till I and my affairs are answered.
You touched a nerve with me: the sharp sting Of pure distress has taken away the appearance Of polite civility: yet I was raised inland And know some manners. But stop, I say: He dies who touches any of this fruit Until I and my matters are settled.
An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.
If you’re not going to answer me with reason, then I might as well die.
What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.
What do you want? Your kindness will make us more willing to help than your force would ever make us.
I almost die for food; and let me have it.
I’m almost dying of hunger; please, just give me something to eat.
Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Sit down and eat, you’re welcome at our table.
Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you: I thought that all things had been savage here; And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time If ever you have look’d on better days, If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church, If ever sat at any good man’s feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.
You speak so kindly? I’m sorry, I thought everything here was wild; and that’s why I acted so harshly. But no matter who you are, if you’ve ever seen better days, if you’ve ever been where bells ring for church, if you’ve ever sat at a good man’s feast, if you’ve ever wiped away a tear from your eyes and know what it’s like to feel pity and be shown kindness, then let my kindness be stronger than my anger. And with that hope, I blush and put away my sword.
True is it that we have seen better days, And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church And sat at good men’s feasts and wiped our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d: And therefore sit you down in gentleness And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be minister’d.
It’s true we’ve seen better days, we’ve heard the church bells ring, we’ve sat at good men’s feasts and wiped away tears of sympathy and sorrow. So sit down in kindness, and accept whatever help we can offer to ease your hunger.
Then but forbear your food a little while, Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn And give it food. There is an old poor man, Who after me hath many a weary step Limp’d in pure love: till he be first sufficed, Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger, I will not touch a bit.
Then just hold off from eating for a little while, while I, like a deer, go find my fawn and feed it. There’s an old poor man, who has followed me many miles with love in his heart. Until he is fed first, weakened by both age and hunger, I won’t take a bite.
Go find him out, And we will nothing waste till you return.
Go find him, and we won’t waste anything until you return.
I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!
Thank you, and may you be blessed for your kindness!
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.
You see, we’re not the only ones who are unhappy: This vast and universal stage shows more sorrowful stories than the one we’re in.
All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
The whole world’s a stage, and all men and women are just players: They have their entrances and exits; and each man plays many roles in his life, his acts divided into seven stages. First, the infant, crying and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then the whining school-boy, with his bag and bright morning face, dragging himself reluctantly to school. Then the lover, sighing like a furnace, writing a sad song for his lady’s eyebrow. Then the soldier, full of oaths and tough like a leopard, jealous of his honor, quick to fight, seeking fame even if it means facing danger. Then the judge, with a round belly full of good food, severe eyes and a neat beard, full of wise sayings and modern stories; and so he plays his part. The sixth age turns into the skinny old man, with glasses on his nose and a pouch by his side, his old stockings too big for his shriveled legs, and his once strong voice now squeaking and whistling. The last act of all, which ends this strange, eventful story, is second childhood and complete forgetfulness, with no teeth, no eyes, no taste, no memory.
Welcome. Set down your venerable burthen, And let him feed.
Welcome. Put down your old burden, and let him eat.
I thank you most for him.
Thank you so much for him.
So had you need: I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
You’re right to do so: I can hardly thank you for myself.
Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you As yet, to question you about your fortunes. Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing. SONG.
Welcome; start eating: I won’t bother you For now, by asking about your circumstances. Play us some music; and, good cousin, sing. SONG.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember’d not. Heigh-ho! sing, & c.
Blow, blow, you winter wind. You’re not as cruel As a man’s ingratitude; Your bite isn’t as sharp, Because you’re not seen, Even though your breath is harsh. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! to the green holly: Most friendship is fake, most love is just foolishness: So, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is really happy. Freeze, freeze, you bitter sky, You don’t sting so much As forgotten kindnesses: Though you may twist the waters, Your sting is not as sharp As a friend who’s been forgotten. Heigh-ho! sing, etc.
If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son, As you have whisper’d faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limn’d and living in your face, Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke That loved your father: the residue of your fortune, Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, Thou art right welcome as thy master is. Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand.
If you are the good Sir Rowland’s son, As you’ve told me honestly you are, And as my eyes can see in your face A true likeness of him, perfectly drawn and alive, Then, you are truly welcome here: I am the duke Who loved your father: the rest of your story, Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, You’re as welcome as your master was. Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, And let me hear all about your situation.