Original
Modern English
Come, leave your tears: a brief farewell: the beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? you were used To say extremity was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show’d mastership in floating; fortune’s blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded, craves A noble cunning: you were used to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn’d them.
Come, stop your crying: a quick goodbye: the enemy With many heads pushes me away. No, mother, Where’s your old courage? You used to say That hard times were what tested the spirit; That ordinary men could handle ordinary problems; That when the sea was calm, all boats floated the same; And that when fortune hit hardest, the wound, though deep, was soft And needed a noble heart to handle it: you used to fill me With advice that would make anyone strong Who followed it.
O heavens! O heavens!
Oh heavens! Oh heavens!
Nay! prithee, woman,--
No! Please, woman,--
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish!
May the plague hit every trade in Rome, And all jobs disappear!
What, what, what! I shall be loved when I am lack’d. Nay, mother. Resume that spirit, when you were wont to say, If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you’ld have done, and saved Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother: I’ll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s, And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime general, I have seen thee stem, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hardening spectacles; tell these sad women ’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes, As ’tis to laugh at ’em. My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace: and Believe’t not lightly--though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear’d and talk’d of more than seen--your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practise.
What, what, what! I’ll be loved when I’m gone. No, mother. Get that spirit back, when you used to say, If you had been Hercules’ wife, You’d have done six of his labors, and saved Your husband all that sweat. Cominius, Don’t be sad; goodbye. Farewell, my wife, my mother: I’ll be fine. You, old and loyal Menenius, Your tears are saltier than a younger man’s, And worse for your eyes. My former general, I’ve seen you unshaken, and you’ve often seen Horrible sights; tell these sad women It’s foolish to mourn inevitable blows, Just as foolish as laughing at them. My mother, you know My dangers have always been your comfort: and Don’t take this lightly—though I go alone, Like a solitary dragon, whose swamp Makes him feared and talked about more than seen—your son Will either outdo the ordinary or be caught By careful traps and schemes.
My first son. Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile: determine on some course, More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i’ the way before thee.
My firstborn. Where will you go? Take good Cominius With you for a while: decide on some plan, More than just wandering randomly, leaving everything to chance That comes in your way.
O the gods!
Oh the gods!
I’ll follow thee a month, devise with thee Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us And we of thee: so if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O’er the vast world to seek a single man, And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I’ the absence of the needer.
I’ll follow you for a month, figure things out with you Where you can rest, so you can hear from us And we from you: so if the time comes For your recall, we won’t have to search the whole world For one man, Losing precious time, which always cools When the need for action is absent.
Fare ye well: Thou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full Of the wars’ surfeits, to go rove with one That’s yet unbruised: bring me but out at gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch, when I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come. While I remain above the ground, you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly.
Farewell: You’re older than me; and you’ve seen enough Of the wars’ excess to travel with someone Who’s still untested: just get me out the gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My noble friends, when I’m gone, Say goodbye and smile. I beg you, come. As long as I’m above ground, you’ll Hear from me, and never hear anything That isn’t like me before.
That’s worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I’ld with thee every foot.
That’s worthy Of any ear that will listen. Come, let’s not cry. If I could shake off even just one seven-year Burden from these old arms and legs, by the gods, I’d follow you every step of the way.
Give me thy hand: Come.
Give me your hand: Come.