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A goodly day not to keep house, with such Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how to adore the heavens and bows you To a morning’s holy office: the gates of monarchs Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on, without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do.
A beautiful day to not stay at home, with those Whose roof is as low as ours! Bend down, boys; this gate Teaches you how to worship the heavens and bows you To a morning’s holy task: the gates of kings Are so high that giants can walk through And keep their wicked turbans on, without Saying good morning to the sun. Hail, beautiful heaven! We live in a cave, yet treat you more kindly Than the richer folks do.
Hail, heaven!
Hail, heaven!
Hail, heaven!
Hail, heaven!
Now for our mountain sport: up to yond hill; Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war: This service is not service, so being done, But being so allow’d: to apprehend thus, Draws us a profit from all things we see; And often, to our comfort, shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a cheque, Richer than doing nothing for a bauble, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes ’em fine, Yet keeps his book uncross’d: no life to ours.
Now for our mountain fun: let’s climb that hill; Your legs are young; I’ll walk these flat paths. Consider, When you look at me from above like a crow, That it’s a place that makes things look smaller; And you can then think about the stories I’ve told you Of courts, of kings, and tricks in war: This work isn’t work if it’s done, But if it’s allowed: to understand like this, Gives us a profit from everything we see; And often, to our comfort, we’ll find The beetle in a safer place Than the full-winged eagle. Oh, this life Is nobler than waiting for a paycheck, Richer than doing nothing for a trinket, Prouder than rustling in unearned silk: Such gain belongs to those who make them flashy, But still keep their books clean: no life like ours.
Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledged, Have never wing’d from view o’ the nest, nor know not What air’s from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age: but unto us it is A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed; A prison for a debtor, that not dares To stride a limit.
You speak from experience: we, poor untrained, Have never left the nest, nor do we know What the air’s like away from home. Maybe this life is better, If quiet life is better; sweeter for you Who know a sharper way; well suited To your older age: but for us it is A cell of ignorance; a bed-bound journey; A prison for a debtor who dares not Step outside his limits.
What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat; Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a quire, as doth the prison’d bird, And sing our bondage freely.
What will we talk about When we’re as old as you? When we hear The rain and wind in dark December, how, In this cramped cave, will we pass the cold hours? We’ve seen nothing; We’re like beasts, as clever as a fox for food, As warlike as the wolf when it hunts; Our courage is to chase what runs away; our cage We make a choir, like the trapped bird, And sing our captivity freely.
How you speak! Did you but know the city’s usuries And felt them knowingly; the art o’ the court As hard to leave as keep; whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slippery that The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ the war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I’ the name of fame and honour; which dies i’ the search, And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse, Must court’sy at the censure:--O boys, this story The world may read in me: my body’s mark’d With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note: Cymbeline loved me, And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off: then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but in one night, A storm or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather.
Look at how you talk! If you only knew how much the city takes advantage of people And truly felt it; the ways of the court Are as hard to leave as they are to stay in; climbing to the top Is sure to lead to a fall, or so slippery that The fear of falling is just as bad; the struggle of war, A pain that seems to only seek out danger In the name of fame and honour; which dies in The search, And often gets a bad reputation Instead of being remembered for good deeds; in fact, many times, Doing well leads to doing harm; what’s worse, Must bow to judgment:--Oh boys, this story The world can read in me: my body’s marked With Roman swords, and I was once known As one of the best: Cymbeline loved me, And when soldiers were talked about, my name Was always near: back then, I was like a tree Whose branches bent with fruit: but in one night, A storm or a robbery, call it what you want, Shook down my ripe fruit, and my leaves, And left me exposed to the elements.
Uncertain favour!
Unpredictable fortune!
My fault being nothing--as I have told you oft-- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans: so Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world; Where I have lived at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to the mountains! This is not hunters’ language: he that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o’ the feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.
My only fault being nothing--as I’ve told you many times-- But that two villains, whose false oaths carried more weight Than my true honour, lied to Cymbeline Saying I was working with the Romans: that’s why I was banished, and for these last twenty years This rock and these lands have been my world; Where I’ve lived freely, paid More debts to heaven than I ever did before. But up the mountains! This is not hunter’s talk: the one who strikes The deer first shall be the leader of the feast; The other two shall serve him; And we won’t fear poison, which comes In places of higher status. I’ll meet you in the valleys.
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to the king; Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train’d up thus meanly I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The king his father call’d Guiderius,--Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story: say ’Thus, mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on ’s neck;’ even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure, Strikes life into my speech and shows much more His own conceiving.--Hark, the game is roused! O Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes; Thinking to bar thee of succession, as Thou reft’st me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave: Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d, They take for natural father. The game is up.
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys have no idea they are sons of the king; Nor does Cymbeline know they are alive. They think they are mine; and though raised So simply In this cave where they bow, their thoughts aim At the roofs of palaces, and nature urges them In simple, humble things to act much More princely than others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom The king called Guiderius,--Jove! When I sit on my little stool and tell Of the great deeds I’ve done, his spirit rises And joins my story: saying, ’This is how my enemy fell, And this is how I stepped on his neck;’ even then The royal blood shows on his face, he sweats, Tenses his muscles, and positions himself Just like I described. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, does the same, bringing life To my words and showing even more His own imagination.--Listen, the game is up! Oh Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience know You wrongfully banished me: and so, At three and two years old, I stole these boys; Planning to deny you the throne, just as You took my lands. Euriphile, You were their nurse; they thought you were Their mother, And every day they honour your grave: I, Belarius, called Morgan, They believe is their natural father. The game is up.