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Modern English
[To IMOGEN] You are not well: remain here in the cave; We’ll come to you after hunting.
[To IMOGEN] You’re not feeling well: stay here in the cave; We’ll come back to you after hunting.
[To IMOGEN] Brother, stay here Are we not brothers?
[To IMOGEN] Stay here, sister. Aren’t we siblings?
So man and man should be; But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick.
That’s how men should be to one another; But clay and clay differ in worth, Though their dust is the same. I feel quite sick.
Go you to hunting; I’ll abide with him.
You go hunting; I’ll stay with her.
So sick I am not, yet I am not well; But not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick: so please you, leave me; Stick to your journal course: the breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable: I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here: I’ll rob none but myself; and let me die, Stealing so poorly.
I’m not that sick, but I’m not well either; But I’m not some spoiled citizen to pretend I’m dying when I’m not: so please leave me; Stick to your usual routine: breaking custom breaks everything. I’m ill, but your being here won’t make me better; company is no comfort to someone who doesn’t want it. I’m not really that sick, since I can still think about it. Please trust me here: I’ll harm no one but myself; and let me die, doing so miserably.
I love thee; I have spoke it How much the quantity, the weight as much, As I do love my father.
I love you; I’ve said it As much as I love my father.
What! how! how!
What! How! How can that be?
If it be sin to say so, I yoke me In my good brother’s fault: I know not why I love this youth; and I have heard you say, Love’s reason’s without reason: the bier at door, And a demand who is’t shall die, I’d say ’My father, not this youth.’
If it’s a sin to say that, I’m guilty For loving this boy: I don’t know why I love him; and I’ve heard you say, Love has no reason: if the bier is at the door, And someone asks who’s going to die, I’d say ’My father, not this boy.’
[Aside] O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base: Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. I’m not their father; yet who this should be, Doth miracle itself, loved before me. ’Tis the ninth hour o’ the morn.
[Aside] Oh, noble heart! Oh, worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards breed cowards, and lowly things breed lowly: Nature has both flour and chaff, contempt and grace. I’m not their father; yet whoever this is, Does a miracle, loved before me. It’s the ninth hour of the morning.
Brother, farewell.
Brother, goodbye.
I wish ye sport.
I hope you have fun.
You health. So please you, sir.
Be well. If you please, sir.
[Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court: Experience, O, thou disprovest report! The imperious seas breed monsters, for the dish Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, I’ll now taste of thy drug.
[Aside] These are good people. Gods, what lies I’ve heard! Our nobles say everything is wild except at court: Experience, oh, you prove the rumors wrong! The powerful seas create monsters, while the rivers That pay tribute to them have such sweet fish. I am still sick; heart-sick. Pisanio, I’ll try your medicine now.
I could not stir him: He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.
I couldn’t move him: He said he was kind, but unlucky; Honestly troubled, but still honorable.
Thus did he answer me: yet said, hereafter I might know more.
This is how he answered me: he said that later I would learn more.
To the field, to the field! We’ll leave you for this time: go in and rest.
To the field, to the field! We’ll leave you for now: go inside and rest.
We’ll not be long away.
We won’t be gone long.
Pray, be not sick, For you must be our housewife.
Please, don’t be ill, Because you’ll need to take care of our house.
Well or ill, I am bound to you.
Whether I’m well or sick, I am indebted to you.
And shalt be ever.
And you’ll always be.
This youth, how’er distress’d, appears he hath had Good ancestors.
This young man, no matter how troubled, seems to have Come from good ancestors.
How angel-like he sings!
How angelic his singing is!
But his neat cookery! he cut our roots In characters, And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick And he her dieter.
But his cooking! He carved our roots In patterns, And seasoned our soups as if Juno had been ill And he was her personal dietician.
Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was, for not being such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly From so divine a temple, to commix With winds that sailors rail at.
He nobly combines A smile with a sigh, as if the sigh Was caused by the fact that there wasn’t such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh, as if it would run away From such a divine place, to mix With the winds that sailors complain about.
I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs together.
I can see That grief and patience, both deeply rooted in him, Are pushing each other forward.
Grow, patience! And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine!
Grow, patience! And let the foul grief, like an old tree, untangle Its dying roots from the growing vine!
It is great morning. Come, away!-- Who’s there?
It’s early morning. Come, hurry up! Who’s there?
I cannot find those runagates; that villain Hath mock’d me. I am faint.
I can’t find those outlaws; that scoundrel Has mocked me. I feel faint.
’Those runagates!’ Means he not us? I partly know him: ’tis Cloten, the son o’ the queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and yet I know ’tis he. We are held as outlaws: hence!
"Those outlaws!" Doesn’t he mean us? I partly recognize him: it’s Cloten, the queen’s son. I’m afraid of some trap. I haven’t seen him in years, but I know it’s him. We’re considered outlaws: let’s go!
He is but one: you and my brother search What companies are near: pray you, away; Let me alone with him.
He’s just one man: you and my brother look around To see who else is nearby: please, go; Leave me alone with him.
Soft! What are you That fly me thus? some villain mountaineers? I have heard of such. What slave art thou?
Wait! What are you Who are running from me like this? Some villainous mountain people? I’ve heard of such. What kind of slave are you?
A thing More slavish did I ne’er than answering A slave without a knock.
A person More servile than me, you’ll never meet Than someone who answers a slave without being asked.
Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain: yield thee, thief.
You’re a robber, A law-breaker, a villain: surrender, thief.
To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine? a heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art, Why I should yield to thee?
To who? To you? What are you? Don’t I Have an arm as strong as yours? A heart as strong? Your words, I admit, are stronger, since I don’t keep My dagger in my mouth. Tell me who you are, And why I should give in to you?
Thou villain base, Know’st me not by my clothes?
You lowlife, Don’t you recognize me by my clothes?
No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather: he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee.
No, nor your tailor, you scoundrel, Who’s your grandfather: he made those clothes, Which, apparently, make you who you are.
Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not.
You precious fool, My tailor didn’t make them.
Hence, then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee.
Go away, then, and thank The man who gave them to you. You’re some kind of fool; I don’t want to hurt you.
Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble.
You insulting thief, Just hear my name, and you’ll be scared.
What’s thy name?
What’s your name?
Cloten, thou villain.
Cloten, you villain.
Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it: were it Toad, or Adder, Spider, ’Twould move me sooner.
Cloten, you double villain, if that’s your name, I can’t be scared of it: if it were Toad, or Adder, or Spider, That would scare me more.
To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know I am son to the queen.
To make you even more scared, No, to completely confuse you, you’ll learn I’m the queen’s son.
I am sorry for ’t; not seeming So worthy as thy birth.
I’m sorry for that; though it doesn’t seem You deserve it based on who you are.
Art not afeard?
Aren’t you afraid?
Those that I reverence those I fear, the wise: At fools I laugh, not fear them.
I fear those I respect, the wise: I laugh at fools, I don’t fear them.
Die the death: When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I’ll follow those that even now fled hence, And on the gates of Lud’s-town set your heads: Yield, rustic mountaineer.
Die the way you deserve: When I’ve killed you with my own hand, I’ll chase down those who just ran away, And put your heads on the gates of Lud’s-town: Surrender, you country bumpkin.
No companies abroad?
No one else around?
None in the world: you did mistake him, sure.
No one in the world: you must have mistaken him.
I cannot tell: long is it since I saw him, But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of favour Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his: I am absolute ’Twas very Cloten.
I can’t say: it’s been a long time since I saw him, But time hasn’t changed how he looked; The way he spoke, and his voice breaking, Was just like his: I’m sure It was really Cloten.
In this place we left them: I wish my brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell.
This is where we left them: I hope my brother deals with him quickly, You said he was so violent.
Being scarce made up, I mean, to man, he had not apprehension Of roaring terrors; for the effect of judgment Is oft the cause of fear. But, see, thy brother.
He was barely a man, I mean, he didn’t understand The real dangers; because fear often comes From the consequences of judgment. But look, here’s your brother.
This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in’t: not Hercules Could have knock’d out his brains, for he had none: Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his.
This Cloten was an idiot, a worthless person; He had no value: not even Hercules Could have knocked sense into him, because he didn’t have any: But if I hadn’t done this, the fool would’ve had My head, just like I have his.
What hast thou done?
What have you done?
I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten’s head, Son to the queen, after his own report; Who call’d me traitor, mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand he’ld take us in Displace our heads where--thank the gods!--they grow, And set them on Lud’s-town.
I’ve done exactly what I said: cut off Cloten’s head, The queen’s son, as he himself claimed; He called me a traitor, a mountain man, and swore That he would take us by force, Cut off our heads, and put them on display in Lud’s-town.
We are all undone.
We’re all doomed.
Why, worthy father, what have we to lose, But that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us: then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad?
Why, father, what do we have to lose, Except our lives, which he swore to take? The law Doesn’t protect us: so why should we be afraid To let a rude man threaten us, Acting as judge and executioner, just because We fear the law? What kind of company Have you seen outside?
No single soul Can we set eye on; but in all safe reason He must have some attendants. Though his humour Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have raved To bring him here alone; although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head; the which he hearing-- As it is like him--might break out, and swear He’ld fetch us in; yet is’t not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking, Or they so suffering: then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head.
We can’t see anyone But he must have some people with him. Although he was always changing his mind, And getting worse instead of better; even frenzy or Complete madness couldn’t explain him coming here alone; though maybe It’s been said at court that men like us Live and hunt here, as outlaws, and in time Might become a real threat. Hearing that-- Which is very likely--he might decide to come after us, And swear he’ll bring us in; but it’s not likely That he’ll come alone, either he taking the risk Or they letting him; so we can reasonably fear, If we do, that this body has more dangers Than just the head.
Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it: howsoe’er, My brother hath done well.
Let things happen As the gods have planned: whatever happens, My brother has done the right thing.
I had no mind To hunt this day: the boy Fidele’s sickness Did make my way long forth.
I didn’t plan To go hunting today: the boy Fidele’s illness Made my trip longer.
With his own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en His head from him: I’ll throw’t into the creek Behind our rock; and let it to the sea, And tell the fishes he’s the queen’s son, Cloten: That’s all I reck.
With his own sword, Which he used to threaten me, I’ve taken His head from him: I’ll throw it into the creek Behind our rock, and let it float out to sea, And tell the fish that it’s the queen’s son, Cloten: I don’t care about anything else.
I fear ’twill be revenged: Would, Polydote, thou hadst not done’t! though valour Becomes thee well enough.
I fear it will be avenged: I wish, Polydore, you hadn’t done it! though bravery Sits well on you.
Would I had done’t So the revenge alone pursued me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb’d me of this deed: I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through And put us to our answer.
I wish I had done it, So that I alone would have faced the revenge! Polydore, I love you like a brother, but I’m jealous You’ve taken this action from me: I wish that revenge, When the time comes, would find us and Force us to answer for what we’ve done.
Well, ’tis done: We’ll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there’s no profit. I prithee, to our rock; You and Fidele play the cooks: I’ll stay Till hasty Polydote return, and bring him To dinner presently.
Well, it’s done: We’ll hunt no more today, nor seek danger Where there’s no benefit. I beg you, let’s go back to our rock; You and Fidele can cook: I’ll wait Until hasty Polydore returns, and bring him To dinner right away.
Poor sick Fidele! I’ll weringly to him: to gain his colour I’ld let a parish of such Clotens’ blood, And praise myself for charity.
Poor sick Fidele! I’ll go to him gladly: to restore his color, I’d let a whole village of Clotens bleed, And praise myself for being charitable.
O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind, That by the top doth take the mountain pine, And make him stoop to the vale. ’Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow’d. Yet still it’s strange What Cloten’s being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us.
Oh, you goddess, You divine Nature, how you show yourself In these two noble boys! They are as gentle As breezes blowing around the violet, Not shaking its sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood boiling, like the strongest wind, That picks the mountain pine by the top, And makes it bend down to the valley. It’s amazing That an invisible instinct should shape them To be royalty without training, honor without teaching, Manners they never saw in others, courage That grows wild in them, yet produces a crop As if it had been carefully planted. Still, it’s strange What Cloten’s presence here means to us, Or what his death will bring us.
Where’s my brother? I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother: his body’s hostage For his return.
Where’s my brother? I have sent Cloten’s stupid head down the stream, As a messenger to his mother: his body’s a guarantee For his return.
My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds! But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!
My clever instrument! Listen, Polydore, it’s playing! But why now Does Cadwal make it move? Listen!
Is he at home?
Is he home?
He went hence even now.
He just left.
What does he mean? since death of my dear’st mother it did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad?
What’s he doing? Since the death of my dearest mother, It didn’t play before. All serious things Should respond to serious events. What’s going on? Celebrations for nothing and childish tears Are for monkeys to enjoy, and sorrow for kids. Is Cadwal mad?
Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for.
Look, here he comes, And brings the awful reason in his arms For what we blame him for.
The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn’d my leaping-time into a crutch, Than have seen this.
The bird is dead That we’ve cared for so much. I’d rather Have skipped from being sixteen to sixty, And turned my youth into an old man’s crutch, Than have seen this.
O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew’st thyself.
Oh, sweetest, fairest flower! My brother wears you not as well as you wore yourself.
O melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare Might easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. How found you him?
Oh, sadness! Who ever really understood the depth of your meaning? Found The bottom, to show what shore your sluggish boat Could most easily dock at? You blessed thing! Jove knows what kind of man you could have been; but I, You died, a truly exceptional boy, because of sadness. How did you find him?
Stark, as you see: Thus smiling, as some fly hid tickled slumber, Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion.
Stiff, as you see: Smiling, as if some fly had tickled his sleep, Not as if death’s arrow had made him laugh; his right cheek Resting on a cushion.
Where?
Where?
O’ the floor; His arms thus leagued: I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer’d my steps too loud.
On the ground; His arms like this: I thought he was asleep, and took My rough shoes off my feet, which were too noisy For my quiet steps.
Why, he but sleeps: If he be gone, he’ll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee.
He’s just sleeping: If he’s gone, his grave will be his bed; Female fairies will haunt his tomb, And worms won’t touch you.
With fairest flowers Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose, nor The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would, With charitable bill,--O bill, sore-shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument!--bring thee all this; Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground thy corse.
With the most beautiful flowers While summer lasts and I’m alive, Fidele, I’ll make your grave sweet: you won’t lack The flower that’s like your face, the pale primrose, nor The blue harebell, like your veins, no, nor The eglantine leaf, which, to avoid slander, Smells even sweeter than your breath: the robin would, With its kind beak, -- oh, beak, shameful to Those wealthy heirs who let their fathers rest Without a monument! -- bring all this to you; Yes, and moss as well, when there are no flowers, To cover your body through the winter.
Prithee, have done; And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To the grave!
Please, stop; Don’t play with sad words like a girl, For something so serious. Let’s bury him, And not delay with admiration what Is due. To the grave!
Say, where shall’s lay him?
So, where shall we lay him?
By good Euriphile, our mother.
By our mother Euriphile.
Be’t so: And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground, As once our mother; use like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.
So be it: And let us, Polydore, even though our voices Have deepened with age, sing him down to the earth, Just like we did for our mother; use the same tune and words, Except Euriphile must be called Fidele.
Cadwal, I cannot sing: I’ll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie.
Cadwal, I can’t sing: I’ll weep, and speak it with you; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and temples that deceive.
We’ll speak it, then.
We’ll speak it then.
Great griefs, I see, medicine the less; for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys; And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid for that: though mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust, yet reverence, That angel of the world, doth make distinction Of place ’tween high and low. Our foe was princely And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury him as a prince.
Great sorrows, I see, heal the smaller ones; for Cloten Is completely forgotten. He was a queen’s son, boys; And though he came as our enemy, remember He paid for that: even if low and high, rotting Together, have the same dust, still respect, That angel of the world, makes a distinction Between the high and low. Our enemy was royal, And though you took his life, as he was our enemy, Still bury him like a prince.
Pray You, fetch him hither. Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’, When neither are alive.
Please, bring him here. Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’ When neither are alive.
If you’ll go fetch him, We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin.
If you’ll go fetch him, We’ll sing our song while we wait. Brother, start.
Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east; My father hath a reason for’t.
No, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east; My father has a reason for it.
’Tis true.
It’s true.
Come on then, and remove him.
Come on then, and move him.
So. Begin.
Okay. Let’s begin.
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Don’t be afraid of the sun’s heat, Or the furious winter storms; You’ve done your work on earth, You’ve gone home, and earned your rest: Young men and women, like chimney-sweepers, Will all eventually return to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Don’t be afraid of the frown of the powerful; You’re beyond the tyrant’s blow; Don’t worry about needing clothes or food; To you, the reed is as strong as the oak: All things—power, knowledge, medicine—must All end like this, and return to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Don’t be afraid of the lightning strike,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Or the feared thunderbolt;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Don’t fear slander, or rash criticism;
Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:
You’ve finished both joy and sorrow:
All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
All young lovers, all lovers must Surrender to you, and return to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
No exorcism should harm you!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
No witchcraft should curse you!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
May no restless ghost trouble you!
Nothing ill come near thee!
May nothing bad come near you!
Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave!
May you have a peaceful end; And may your grave be honored!
We have done our obsequies: come, lay him down.
We’ve finished the funeral rites: come, let’s lay him down.
Here’s a few flowers; but ’bout midnight, more: The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night Are strewings fitt’st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flowers, now wither’d: even so These herblets shall, which we upon you strew. Come on, away: apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again: Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.
Here are a few flowers; but around midnight, there’ll be more: The plants that have the cold dew of the night Are the best for graves. Upon their faces. You were like flowers, now withered: just like these Little plants shall wither as we lay them on you. Let’s move on, away: we’ll kneel apart. The earth that gave them life now takes them back: Their joys are gone, and so is their pain.
[Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; which is the way?-- I thank you.--By yond bush?--Pray, how far thither? ’Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet?-- I have gone all night. ’Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow!--O god s and goddesses!
[Waking up] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; which way is it?-- Thank you.--By that bush?--How far is it there? Goodness! can it really be six miles yet?-- I’ve walked all night. Honestly, I’ll lie down and sleep. But wait! no one to lie beside me!--Oh gods and goddesses!
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on’t. I hope I dream; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures: but ’tis not so; ’Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes: our very eyes Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith, I tremble stiff with fear: but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it! The dream’s here still: even when I wake, it is Without me, as within me; not imagined, felt. A headless man! The garments of Posthumus! I know the shape of’s leg: this is his hand; His foot Mercurial; his Martial thigh; The brawns of Hercules: but his Jovial face Murder in heaven?--How!--’Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspired with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hast here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio Hath with his forged letters,--damn’d Pisanio-- From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top! O Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? where’s that? Ay me! where’s that? Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? ’Tis he and Cloten: malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, ’tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murderous to the senses? That confirms it home: This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten’s: O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us: O, my lord, my lord!
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the cause of it. I hope I’m dreaming; Because I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to good people: but it’s not like that; It was just a crazy idea, a silly thought, Created by the brain’s fumes: even our eyes Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Honestly, I tremble with fear: but if there’s Even the smallest bit of pity left in heaven, Like a wren’s tiny eye, I pray the gods for some of it! The dream is still here: even when I wake, it stays With me, inside me; it’s not just imagined, but felt. A headless man! The clothes of Posthumus! I know the shape of his leg: this is his hand; His foot’s like Mercury’s; his thigh like Mars’; The muscles of Hercules: but his face like Jupiter’s? Murder in heaven?--What?--It’s gone. Pisanio, All the curses Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to add, be hurled at you! You, Conspired with that wicked devil, Cloten, Have killed my lord here. From now on, reading and writing Will be treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio With his forged letters, damn’d Pisanio-- Has struck down the noblest man in the world Like a ship’s mast falling! Oh Posthumus! oh no, Where is your head? Where is it? Oh my! Pisanio might have stabbed you in the heart, And left your head here. How could this happen? Pisanio? It’s him and Cloten: their malice and greed Have brought this misery. Oh, it’s clear, clear! The potion he gave me, which he said was precious And healing for me, didn’t I find it Deadly to my senses? That proves it: This is Pisanio’s and Cloten’s work, oh! Give color to my pale cheek with your blood, So we may look even worse to those Who might find us: Oh, my lord, my lord!
To them the legions garrison’d in Gailia, After your will, have cross’d the sea, attending You here at Milford-Haven with your ships: They are in readiness.
The legions stationed in Gaul, As you commanded, have crossed the sea and are here At Milford-Haven with their ships: They’re ready.
But what from Rome?
But what about from Rome?
The senate hath stirr’d up the confiners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, That promise noble service: and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, Syenna’s brother.
The senate has roused the nobles And gentlemen of Italy, eager men, Who promise great service: and they come Under the leadership of bold Iachimo, Syenna’s brother.
When expect you them?
When can we expect them?
With the next benefit o’ the wind.
As soon as the wind is favorable.
This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers Be muster’d; bid the captains look to’t. Now, sir, What have you dream’d of late of this war’s purpose?
This eagerness Makes our hopes seem bright. Order our forces To be gathered; tell the captains to check it. Now, sir, What have you dreamed lately about this war’s purpose?
Last night the very gods show’d me a vision-- I fast and pray’d for their intelligence--thus: I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish’d in the sunbeams: which portends-- Unless my sins abuse my divination-- Success to the Roman host.
Last night the gods showed me a vision-- I fasted and prayed for their guidance--thus: I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, flying From the damp south to this western part, And then disappearing in the sunlight: which suggests-- Unless my sins have clouded my foresight-- Success for the Roman army.
Dream often so, And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime It was a worthy building. How! a page! Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather; For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let’s see the boy’s face.
Dream often like this, And always truthfully. Wait, hold on! What is this body here Without its head? The damage shows it was once A great building. What? A servant? Is he dead, or just sleeping on top of him? But dead, I think; Because nature cannot bear to make its bed With the dead, or sleep on them. Let’s look at the boy’s face.
He’s alive, my lord.
He’s alive, my lord.
He’ll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy fortunes, for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou makest thy bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter’d that good picture? What’s thy interest In this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it? What art thou?
Then he can tell us about this body. Boy, Tell us about your fate, because it seems It wants to be known. Who is this You’ve made your bloody pillow? Or who was he That, unlike what noble nature intended, Has changed that good image? What’s your connection To this sad wreck? How did this happen? Who is it? Who are you?
I am nothing: or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters: I may wander From east to occident, cry out for service, Try many, all good, serve truly, never Find such another master.
I am nobody: or if not, Being nobody would be better. This was my master, A very brave Briton and a good man, Who was killed here by mountain people. Oh! There are no more masters like him: I might travel From east to west, shout out for work, Try many, all good, serve truly, but never Find another master like him.
’Lack, good youth! Thou movest no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding: say his name, good friend.
Oh, good youth! You make us feel as much for your grief as Your master’s blood: tell me his name, good friend.
Richard du Champ.
Richard du Champ.
If I do lie and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They’ll pardon it.--Say you, sir?
If I’m lying and it Doesn’t harm anyone, even if the gods hear me, I hope They’ll forgive me.--What did you say, sir?
Thy name?
Your name?
Fidele, sir.
Fidele, sir.
Thou dost approve thyself the very same: Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master’d, but, be sure, No less beloved. The Roman emperor’s letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee: go with me.
You prove yourself just as you are: Your name suits your faith, and your faith suits your name. Will you take your chance with me? I won’t say You’ll be well-trained, but I promise you, You’ll be no less loved. The Roman emperor’s letters, Sent by a consul to me, would not be any faster To promote you than your own worth. Come with me.
I’ll follow, sir. But first, an’t please the gods, I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d his grave, And on it said a century of prayers, Such as I can, twice o’er, I’ll weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you, So please you entertain me.
I’ll follow, sir. But first, if it pleases the gods, I’ll bury my master from the flies, as deep As these poor little shovels can dig; and when I’ve covered his grave with wild leaves and weeds, And said a hundred prayers over it, As best as I can, I’ll weep and sigh twice more; And leaving him in service, I’ll follow you, If you’ll kindly accept me.
Ay, good youth! And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties: let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave: come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr’d By thee to us, and he shall be interr’d As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes Some falls are means the happier to arise.
Yes, good youth! And I’ll treat you more like a father than a master. My friends, This boy has taught us what it means to be a man: let’s Find the most beautiful spot with daisies we can, And with our spears and pikes, Make him a grave: come, help him. Boy, you’re preferred By you to us, and we’ll bury him As soldiers do. Be cheerful; wipe your tears. Some falls are the very means for rising higher.