Original
Modern English
The noise is round about us.
The noise is all around us.
Let us from it.
Let’s get away from it.
What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure?
What joy, sir, do we find in life, to keep it Away from action and adventure?
Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way, the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after.
No, what hope Do we have in hiding? This way, the Romans Will either kill us as Britons or take us For rebels, unnatural traitors While they use us, and then kill us later.
Sons, We’ll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the king’s party there’s no going: newness Of Cloten’s death--we being not known, not muster’d Among the bands--may drive us to a render Where we have lived, and so extort from’s that Which we have done, whose answer would be death Drawn on with torture.
Sons, We’ll climb higher to the mountains; there we’ll be safe. There’s no going back to the king’s side: the news Of Cloten’s death—since we aren’t known, not listed Among the soldiers—might force us to give ourselves up Where we’ve been living, and they could torture us For what we’ve done, and our answer would be death.
This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you, Nor satisfying us.
This is, sir, a doubt That, in such a time, does not suit you, Nor satisfy us.
It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy’d importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are.
It’s unlikely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, See their campfires, have both their eyes And ears so overwhelmed as they are now, That they’ll waste their time trying to find out where we’re from.
O, I am known Of many in the army: many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the king Hath not deserved my service nor your loves; Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promised, But to be still hot summer’s tamings and The shrinking slaves of winter.
Oh, I am known By many in the army: many years ago, Though Cloten was young, you see, he didn’t fade From my memory. And besides, the king Doesn’t deserve my service or your love; Those who see my exile as lacking upbringing, The certainty of this hard life; yes, hopeless To have the courtesy your birth promised, But to remain like tame animals in summer And the shrinking slaves of winter.
Than be so Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army: I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown, Cannot be question’d.
Then, rather than be like this, It’s better to stop existing. Please, sir, for the army: My brother and I aren’t known; you yourself Are so forgotten, and so grown unrecognizable, You can’t be questioned.
By this sun that shines, I’ll thither: what thing is it that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look’d on blood, But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am ashamed To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown.
By this sun that shines, I’ll go there: what is it that I have never Seen a man die! I’ve hardly ever seen blood, Except that of cowardly hares, hot goats, and deer! I’ve never ridden a horse except one that had A rider like myself, who never wore spurs Or iron on his heel! I’m ashamed To look at the holy sun, to have The benefit of its blessed light, and still remain A poor unknown.
By heavens, I’ll go: If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I’ll take the better care, but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans!
By heavens, I’ll go: If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I’ll take better care, but if you won’t, Then let the danger fall on me at the hands of the Romans!
So say I amen.
So I say amen.
No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, an there I’ll lie: Lead, lead.
There’s no reason why, since you value Your lives so little, I should take more care of mine. Off we go, boys! If you die in your country’s wars, That’s my bed too, lads, and I’ll lie there: Lead, lead.
The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn, Till it fly out and show them princes born.
The time seems long; their blood Scorns itself, Until it bursts out and reveals they were born to be princes.