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Modern English
Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee, for I wish’d Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands: No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never Had lived to put on this: so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But, alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love, To have them fall no more: you some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift. But Imogen is your own: do your best wills, And make me blest to obey! I am brought hither Among the Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady’s kingdom: ’tis enough That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace! I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose: I’ll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds and suit myself As does a Briton peasant: so I’ll fight Against the part I come with; so I’ll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death; and thus, unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o’ the Leonati in me! To shame the guise o’ the world, I will begin The fashion, less without and more within.
Yes, bloody cloth, I’ll keep you, because I wanted You to be stained like this. You married people, If each of you took this path, how many Would have to kill wives much better than themselves For doing something only a little wrong! Oh Pisanio! Not every good servant follows all orders: There’s no duty but to do what’s right. Gods! if you Had punished me for my mistakes, I would never Have lived to wear this: then you would have saved The noble Imogen from regret, and struck Me, a wretch more deserving of your vengeance. But, alas, You take some away for small faults; that’s love, To stop them from falling again: you allow others To follow wrong with wrong, each worse than the last, And make them fear it, for the doer’s benefit. But Imogen is yours: do your best, gods, And make me blessed to obey! I am brought here Among the Roman nobles, and to fight Against my lady’s kingdom: it’s enough That, Britain, I have killed your queen; peace! I won’t harm you. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my plan: I’ll take off These Italian clothes and dress like A British peasant: this way, I’ll fight Against the side I’m allied with; this way I’ll die For you, Imogen, for whom my life Is each breath a death; and thus, unknown, Neither pitied nor hated, to face danger I’ll dedicate myself. Let me show men more Courage than my clothes suggest. Gods, give me the strength of the Leonati! To shame the world’s appearance, I will start A new style, less on the outside and more on the inside.