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Modern English
Camest thou from where they made the stand?
Did you come from where they made their stand?
I did. Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
I did. Though it seems you came from the ones who ran.
I did.
I did.
No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost, But that the heavens fought: the king himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling Merely through fear; that the straight pass was damm’d With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with lengthen’d shame.
No blame to you, sir; for everything was lost, Except that the heavens fought: the king himself, Without his troops, the army shattered, Only the backs of Britons visible, all running Down a narrow path; the enemy full of confidence, Slashing with their swords, having more to do Than they had tools for, killing some Fatally, some lightly wounded, some falling Just from fear; the path blocked With dead men behind, and cowards still alive To die in disgrace.
Where was this lane?
Where was this path?
Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf; Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier, An honest one, I warrant; who deserved So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for’s country: athwart the lane, He, with two striplings-lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cased, or shame-- Made good the passage; cried to those that fled, ’Our Britain s harts die flying, not our men: To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that Like beasts which you shun beastly, and may save, But to look back in frown: stand, stand.’ These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many-- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing--with this word ’Stand, stand,’ Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn’d A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some, turn’d coward But by example--O, a sin in war, Damn’d in the first beginners!--gan to look The way that they did, and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o’ the hunters. Then began A stop i’ the chaser, a retire, anon A rout, confusion thick; forthwith they fly Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made: and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o’ the need: having found the backdoor open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before; some dying; some their friends O’er borne i’ the former wave: ten, chased by one, Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty: Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o’ the field.
Close to the battle, dug out, and walled with turf; Which gave an advantage to an old soldier, An honest one, I’m sure, who deserved His long service, marked by his white beard, In doing this for his country: across the path, He, with two young lads—more likely to run The country’s errands than to do such killing With faces suited for masks, or even fairer Than those kept for protection, or for shame— Held the ground; shouted to those who fled, “Our Britons’ hearts die running, not our men: To darkness go the souls that fly backward. Stand; Or we are Romans, and will treat you like Beasts you avoid, who may be saved, But only by turning your backs in fear: stand, stand.” These three, Three thousand strong, acting as one— For three performers lead when the rest Do nothing—shouted “Stand, stand,” Supported by the place, made more noble By their own honor, which could have turned A spinning wheel into a weapon, pale faces, Part shame, part renewed courage; so some, Turned coward But by example—Oh, a sin in war, Condemned from the start!—began to look The way they had, and to grin like lions Upon the pikes of the enemy. Then started A stop in the chase, a retreat, and soon A rout, chaos thickened; immediately they ran Like chickens, where they had once flown like eagles; slaves, The victors’ strides reversed: and now our cowards, Like fragments from hard journeys, became The key to survival: having found the backdoor open To the unprotected hearts, heavens, how they hurt! Some killed outright; some dying; some with their friends Crushed in the earlier wave: ten, chased by one, Now each became the killer of twenty: Those who would rather die than resist are now The death-bringers of the field.
This was strange chance A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
That was a strange turn of events, A narrow path, an old man, and two boys.
Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t, And vent it for a mockery? Here is one: ’Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane, Preserved the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’
Don’t be amazed by it: you are meant To marvel at the things you hear Not to act on them. Want to make a rhyme about it, And turn it into a joke? Here’s one: “Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a path, Saved the Britons, was the Romans’ downfall.”
Nay, be not angry, sir.
No, don’t be angry, sir.
’Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe, I’ll be his friend; For if he’ll do as he is made to do, I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme.
What for? To what end? Anyone who won’t stand against his enemy, I’ll be his friend; For if he does what he’s supposed to do, I know he’ll soon turn away from my friendship. You’ve got me rhyming.
Farewell; you’re angry.
Goodbye; you’re angry.
Still going?
Still leaving?
This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i’ the field, and ask ’what news?’ of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have saved their carcasses! took heel to do’t, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck: being an ugly monster, ’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i’ the war. Well, I will find him For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resumed again The part I came in: fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by the Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death; On either side I come to spend my breath; Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen.
This is a lord! Oh, noble suffering, To be out here in the field and ask "What news?" of me! How many today would have given up their honor To save their lives! They ran to do it, And still died! I, caught in my own misery, Could not find death where I heard him groan, Nor feel him where he struck: being such an ugly monster, It’s strange he hides himself in fresh drinks, soft beds, Sweet words; or has more helpers than we Who draw their swords in war. Well, I will find him For now, being a friend to the Britons, No longer a Briton, I’ve taken back The role I came in: I will fight no more, But give myself up to the lowest man who will Touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by the Romans; great the answer must Be that the Britons take. As for me, my ransom’s death; On either side, I come to spend my breath; Which I won’t keep here or bear again, But end it for Imogen.
Great Jupiter be praised! Lucius is taken. ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
Thank Jupiter! Lucius is captured. It’s thought the old man and his sons were angels.
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave the affront with them.
There was a fourth man, in a silly outfit, Who joined them in the fight.
So ’tis reported: But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
So it’s been reported: But none of them can be found. Stop! Who’s there?
A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds Had answer’d him.
A Roman, Who wouldn’t have been here now, if others Had helped him.
Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service As if he were of note: bring him to the king.
Grab him; a dog! A leg of Rome won’t return to tell What crows have pecked them here. He boasts Of his service As though he were someone important: bring him to the king.