Original
Modern English
These promises are fair, the parties sure, And our induction full of prosperous hope.
These promises seem good, and the people involved are reliable, And everything seems set for a successful outcome.
Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, Will you sit down? And uncle Worcester: a plague upon it! I have forgot the map.
Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, Will you sit down? And uncle Worcester: damn it! I’ve forgotten the map.
No, here it is. Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur, For by that name as oft as Lancaster Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale and with A rising sigh he wisheth you in heaven.
No, here it is. Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur, For whenever Lancaster Talks about you, his face goes pale and with A sigh, he wishes you were in heaven.
And you in hell, as oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.
And you in hell, whenever he hears Owen Glendower mentioned.
I cannot blame him: at my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets; and at my birth The frame and huge foundation of the earth Shaked like a coward.
I can’t blame him: at my birth The sky was full of fiery shapes, Of burning lights; and when I was born, The very earth itself shook like a frightened coward.
Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother’s cat had but kittened, though yourself had never been born.
Well, it would’ve shaken at the same time if your mother’s cat had just had kittens, even if you had never been born.
I say the earth did shake when I was born.
I say the earth shook when I was born.
And I say the earth was not of my mind, If you suppose as fearing you it shook.
And I say the earth wasn’t thinking about me, If you think it shook because of your birth.
The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble.
The sky was on fire, the earth trembled.
O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire, And not in fear of your nativity. Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb; which, for enlargement striving, Shakes the old beldam earth and topples down Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth Our grandam earth, having this distemperature, In passion shook.
Oh, then the earth shook because it saw the sky on fire, And not because it was afraid of your birth. Nature, when sick, often erupts in strange ways; Sometimes the earth, like a woman with stomach pain, Is troubled by the winds trapped inside her, Which, trying to escape, shake the old earth and knock down Towers and steeples. When you were born, Our grandmother earth, being out of sorts, Shook with passion.
Cousin, of many men I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave To tell you once again that at my birth The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields. These signs have mark’d me extraordinary; And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men. Where is he living, clipp’d in with the sea That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales, Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me? And bring him out that is but woman’s son Can trace me in the tedious ways of art And hold me pace in deep experiments.
Cousin, I don’t take these insults lightly. Let me tell you again that when I was born The sky was full of fiery shapes, The goats ran off the mountains, and the herds Made loud noises and ran to the terrified fields. These signs showed I was extraordinary; And everything in my life proves I’m not a regular man. Where is the man, surrounded by the sea, That scolds the shores of England, Scotland, and Wales, Who calls me his student, or has taught me anything? Bring me the man who’s just a woman’s son And can match me in deep knowledge and experiments.
I think there’s no man speaks better Welsh. I’ll to dinner.
I think no one speaks Welsh better than you. I’m going to dinner.
Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.
Quiet, cousin Percy; you’ll make him angry.
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
I can summon spirits from the vast ocean.
Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them?
Well, so can I, or any man can; But will they actually show up when you call them?
Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command The devil.
Well, I can teach you, cousin, how to control The devil himself.
And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil By telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil. If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, And I’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence. O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!
And I can teach you, cousin, how to shame the devil By telling the truth: tell the truth and shame the devil. If you have the power to summon him, bring him here, And I swear I have the power to send him away. Oh, while you live, tell the truth and shame the devil!
Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.
Come, come, enough of this pointless talk.
Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent him Bootless home and weather-beaten back.
Three times Henry Bolingbroke has challenged me And each time I’ve sent him home empty-handed, And beaten down by the weather.
Home without boots, and in foul weather too! How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name?
Home without boots, and in bad weather too! How does he escape fevers, in the devil’s name?
Come, here’s the map: shall we divide our right According to our threefold order ta’en?
Come, here’s the map: shall we divide our land According to the plan we made?
The archdeacon hath divided it Into three limits very equally: England, from Trent and Severn hitherto, By south and east is to my part assign’d: All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore, And all the fertile land within that bound, To Owen Glendower: and, dear coz, to you The remnant northward, lying off from Trent. And our indentures tripartite are drawn; Which being sealed interchangeably, A business that this night may execute, To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth To meet your father and the Scottish power, As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. My father Glendower is not ready yet, Not shall we need his help these fourteen days. Within that space you may have drawn together Your tenants, friends and neighbouring gentlemen.
The archdeacon has already divided it Into three equal parts: England, from Trent and Severn up to here, By the south and east, is assigned to me; All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore, And all the fertile land within that boundary, Is assigned to Owen Glendower: and, dear cousin, to you The northern part, from Trent onward. Our tripartite agreement is signed; And once it’s sealed by all of us, We can carry out the plan tonight, And tomorrow, cousin Percy, you and I And my good Lord of Worcester will head out To meet your father and the Scottish forces, As we agreed, at Shrewsbury. My father Glendower isn’t ready yet, And we won’t need his help for another fourteen days. In that time, you should gather your men, Tenants, friends, and nearby gentlemen.
A shorter time shall send me to you, lords: And in my conduct shall your ladies come; From whom you now must steal and take no leave, For there will be a world of water shed Upon the parting of your wives and you.
I’ll be there sooner, lords: And I’ll bring your wives along with me; But you must leave without saying goodbye, Because there will be a lot of tears shed When you part from your wives.
Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here, In quantity equals not one of yours: See how this river comes me cranking in, And cuts me from the best of all my land A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. I’ll have the current in this place damm’d up; And here the smug and silver Trent shall run In a new channel, fair and evenly; It shall not wind with such a deep indent, To rob me of so rich a bottom here.
I think my portion, north of Burton here, Doesn’t compare in size to any of yours: Look how this river twists through my land, Cutting out a huge chunk of my best land Like a giant half-moon, a monstrous piece. I’ll have the current here blocked off; And here the smooth and silvery Trent will flow In a new, straight path, fair and even; It won’t wind around so deeply, Taking away such valuable land.
Not wind? it shall, it must; you see it doth.
Not wind? It will, it must; you can see it does.
Yea, but Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up With like advantage on the other side; Gelding the opposed continent as much As on the other side it takes from you.
Yes, but Watch how it moves, and see how it rises With the same advantage on the other side; Taking from the opposite side just as much As it takes from you on this side.
Yea, but a little charge will trench him here And on this north side win this cape of land; And then he runs straight and even.
Yes, but a little effort here Will win us this piece of land on the north side; And then the river will run straight and even.
I’ll have it so: a little charge will do it.
I’ll do it: a little work will solve it.
I’ll not have it alter’d.
I won’t let it be changed.
Will not you?
Won’t you?
No, nor you shall not.
No, and you won’t either.
Who shall say me nay?
Who’s going to stop me?
Why, that will I.
I will.
Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh.
Then don’t expect me to understand you; say it in Welsh.
I can speak English, lord, as well as you; For I was train’d up in the English court; Where, being but young, I framed to the harp Many an English ditty lovely well And gave the tongue a helpful ornament, A virtue that was never seen in you.
I can speak English, lord, just as well as you can; I was raised in the English court; When I was young, I played many English songs on the harp And gave the language a beautiful touch, A skill you’ve never had.
Marry, And I am glad of it with all my heart: I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers; I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn’d, Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree; And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry: ’Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.
Well, I’m glad to hear it, truly: I’d rather be a kitten meowing Than one of these poetry-writing fools; I’d rather hear a rusty can spinning around, Or a dry wheel grinding on its axle; That wouldn’t bother my teeth at all, Nothing like listening to bad poetry: It’s like watching a lame horse try to walk.
Come, you shall have Trent turn’d.
Come on, you’ll see Trent change course.
I do not care: I’ll give thrice so much land To any well-deserving friend; But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, I’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair. Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?
I don’t care: I’ll give three times as much land To any worthy friend; But when it comes to negotiating, mark my words, I’ll argue over the smallest details. Are the contracts ready? Shall we go?
The moon shines fair; you may away by night: I’ll haste the writer and withal Break with your wives of your departure hence: I am afraid my daughter will run mad, So much she doteth on her Mortimer.
The moon is shining brightly; you can leave tonight: I’ll hurry up the writer and, at the same time, Break the news to your wives about your departure: I’m afraid my daughter will go mad, She’s so in love with Mortimer.
Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!
Shame on you, cousin Percy! You’re upsetting my father!
I cannot choose: sometime he angers me With telling me of the mouldwarp and the ant, Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clip-wing’d griffin and a moulten raven, A couching lion and a ramping cat, And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff As puts me from my faith. I tell you what; He held me last night at least nine hours In reckoning up the several devils’ names That were his lackeys: I cried ’hum,’ and ’well, go to,’ But mark’d him not a word. O, he is as tedious As a tired horse, a railing wife; Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, Than feed on cates and have him talk to me In any summer-house in Christendom.
I can’t help it: sometimes he frustrates me When he talks about moles and ants, About the wizard Merlin and his prophecies, And a dragon, a fish without fins, A wingless griffin and a burnt raven, A lion lying down and a wild cat, And all this nonsense That shakes my faith. Listen, He kept me up for at least nine hours last night Listing all the demons’ names That were his servants: I just nodded and said ‘Uh-huh,’ But didn’t really listen. Oh, he’s as boring As a tired horse, a nagging wife; Worse than a smoky house: I’d rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far away, Than enjoy fancy food while he talks to me In any summerhouse in Christendom.
In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, Exceedingly well read, and profited In strange concealments, valiant as a lion And as wondrous affable and as bountiful As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin? He holds your temper in a high respect And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come ’cross his humour; faith, he does: I warrant you, that man is not alive Might so have tempted him as you have done, Without the taste of danger and reproof: But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.
Honestly, he’s a noble man, Very well-read and knowledgeable In strange matters, as brave as a lion, And as friendly and generous As the riches of India. Let me tell you, cousin, He respects your temperament greatly And controls himself even when you annoy him; I swear, no one else could have provoked him like you did, Without facing some kind of danger or criticism: But don’t do it too often, please.
In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame; And since your coming hither have done enough To put him quite beside his patience. You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault: Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood,-- And that’s the dearest grace it renders you,-- Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners, want of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion and disdain: The least of which haunting a nobleman Loseth men’s hearts and leaves behind a stain Upon the beauty of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation.
Honestly, my lord, you’re too stubborn; Since you’ve arrived here, you’ve done enough To push him past his patience. You really need to work on this flaw, my lord: Though sometimes it looks like courage, nobility, blood— And that’s the greatest virtue it gives you— It often shows up as anger, Bad manners, lack of control, Pride, arrogance, self-importance, and disdain: Any of these, haunting a nobleman, Will cause people to lose respect for him And leave a stain on his reputation, Stealing away his praise.
Well, I am school’d: good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.
Alright, I’ve been taught: good manners to you! Here come our wives, let’s take our leave.
This is the deadly spite that angers me; My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.
This is the hateful thing that makes me angry; My wife can’t speak any English, and I can’t speak Welsh.
My daughter weeps: she will not part with you; She’ll be a soldier too, she’ll to the wars.
My daughter is crying: she refuses to leave you; She wants to be a soldier too, she wants to go to the wars.
Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Shall follow in your conduct speedily.
Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Will follow your lead quickly.
She is desperate here; a peevish self-wind harlotry, one that no persuasion can do good upon.
She’s stubborn now; a petulant, self-centered woman, One that no amount of persuasion will change.
I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh Which thou pour’st down from these swelling heavens I am too perfect in; and, but for shame, In such a parley should I answer thee.
I understand your looks: that lovely Welsh That you speak so sweetly from these soaring skies I know it too well; and, except for my shame, I would respond to you in the same way.
I understand thy kisses and thou mine, And that’s a feeling disputation: But I will never be a truant, love, Till I have learned thy language; for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d, Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
I understand your kisses and you understand mine, And that’s a matter we can argue about: But I won’t be lazy, my love, Until I’ve learned your language; because your tongue Makes Welsh sound as sweet as beautifully written songs, Sung by a beautiful queen in a summer garden, With captivating music, played on her lute.
Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.
No, if you give in, she will go mad.
O, I am ignorance itself in this!
Oh, I am completely lost in this!
She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down And rest your gentle head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep. Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team Begins his golden progress in the east.
She tells you to lie down on the soft rushes, And rest your gentle head on her lap, And she will sing a song you like And place the god of sleep on your eyelids. Charming your blood with a pleasant heaviness, Making the difference between waking and sleeping As distinct as day and night The moment before the sun’s chariot begins Its golden journey in the east.
With all my heart I’ll sit and hear her sing: By that time will our book, I think, be drawn
With all my heart, I’ll sit and listen to her sing: By that time, I think, our plan will be ready.
Do so; And those musicians that shall play to you Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence, And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend.
Do that; And the musicians who will play for you Will be a thousand miles away, but they’ll be here right away: Sit, and listen.
Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.
Come on, Kate, you’re great at lying down: come, quickly, quickly, so I can rest my head in your lap.
Go, ye giddy goose.
Go, you silly fool.
Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh; And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous. By’r lady, he is a good musician.
Now I see the devil knows Welsh; And it’s no wonder he’s so cheerful. By my lady, he’s a good musician.
Then should you be nothing but musical for you are altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.
Then you should just be a musician, since you’re completely driven by moods. Stay still, you thief, and listen to the lady sing in Welsh.
I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.
I’d rather hear my dog, my hound, howl in Irish.
Wouldst thou have thy head broken?
Do you want your head broken?
No.
No.
Then be still.
Then be quiet.
Neither;’tis a woman’s fault.
Neither; it’s a woman’s fault.
Now God help thee!
Now God help you!
To the Welsh lady’s bed.
To the Welsh lady’s bed.
What’s that?
What’s that?
Peace! she sings.
Quiet! She’s singing.
Come, Kate, I’ll have your song too.
Come on, Kate, I want to hear your song too.
Not mine, in good sooth.
Not mine, honestly.
Not yours, in good sooth! Heart! you swear like a comfit-maker’s wife. ’Not you, in good sooth,’ and ’as true as I live,’ and ’as God shall mend me,’ and ’as sure as day,’ And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths, As if thou never walk’st further than Finsbury. Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, A good mouth-filling oath, and leave ’in sooth,’ And such protest of pepper-gingerbread, To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens. Come, sing.
Not yours, honestly! Good grief! You swear like a confectioner’s wife. ’Not you, honestly,’ and ’as true as I live,’ and ’as God shall help me,’ and ’as sure as day,’ And you give such flimsy promises for your oaths, As if you never walked farther than Finsbury. Swear to me, Kate, like a lady as you are, A proper, hearty oath, and forget ’honestly,’ And those silly declarations like pepper-and-sugar, To fancy-dressed guards and weekend citizens. Come, sing.
I will not sing.
I will not sing.
’Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be red-breast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I’ll away within these two hours; and so, come in when ye will.
That’s the fastest way to become a tailor or a red-breast teacher. If the contract is signed, I’ll leave in the next two hours; so, come in when you’re ready.
Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. By this our book is drawn; we’ll but seal, And then to horse immediately.
Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you’re as slow As Lord Percy is eager to go. The agreement is written; we’ll just seal it, And then get on horseback right away.
With all my heart.
With all my heart.