Original
Modern English
What is thy name, that in the battle thus Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek Upon my head?
What is thy name, that in the battle thus Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek Upon my head?
Know then, my name is Douglas; And I do haunt thee in the battle thus Because some tell me that thou art a king.
Know then, my name is Douglas; And I do haunt thee in the battle thus Because some tell me that thou art a king.
They tell thee true.
They tell thee true.
The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry, This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee, Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.
The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry, This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee, Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.
I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot; And thou shalt find a king that will revenge Lord Stafford’s death.
I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot; And thou shalt find a king that will revenge Lord Stafford’s death.
O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus, never had triumph’d upon a Scot.
Oh Douglas, if you had fought like this at Holmedon, you would have never beaten a Scot.
All’s done, all’s won; here breathless lies the king.
It’s over, it’s done; the king lies here, breathless.
Where?
Where?
Here.
Here.
This, Douglas? no: I know this face full well: A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt; Semblably furnish’d like the king himself.
This? Douglas? No, I know this face very well: He was a brave knight, his name was Blunt; He looked just like the king himself.
A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes! A borrow’d title hast thou bought too dear: Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?
A curse go with your soul, wherever it goes! You’ve bought a false title too dearly: Why did you tell me you were a king?
The king hath many marching in his coats.
The king has many men in his army who look like him.
Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats; I’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece, Until I meet the king.
Now, by my sword, I’ll kill all his lookalikes; I’ll destroy his entire wardrobe, piece by piece, until I find the king.
Up, and away! Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.
Get up, and let’s go! Our soldiers are ready for the day.
Though I could ’scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here; here’s no scoring but upon the pate. Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt: there’s honour for you! here’s no vanity! I am as hot as moulten lead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered: there’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town’s end, to beg during life. But who comes here?
Even though I could escape from gunshots in London, I’m afraid of the shots here; here, it’s not about avoiding shots, but getting hit on the head. Wait! Who’s that? Sir Walter Blunt: there’s honor for you! No pride here! I feel as hot as molten lead, and just as heavy: God keep lead out of me! I don’t need any more weight than what’s in my belly. I’ve led my ragged soldiers to the front lines: there’s hardly three of my hundred and fifty still alive, and they’re going to the town to beg for the rest of their lives. But who’s coming here?
What, stand’st thou idle here? lend me thy sword: Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, Whose deaths are yet unrevenged: I prithee, lend me thy sword.
What, are you standing idle here? Lend me your sword: Many noblemen lie dead, stiff and cold, under the hooves of boasting enemies, whose deaths haven’t been avenged: please, lend me your sword.
O Hal, I prithee, give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure.
Oh Hal, please, let me breathe for a while. Turk Gregory never did such feats in battle as I’ve done today. I’ve paid Percy back, I’ve made sure of it.
He is, indeed; and living to kill thee. I prithee, lend me thy sword.
He is, indeed; and still alive, ready to kill you. Please, hand me your sword.
Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get’st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.
No, by God, Hal, if Percy is alive, you won’t get my sword; but you can take my pistol, if you want.
Give it to me: what, is it in the case?
Give it to me: what, is it in a case?
Ay, Hal; ’tis hot, ’tis hot; there’s that will sack a city.
Yes, Hal; it’s hot, it’s hot; this will sack a city.
What, is it a time to jest and dally now?
What, is this really the time to joke and fool around?
Well, if Percy be alive, I’ll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so: if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: give me life: which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlooked for, and there’s an end.
Well, if Percy is alive, I’ll go after him. If he does cross my path, fine: if not, if I find him, he can make a steak out of me. I don’t want that kind of fake honour that Sir Walter has: just give me life: if I can save it, fine; if not, honour comes when you least expect it, and that’s the end.