Original
Modern English
I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daughter, Give even way unto my rough affairs: Put not you on the visage of the times And be like them to Percy troublesome. LADY
Please, my dear wife, and sweet daughter, Don’t get in the way of my rough business: Don’t put on the look of the times And act like them, causing trouble for Percy. LADY
I have given over, I will speak no more: Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide.
I’ve said all I can, I won’t speak more: Do whatever you want; let your wisdom lead you.
Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn; And, but my going, nothing can redeem it.
Oh, sweet wife, my honor is at risk; And unless I leave, nothing can save it.
O yet, for God’s sake, go not to these wars! The time was, father, that you broke your word, When you were more endeared to it than now; When your own Percy, when my heart’s dear Harry, Threw many a northward look to see his father Bring up his powers; but he did long in vain. Who then persuaded you to stay at home? There were two honours lost, yours and your son’s. For yours, the God of heaven brighten it! For his, it stuck upon him as the sun In the grey vault of heaven, and by his light Did all the chivalry of England move To do brave acts: he was indeed the glass Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves: He had no legs that practised not his gait; And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish, Became the accents of the valiant; For those that could speak low and tardily Would turn their own perfection to abuse, To seem like him: so that in speech, in gait, In diet, in affections of delight, In military rules, humours of blood, He was the mark and glass, copy and book, That fashion’d others. And him, O wondrous him! O miracle of men! him did you leave, Second to none, unseconded by you, To look upon the hideous god of war In disadvantage; to abide a field Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur’s name Did seem defensible: so you left him. Never, O never, do his ghost the wrong To hold your honour more precise and nice With others than with him! let them alone: The marshal and the archbishop are strong: Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur’s neck, Have talk’d of Monmouth’s grave.
Oh please, for God’s sake, don’t go to these wars! There was a time, father, when you kept your word, When you cared more about it than you do now; When your own Percy, when my dear Harry, Looked north many times, hoping to see his father Bring up his forces; but he waited in vain. Who persuaded you to stay home back then? Two honors were lost, yours and your son’s. For yours, may God in heaven brighten it! For his, it shone on him like the sun In the grey sky, and by his light All the knights of England moved To perform brave deeds: he truly was the example In which noble youth saw how to behave: He had no legs that didn’t mimic his stride; And his speech, which nature made his flaw, Became the voice of the brave; Because those who spoke slowly and clumsily Tried to imitate him, turning their own perfection into imitation, To sound like him: so in speech, in walk, In food, in the joy they took, In military rules, in their passions, He was the model, the example, the guide, That others followed. And him, oh wondrous him! Oh miracle of men! him did you leave, Second to none, left without your support, To face the terrible god of war In a worse position; to endure a battle Where only Hotspur’s name Seemed worth defending: so you left him. Never, oh never, wrong his memory By holding your honor more strictly with others than with him! Let them be: The marshal and the archbishop are strong: Had my sweet Harry had half their numbers, Today I might have spoken of Monmouth’s grave, Hanging on Hotspur’s neck.
Beshrew your heart, Fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me With new lamenting ancient oversights. But I must go and meet with danger there, Or it will seek me in another place And find me worse provided. LADY
Curse your heart, Fair daughter, you pull my spirits from me With all your lamenting over old mistakes. But I must go and face danger there, Or it will find me somewhere else And catch me unprepared. LADY
O, fly to Scotland, Till that the nobles and the armed commons Have of their puissance made a little taste.
Oh, go to Scotland, Until the nobles and the armed people Have tested their strength a little.
If they get ground and vantage of the king, Then join you with them, like a rib of steel, To make strength stronger; but, for all our loves, First let them try themselves. So did your son; He was so suffer’d: so came I a widow; And never shall have length of life enough To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes, That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven, For recordation to my noble husband.
If they gain ground and advantage over the king, Then join them, like a rib of steel, To make their strength stronger; but, for all our sakes, First let them try it themselves. So did your son; He was allowed to suffer: so I became a widow; And I will never live long enough To cry over it with my eyes, So it can grow and reach as high as heaven, To record my noble husband’s memory.
Come, come, go in with me. ’Tis with my mind As with the tide swell’d up unto his height, That makes a still-stand, running neither way: Fain would I go to meet the archbishop, But many thousand reasons hold me back. I will resolve for Scotland: there am I, Till time and vantage crave my company.
Come, come, go inside with me. It’s like my mind Is like the tide, swollen to its peak, Making it stand still, not moving either way: I would love to meet the archbishop, But a thousand reasons hold me back. I’ll decide for Scotland: that’s where I’ll be, Until time and opportunity call me.