Original
Modern English
Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick; But, ere they come, bid them o’er-read these letters, And well consider of them; make good speed.
Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick; But, before they come, tell them to read these letters again, And think carefully about them; hurry up.
How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch A watch-case or a common ’larum-bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
How many thousands of my poorest people Are asleep right now! Oh, sleep, oh, gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frightened you, That you no longer weigh my eyelids down And drown my senses in forgetfulness? Why, sleep, do you lie in smoky, dirty beds, On uncomfortable mattresses stretching out, And lulled by the buzzing of night flies, While the great ones sleep in perfumed rooms, Under rich canopies, with the sound of sweet music? Oh, you dull god, why do you sleep with the lowly In disgusting beds, and leave the kingly bed A mere watch-case or a noisy alarm bell? Will you seal the eyes of the ship-boy high on the mast And rock his mind in the rough waves, As the stormy winds take the waves at their peaks, Curling their huge heads and crashing them With deafening noise into the slippery clouds, So that even death wakes up with the chaos? Can you, oh partial sleep, give rest To the poor sea-boy in such a storm, But deny it to a king, in calm and peaceful nights, With all comforts and resources available? Then, happy lowly people, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Many good morrows to your majesty!
Many good mornings to your majesty!
Is it good morrow, lords?
Is it morning already, my lords?
’Tis one o’clock, and past.
It’s one o’clock, and past.
Why, then, good morrow to you all, my lords. Have you read o’er the letters that I sent you?
Well then, good morning to you all, my lords. Have you read through the letters I sent you?
We have, my liege.
We have, my lord.
Then you perceive the body of our kingdom How foul it is; what rank diseases grow And with what danger, near the heart of it.
Then you see how corrupt our kingdom is, What terrible diseases are growing within it, And how dangerous it is, right at the heart.
It is but as a body yet distemper’d; Which to his former strength may be restored With good advice and little medicine: My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool’d.
It’s like a sick body right now; But it can be healed back to strength With good advice and little medicine: My Lord Northumberland will soon calm down.
O God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea! and, other times, to see The beachy girdle of the ocean Too wide for Neptune’s hips; how chances mock, And changes fill the cup of alteration With divers liquors! O, if this were seen, The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book, and sit him down and die. ’Tis not ’ten years gone Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends, Did feast together, and in two years after Were they at wars: it is but eight years since This Percy was the man nearest my soul, Who like a brother toil’d in my affairs And laid his love and life under my foot, Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard Gave him defiance. But which of you was by-- You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember--
Oh God! If only one could read the book of fate, And see how the times change, Turning mountains flat, and continents, Tired of standing firm, melting into the sea! And at other times, to see The shore of the ocean Too wide for Neptune’s hips; how chances laugh at us, And changes fill the cup of life With all sorts of drinks! Oh, if this were seen, The happiest young man, looking at his life so far, And seeing the dangers he’s survived and the ones to come, Would close the book and sit down and die. It’s not even ten years ago Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends, Had a feast together, and two years later They were at war: it’s only eight years since This Percy was the man closest to my heart, Who like a brother worked with me, And laid down his love and life for me, Yes, even in front of Richard, He openly defied him. But who among you was there-- You, cousin Nevil, as I remember--
When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears, Then cheque’d and rated by Northumberland, Did speak these words, now proved a prophecy? ’Northumberland, thou ladder by the which My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne;’ Though then, God knows, I had no such intent, But that necessity so bow’d the state That I and greatness were compell’d to kiss: ’The time shall come,’ thus did he follow it, ’The time will come, that foul sin, gathering head, Shall break into corruption:’ so went on, Foretelling this same time’s condition And the division of our amity.
When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears, Then checked and criticized by Northumberland, Did speak these words, now proven to be a prophecy? ’Northumberland, you are the ladder by which My cousin Bolingbroke climbs to my throne;’ Though at that time, God knows, I had no such intention, But necessity bent the state so much That I and greatness were forced to meet: ’The time will come,’ he continued, ’The time will come, when great sin, gathering power, Will lead to corruption:’ and so he went on, Foretelling the condition of this time And the breaking of our friendship.
There is a history in all men’s lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased; The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured. Such things become the hatch and brood of time; And by the necessary form of this King Richard might create a perfect guess That great Northumberland, then false to him, Would of that seed grow to a greater falseness; Which should not find a ground to root upon, Unless on you.
There’s a history in every man’s life, Reflecting the nature of past times; Which, if observed, a man might predict, With a sharp eye, the main events to come That are not yet born, but are hidden in their beginnings And early stages. Such things grow into the events of time; And by the inevitable pattern of this, King Richard could have made a pretty good guess That great Northumberland, who was false to him, Would, from that seed, grow even more treacherous; Which couldn’t take root anywhere Except in you.
Are these things then necessities? Then let us meet them like necessities: And that same word even now cries out on us: They say the bishop and Northumberland Are fifty thousand strong.
Are these things then unavoidable? Then let us face them as we must: And that very word is now calling to us: They say the bishop and Northumberland Have fifty thousand men.
It cannot be, my lord; Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the fear’d. Please it your grace To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord, The powers that you already have sent forth Shall bring this prize in very easily. To comfort you the more, I have received A certain instance that Glendower is dead. Your majesty hath been this fortnight ill, And these unseason’d hours perforce must add Unto your sickness.
It can’t be, my lord; Rumor doubles things, like the voice and echo, Inflating the numbers of the feared. Please, your grace, Go to bed. By my soul, my lord, The forces you’ve already sent out Will easily win this fight. To comfort you even more, I’ve received Reliable word that Glendower is dead. Your majesty has been ill for this past two weeks, And these extra unproductive hours will only Make your sickness worse.
I will take your counsel: And were these inward wars once out of hand, We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land.
I will take your advice: And once these internal wars are settled, We, dear lords, will journey to the Holy Land.