Original
Modern English
How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge?
Hello, Captain Fluellen! Did you come from the bridge?
I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the bridge.
I assure you, there’s very good work happening at the bridge.
Is the Duke of Exeter safe?
Is the Duke of Exeter safe?
The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my living, and my uttermost power: he is not-God be praised and blessed!--any hurt in the world; but keeps the bridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an aunchient lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no estimation in the world; but did see him do as gallant service.
The Duke of Exeter is as noble as Agamemnon; and a man I love and honor with all my soul, heart, duty, life, living, and my utmost strength: he’s not—God be praised—hurt in any way; he keeps the bridge very bravely, with excellent discipline. There’s an ancient lieutenant at the bridge, I’m sure in my heart he’s as brave as Mark Antony; though he’s a man with little status in the world, I saw him do some truly gallant things.
What do you call him?
What’s his name?
He is called Aunchient Pistol.
He’s called Ancient Pistol.
I know him not.
I don’t know him.
Here is the man.
Here he is.
Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours: The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.
Captain, I beg you to do me a favor: The Duke of Exeter loves you dearly.
Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands.
Yes, I thank God; and I have earned some of his affection.
Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart, And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate, And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, That goddess blind, That stands upon the rolling restless stone--
Bardolph, a soldier, loyal and strong of heart, And full of brave spirit, has, by cruel fate, And the dizzying, unpredictable wheel of Fortune, That blind goddess, Who stands on the ever-turning stone—
By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and inconstant, and mutability, and variation: and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls: in good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description of it: Fortune is an excellent moral.
With all due respect, Ancient Pistol, Fortune is often depicted as blind, with a cloth over her eyes, to show that she is blind; and she’s also shown with a wheel, to represent, as the lesson goes, that she’s always changing, and Unsteady, always changing, and full of surprises: and her foot, look, is set on a round stone, which rolls, and rolls, and keeps rolling: honestly, the poet gives a great description of it: Fortune is a great lesson.
Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him; For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a’ be: A damned death! Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate: But Exeter hath given the doom of death For pax of little price. Therefore, go speak: the duke will hear thy voice: And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut With edge of penny cord and vile reproach: Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.
Fortune is Bardolph’s enemy, and looks down on him; Because he stole a religious charm, and must be hanged: A terrible death! Let the gallows be ready for a dog; let a man be set free And not let a rope choke him: But Exeter has given the death sentence For a worthless charm. So go speak: the duke will listen to you: And don’t let Bardolph’s life be taken With a cheap rope and cruel disgrace: Speak, captain, for his life, and I will repay you.
Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning.
Old Pistol, I sort of understand what you’re saying.
Why then, rejoice therefore.
Then, be happy about it.
Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to rejoice at: for if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the duke to use his good pleasure, and put him to execution; for discipline ought to be used.
Actually, old man, it’s not something to be happy about: because, if he were my brother, I would ask the duke to do what he thinks is right, and have him executed; because discipline should be followed.
Die and be damn’d! and figo for thy friendship!
Let him die and be cursed! and to hell with your friendship!
It is well.
Fine.
The fig of Spain!
Damn Spain!
Very good.
Very well.
Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal; I remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse.
This guy is a complete fake; I remember him now; a pimp, a thief.
I’ll assure you, a’ uttered as brave words at the bridge as you shall see in a summer’s day. But it is very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve.
I’ll tell you, he spoke just as proudly at the bridge as anyone could on a nice summer’s day. But it doesn’t matter; what he said to me, that’s fine, I swear, when the time comes.
Why, ’tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return into London under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in the great commanders’ names: and they will learn you by rote where services were done; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on; and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with new-tuned oaths: and what a beard of the general’s cut and a horrid suit of the camp will do among foaming bottles and ale-washed wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you may be marvellously mistook.
He’s a fool, a clown, a scoundrel, who sometimes goes to war, just to make himself look good when he returns to London pretending to be a soldier. And guys like him know all the names of great leaders: and they’ll memorize where battles were fought; at this fort, at that breach, at this convoy; who fought bravely, who got shot, who was disgraced, what the enemy’s position was; and they’ll recite all of it perfectly in the language of war, which they spice up with new oaths: and what a soldier’s beard and a scary camp uniform will do among drunken men and foolish talk, is really surprising. But you must learn to recognize these types of lies from this era, or you could be seriously fooled.
I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the world he is: if I find a hole in his coat, I will tell him my mind.
I’ll tell you something, Captain Gower; I can tell he’s not the man he tries to pretend to be for the world: if I find a flaw in his coat, I’ll speak my mind to him.
Hark you, the king is coming, and I must speak with him from the pridge.
Listen, the king is coming, and I need to speak to him from the bridge.
God pless your majesty!
God bless your majesty!
How now, Fluellen! camest thou from the bridge?
What’s going on, Fluellen! Did you come from the bridge?
Ay, so please your majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintained the pridge: the French is gone off, look you; and there is gallant and most prave passages; marry, th’ athversary was have possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is master of the pridge: I can tell your majesty, the duke is a prave man.
Yes, if it pleases your majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very bravely defended the bridge: the French have pulled back, see; and there were brave and most glorious actions; but the enemy was about to take the bridge; but they were forced to retreat, and the Duke of Exeter is now in charge of the bridge: I can tell you, your majesty, the duke is a fine man.
What men have you lost, Fluellen?
How many men have you lost, Fluellen?
The perdition of th’ athversary hath been very great, reasonable great: marry, for my part, I think the duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your majesty know the man: his face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames o’ fire: and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red; but his nose is executed and his fire’s out.
The loss of the enemy has been very large, quite large: but as for me, I think the duke has lost only one man, and he’s likely to be executed for robbing a church, a man named Bardolph, if your majesty knows him: his face is all pimples, and boils, and lumps, and fiery patches: and his lips puff out like his nose, and it looks like a burning coal, sometimes blue and sometimes red; but his nose is finished and his fire’s out.
We would have all such offenders so cut off: and we give express charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing compelled from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner.
We’d have all such criminals punished this way: and we give strict orders that on our marches through the country, nothing should be taken from the villages, nothing should be taken unless it’s paid for, and none of the French should be insulted or treated with disrespectful language; because when mercy and cruelty fight for a kingdom, the kinder player wins sooner.
You know me by my habit.
You recognize me by my uniform.
Well then I know thee: what shall I know of thee?
Well, I recognize you: what do you have to tell me?
My master’s mind.
My master’s message.
Unfold it.
Unfold it.
Thus says my king: Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seemed dead, we did but sleep: advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we could have rebuked him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full ripe: now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial: England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in weight to re-answer, his pettiness would bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance: and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced. So far my king and master; so much my office.
This is what my king says: Tell Harry of England: Even though we seemed to be defeated, we were just resting: advantage is a better soldier than recklessness. Tell him we could have attacked him at Harfleur, but we thought it better not to escalate an injury before it had fully ripened: now we are responding when it’s our turn, and our voice is authoritative: England will regret his foolishness, see his weakness, and admire how much we’ve endured. Tell him to think about his ransom; which must reflect the losses we’ve suffered, the people we have lost, the dishonor we’ve absorbed; which, if he were to respond, would be too much for his smallness to handle. For our losses, his treasury is too poor; for the shedding of our blood, the size of his army is too weak a force; and for our dishonor, him kneeling at our feet, is a weak and worthless apology. Add to this his defiance: and tell him, in conclusion, that he has betrayed his followers, who are now condemned. That’s all from my king and master; that’s my duty.
What is thy name? I know thy quality.
What is your name? I know your rank.
Montjoy.
Montjoy.
Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back. And tell thy king I do not seek him now; But could be willing to march on to Calais Without impeachment: for, to say the sooth, Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much Unto an enemy of craft and vantage, My people are with sickness much enfeebled, My numbers lessened, and those few I have Almost no better than so many French; Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, I thought upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God, That I do brag thus! This your air of France Hath blown that vice in me: I must repent. Go therefore, tell thy master here I am; My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, My army but a weak and sickly guard; Yet, God before, tell him we will come on, Though France himself and such another neighbour Stand in our way. There’s for thy labour, Montjoy. Go bid thy master well advise himself: If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d, We shall your tawny ground with your red blood Discolour: and so Montjoy, fare you well. The sum of all our answer is but this: We would not seek a battle, as we are; Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it: So tell your master.
You’ve done your job well. Go back. And tell your king that I’m not seeking him right now; But I could be willing to march on to Calais without interference: because, to be honest, Even though it’s not wise to admit this to an enemy who’s crafty and has an advantage, My army is seriously weakened by sickness, My numbers are smaller, and those few I have are almost no better than so many French; Who, when they were healthy, I’ll tell you, herald, I thought one pair of English legs could outmarch three Frenchmen. But forgive me, God, for boasting like this! This air of France has made me arrogant: I must repent. So go, and tell your master I’m here; My ransom is this fragile and worthless body, My army is just a sickly and weak guard; But, with God’s help, tell him we will keep going, even if France and such other neighbors try to stop us. Here’s something for your trouble, Montjoy. Go tell your master to think carefully: If we can pass, we will; if we are stopped, we will stain your land with your red blood So farewell, Montjoy. The bottom line of all our response is this: We don’t want a battle, as things stand; Nor, as things stand, we say we won’t avoid it: So tell your master.
I shall deliver so. Thanks to your highness.
I’ll deliver that message. Thank you, your highness.
I hope they will not come upon us now.
I hope they don’t attack us now.
We are in God’s hand, brother, not in theirs. March to the bridge; it now draws toward night: Beyond the river we’ll encamp ourselves, And on to-morrow, bid them march away.
We are in God’s hands, brother, not theirs. March to the bridge; it’s getting dark: We’ll camp on the other side of the river, And tomorrow, tell them to march away.