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Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls: And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air, Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me: Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.
Clifford of Cumberland, it’s Warwick calling: And if you don’t hide from the bear, Now, when the angry trumpet sounds the alarm And the cries of dead men fill the empty air, Clifford, I say, come out and fight me: Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, Warwick is losing his voice calling you to fight.
How now, my noble lord? what, all afoot?
How’s it going, my noble lord? What’s all this commotion?
The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed, But match to match I have encounter’d him And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Even of the bonny beast he loved so well.
The murderous Clifford killed my horse, But I’ve met him on equal terms And made a feast for scavengers and crows Of the beautiful beast he loved so much.
Of one or both of us the time is come.
The time has come for one of us to fall.
Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase, For I myself must hunt this deer to death.
Hold on, Warwick, find another target, For I must hunt this deer to the death.
Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st. As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day, It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail’d.
Then fight nobly, York; you’re fighting for a crown. As I intend to succeed today, Clifford, It pains me to leave you without a fight.
What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause?
What do you see in me, York? Why are you hesitating?
With thy brave bearing should I be in love, But that thou art so fast mine enemy.
With your brave attitude, I would be in love, But you’re so firmly my enemy.
Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem, But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason.
Your skill deserves praise and respect, But it’s shown dishonorably and in betrayal.
So let it help me now against thy sword As I in justice and true right express it.
Let it help me now against your sword, As I fight for justice and true righteousness.
My soul and body on the action both!
I put my soul and body on the line in this fight!
A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.
A terrible challenge! Get ready at once.
La fin couronne les oeuvres.
The end crowns the work.
Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still. Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!
War has given you peace, for you are still. Peace to your soul, heaven, if it is your will!
Shame and confusion! all is on the rout; Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minister Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly. He that is truly dedicate to war Hath no self-love, nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially but by circumstance The name of valour.
Shame and confusion! Everything is in chaos; Fear causes disorder, and disorder harms Where it should protect. Oh, war, you son of hell, Whom angry heavens make their servant, Throw in the cold hearts of our side Hot coals of revenge! Let no soldier run. He who is truly dedicated to war Has no self-love, and he who loves himself Only has the name of valor by chance.
O, let the vile world end, And the premised flames of the last day Knit earth and heaven together! Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, Particularities and petty sounds To cease! Wast thou ordain’d, dear father, To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve The silver livery of advised age, And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight My heart is turn’d to stone: and while ’tis mine, It shall be stony. York not our old men spares; No more will I their babes: tears virginal Shall be to me even as the dew to fire, And beauty that the tyrant oft reclaims Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. Henceforth I will not have to do with pity: Meet I an infant of the house of York, Into as many gobbets will I cut it As wild Medea young Absyrtus did: In cruelty will I seek out my fame. Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house: As did AEneas old Anchises bear, So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders; But then AEneas bare a living load, Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.
Oh, let the cursed world end, And let the promised flames of the last day Bind earth and heaven together! Now let the trumpet sound its call, Ending all personal struggles and petty noise! Were you meant, dear father, To spend your youth in peace, and wear The silver robes of wise old age, Only to die in violent battle like this? Even as I see this, my heart turns to stone; And while it’s mine, it will stay stone. York spares not the old; Nor will I spare their children: pure tears Will be to me like dew to fire, And the beauty that tyrants often steal Will fuel my fury like oil on a flame. From now on, I will not care for pity: If I meet a child from the house of York, I will cut it into pieces As Medea did young Absyrtus: In cruelty, I will make a name for myself. Come, you new ruin of old Clifford’s house: As Aeneas carried old Anchises, So will I carry you on my strong shoulders; But Aeneas carried a living burden, Nothing so heavy as my own sorrows.
So, lie thou there; For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign, The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset Hath made the wizard famous in his death. Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still: Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.
So, lie there; Because under a cheap alehouse sign, The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset Made the wizard famous even after he died. Sword, stay calm; heart, stay angry: Priests pray for enemies, but kings kill.
Away, my lord! you are slow; for shame, away!
Come on, my lord! you’re too slow; for shame, hurry up!
Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret, stay.
Can we outrun fate? good Margaret, wait.
What are you made of? you’ll nor fight nor fly: Now is it manhood, wisdom and defence, To give the enemy way, and to secure us By what we can, which can no more but fly.
What are you made of? You won’t fight or run: Now is the time for courage, wisdom, and defense, To give way to the enemy and save ourselves By whatever means we can, which may only be to flee.
If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom Of all our fortunes: but if we haply scape, As well we may, if not through your neglect, We shall to London get, where you are loved And where this breach now in our fortunes made May readily be stopp’d.
If you’re captured, we’ll see the end Of all our hopes: but if we somehow escape, As we may, unless it’s through your carelessness, We’ll reach London, where you are loved And where this disaster in our fortunes Can easily be stopped.
But that my heart’s on future mischief set, I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly: But fly you must; uncurable discomfit Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts. Away, for your relief! and we will live To see their day and them our fortune give: Away, my lord, away!
If my heart weren’t set on future harm, I’d curse you before I told you to run: But you must run; an overwhelming defeat Rules in the hearts of all of us here. Hurry, for your safety! And we’ll live To see their day, and they’ll give us our fortune: Hurry, my lord, hurry!