Original
Modern English
Ah, whither shall I fly to ’scape their hands? Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes!
Ah, where should I run to escape their hands? Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes!
Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father, he shall die.
Chaplain, get out of here! Your priesthood won’t save you. As for the bastard of this cursed duke, Whose father killed mine, he will die.
And I, my lord, will bear him company.
And I, my lord, will go with him.
Soldiers, away with him!
Soldiers, take him away!
Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man!
Oh, Clifford, don’t murder this innocent child, Or you’ll be hated by both God and man!
How now! is he dead already? or is it fear That makes him close his eyes? I’ll open them.
What’s this? Is he dead already? Or is it just fear That makes him close his eyes? I’ll open them.
So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws; And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey, And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel threatening look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die. I am too mean a subject for thy wrath: Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.
This is how a trapped lion looks over his prey, The poor creature trembling under his claws; And this is how he walks, mocking his victim, And this is how he comes, ready to tear him apart. Ah, kind Clifford, kill me with your sword, And not with such a cruel, threatening look. Sweet Clifford, let me speak before I die. I am too insignificant for your anger: Get revenge on men, and let me live.
In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood Hath stopp’d the passage where thy words should enter.
You speak in vain, poor boy; my father’s blood Has stopped your words from reaching me.
Then let my father’s blood open it again: He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.
Then let my father’s blood open your ears again: He’s a man, and Clifford, deal with him.
Had thy brethren here, their lives and thine Were not revenge sufficient for me; No, if I digg’d up thy forefathers’ graves And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the house of York Is as a fury to torment my soul; And till I root out their accursed line And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore--
If your brothers were here, their lives and yours Wouldn’t be enough revenge for me; No, even if I dug up your ancestors’ graves And hung their rotting coffins on display, It wouldn’t satisfy my rage, nor ease my heart. The sight of any York family member Feels like a burning fury that torments my soul; And until I wipe out their cursed line And leave none alive, I’ll live in hell. So—
O, let me pray before I take my death! To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!
Oh, let me pray before I die! I pray to you; sweet Clifford, pity me!
Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.
The only pity I have is the sharp tip of my sword.
I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?
I’ve never wronged you: why do you want to kill me?
Thy father hath.
Your father did.
But ’twas ere I was born. Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, He be as miserably slain as I. Ah, let me live in prison all my days; And when I give occasion of offence, Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
But it was before I was born. You have one son; for his sake pity me, Lest, in revenge for this, since God is just, He be killed as horribly as I was. Ah, let me live in prison all my life; And when I give you a reason to be angry, Then let me die, for now you have no reason.
No cause! Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.
No reason! Your father killed my father; so now you must die.
Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!
May the gods give you a reward that matches your fame!
Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe off both.
Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! And this blood of your son, sticking to my blade, Will rust on my weapon, until your blood, Mixed with this, forces me to wipe them both off.