Original
Modern English
Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my body’s parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to thee; And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts. Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York, The common people swarm like summer flies; And whither fly the gnats but to the sun? And who shines now but Henry’s enemies? O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent That Phaethon should cheque thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth! And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should do, Or as thy father and his father did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies; I and ten thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death; And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight: The foe is merciless, and will not pity; For at their hands I have deserved no pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.
Here my life fades away; yes, here it ends, Which, while it lasted, gave King Henry hope. Oh Lancaster, I fear your downfall More than my body’s separation from my soul! My love and fear kept many loyal to you; And now I fall, your strong support crumbles. Weakening Henry, making proud York stronger, The common people swarm like summer flies; And where do the flies go but to the sun? And who shines now but Henry’s enemies? Oh Phoebus, if you had never allowed That Phaethon to drive your fiery horses, Your burning chariot would never have scorched the earth! And Henry, if you had ruled as kings should, Or as your father and grandfather did, Not giving any ground to the house of York, They would never have risen like summer flies; I and ten thousand others in this cursed land Would have left no widows mourning our deaths; And you, today, would have kept your throne in peace. For what nurtures weeds but gentle air? And what makes robbers bold but too much leniency? Complaints are useless, and my wounds have no cure; No way to escape, nor strength to run away: The enemy is ruthless, and will not pity; For I have earned no mercy from their hands. The air has entered my fatal wounds, And the blood loss makes me weak. Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; I killed your fathers, now I die in pain.
Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause, And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen, That led calm Henry, though he were a king, As doth a sail, fill’d with a fretting gust, Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
Now we can catch our breath, lords: good fortune tells us to stop, And ease the frowns of war with peaceful faces. Some troops chase after the bloody-minded queen, Who led calm Henry, though he was king, Like a sail, filled with a storm, commands a ship to cut through the waves. But do you think, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
No, ’tis impossible he should escape, For, though before his face I speak the words Your brother Richard mark’d him for the grave: And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead.
No, it’s impossible he could have escaped, For, even while I spoke, your brother Richard marked him for the grave: And wherever he is, he’s certainly dead.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?
Whose soul is that, leaving us in such pain?
A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.
A deadly groan, like life and death’s final moment.
See who it is: and, now the battle’s ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used.
Let’s see who it is: and now the battle’s over, Whether friend or foe, let him be treated kindly.
Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford; Who not contented that he lopp’d the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our princely father, Duke of York.
Take back that mercy, for it’s Clifford; Who, not content with cutting off Rutland’s branch When it was young, but struck the root too, From which that tender sprout had grown, I mean our noble father, Duke of York.
From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there; Instead whereof let this supply the room: Measure for measure must be answered.
Take down your father’s head from York’s gates, The one Clifford placed there; And in its place, let this one take its spot: Eye for an eye must be paid.
Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, That nothing sung but death to us and ours: Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
Bring forth that dreadful owl to our house, That always sang of death to us and ours: Now death will silence his mournful cry, And his evil tongue will speak no more.
I think his understanding is bereft. Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, And he nor sees nor hears us what we say.
I think he’s lost his mind. Speak, Clifford, do you know who’s talking to you? Dark, cloudy death hides his life’s light, And he neither sees nor hears us now.
O, would he did! and so perhaps he doth: ’Tis but his policy to counterfeit, Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father.
Oh, I wish he did! And maybe he does: It’s just his strategy to pretend, So he can avoid the harsh words He spoke to our father in his death.
If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words.
If you think that, then torment him with sharp words.
Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no grace.
Clifford, beg for mercy and get no kindness.
Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.
Clifford, regret your actions, but it’s pointless.
Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.
Clifford, come up with excuses for your mistakes.
While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.
While we come up with brutal punishments for your mistakes.
Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.
You loved York, and I am York’s son.
Thou pitied’st Rutland; I will pity thee.
You felt sorry for Rutland; I’ll feel sorry for you.
Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence you now?
Where’s Captain Margaret, to protect you now?
They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou wast wont.
They mock you, Clifford: swear as you used to.
What, not an oath? nay, then the world goes hard When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul, If this right hand would buy two hour’s life, That I in all despite might rail at him, This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy.
What, no oath? Well, that’s tough luck When Clifford can’t even spare his friends an oath. I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul, If this right hand could buy two hours of life, So I could insult him, this hand would cut it off, and with the spilling blood End the villain whose unquenched thirst York and young Rutland couldn’t satisfy.
Ay, but he’s dead: off with the traitor’s head, And rear it in the place your father’s stands. And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England’s royal king: From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen: So shalt thou sinew both these lands together; And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread The scatter’d foe that hopes to rise again; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears. First will I see the coronation; And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea, To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.
Yes, but he’s dead: off with the traitor’s head, And raise it where your father’s head was. And now to London with a triumphant march, There to be crowned England’s royal king: From there, Warwick will sail to France, And ask Lady Bona to be your queen: So shall you unite these two lands; And with France as your ally, you won’t fear The scattered enemy that hopes to rise again; For though they can’t cause much harm, They’ll still annoy you with their buzzing. First, I’ll see the coronation; Then I’ll cross to Brittany, To arrange this marriage, if it pleases my lord.
Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be; For in thy shoulder do I build my seat, And never will I undertake the thing Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester, And George, of Clarence: Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.
As you wish, sweet Warwick, let it be; For I place my trust in you, And I will never do anything Unless I have your advice and approval. Richard, I’ll make you Duke of Gloucester, And George, Duke of Clarence: Warwick, like me, Shall do whatever he pleases.
Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester; For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.
Let me be Duke of Clarence, and George Duke of Gloucester; Because Gloucester’s title is too unlucky.
Tut, that’s a foolish observation: Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, To see these honours in possession.
Nonsense, that’s a silly thought: Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, To take these honors for ourselves.