Original
Modern English
So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our fear; For Warwick was a bug that fear’d us all. Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee, That Warwick’s bones may keep thine company.
There, lie down: die, and die with our fear; Because Warwick was the one who scared us all. Now, Montague, stay strong; I’m looking for you, So that Warwick’s bones can keep yours company.
Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick? Why ask I that? my mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows. That I must yield my body to the earth And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, Whose top-branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind. These eyes, that now are dimm’d with death’s black veil, Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun, To search the secret treasons of the world: The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood, Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres; For who lived king, but I could dig his grave? And who durst mine when Warwick bent his brow? Lo, now my glory smear’d in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had. Even now forsake me, and of all my lands Is nothing left me but my body’s length. Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
Ah, who is near? Come to me, friend or enemy, And tell me, who has won, York or Warwick? Why do I ask that? My torn body shows, My blood, my weakness, my broken heart shows. That I must give my body to the earth And, by my fall, the victory to my enemy. This is how the cedar falls to the axe’s blow, Whose branches once sheltered the noble eagle, Under whose shade the fierce lion rested, Whose top branches towered above Jove’s wide tree And protected smaller shrubs from winter’s strong winds. These eyes, now dimmed by death’s dark veil, Were once as sharp as the midday sun, To uncover the hidden betrayals of the world: The wrinkles on my brows, now filled with blood, Were often compared to royal tombs; For who was king, but I could dig his grave? And who dared mine, when Warwick frowned? Look now, my glory is smeared in dust and blood! My parks, my paths, my estates that I had, Even now abandon me, and of all my lands Nothing remains but the length of my body. Why, what is grandeur, power, rule, but earth and dust? And, no matter how we live, we must all die.
Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we are. We might recover all our loss again; The queen from France hath brought a puissant power: Even now we heard the news: ah, could’st thou fly!
Ah, Warwick, Warwick! If only you were here like us. We could recover all our losses again; The queen from France has brought a mighty army: We just heard the news: oh, if only you could fly!
Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague, If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand. And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile! Thou lovest me not; for, brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood That glues my lips and will not let me speak. Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.
Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague, If you are there, sweet brother, take my hand. And with your lips, keep my soul here for a while! You don’t love me; for, brother, if you did, Your tears would wash away this cold, hardened blood That seals my lips and won’t let me speak. Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.
Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breathed his last; And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick, And said ’Commend me to my valiant brother.’ And more he would have said, and more he spoke, Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, That mought not be distinguished; but at last I well might hear, delivered with a groan, ’O, farewell, Warwick!’
Ah, Warwick! Montague has breathed his last; And in his final breath, he cried out for Warwick, And said, "Tell my brave brother I’m thinking of him." And he would have said more, and did say more, But it sounded like noise in a tomb, That couldn’t be understood; but at last I clearly heard, spoken with a groan, "Oh, goodbye, Warwick!"
Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves; For Warwick bids you all farewell to meet in heaven.
Sweet rest to his soul! Run, lords, and save yourselves; For Warwick says goodbye to you all, to meet in heaven.
Away, away, to meet the queen’s great power!
Go, go, to meet the queen’s great army!