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Modern English
Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard?
Good day, my lord. What, are you reading so intently?
Ay, my good lord:--my lord, I should say rather; ’Tis sin to flatter; ’good’ was little better: ’Good Gloucester’ and ’good devil’ were alike, And both preposterous; therefore, not ’good lord.’
Yes, my good lord:--I should say ‘my lord’ rather; It’s wrong to flatter; ‘good’ was barely better: ‘Good Gloucester’ and ‘good devil’ are the same, And both ridiculous; so, not ‘good lord.’
Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must confer.
Sir, leave us alone: we need to talk privately.
So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?
Like the reckless shepherd running from the wolf; First the harmless sheep gives up its wool, And then its throat to the butcher’s knife. What kind of death scene does Roscius have to play now?
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer.
Suspicion always follows the guilty mind; The thief fears every bush, thinking it’s a policeman.
The bird that hath been limed in a bush, With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye Where my poor young was limed, was caught and kill’d.
The bird that has been trapped in a bush, With trembling wings, fears every bush; And I, the unlucky male to one sweet bird, Now see the deadly thing before me Where my poor young one was caught, trapped, and killed.
Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete, That taught his son the office of a fowl! An yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown’d.
Why, what a silly fool was that guy from Crete, Who taught his son to do the job of a bird! And yet, even with all his wings, the fool drowned.
I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus; Thy father, Minos, that denied our course; The sun that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost thou come? is’t for my life?
I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus; Your father, Minos, who stopped us from going our way; The sun that burned my sweet boy’s wings Your brother Edward, and you, the sea Whose jealous waves swallowed up his life. Ah, kill me with your weapon, not with words! My chest can handle the point of your dagger Better than my ears can bear this tragic story. But why are you here? Is it to take my life?
Think’st thou I am an executioner?
Do you think I am an executioner?
A persecutor, I am sure, thou art: If murdering innocents be executing, Why, then thou art an executioner.
A persecutor, I’m sure you are: If killing innocent people counts as execution, Then you are an executioner.
Thy son I kill’d for his presumption.
I killed your son for his arrogance.
Hadst thou been kill’d when first thou didst presume, Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine. And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand, Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many an old man’s sigh and many a widow’s, And many an orphan’s water-standing eye-- Men for their sons, wives for their husbands, And orphans for their parents timeless death-- Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl shriek’d at thy birth,--an evil sign; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down trees; The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top, And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain, And, yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope, To wit, an indigested and deformed lump, Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou camest to bite the world: And, if the rest be true which I have heard, Thou camest--
If you had been killed when you first showed your arrogance, You wouldn’t have lived to kill my son. And here’s my prophecy: many thousands, Who now don’t suspect a thing, will soon regret it, And many old men’s sighs, many widows’ tears, And many orphans’ eyes filled with sorrow— Men mourning their sons, wives for their husbands, And orphans for their parents’ untimely death— Will curse the day you were born. The owl screeched at your birth—a bad omen; The night crow cried, predicting a time of misfortune; Dogs howled, and terrible storms shook the trees; The raven perched on the chimney top, And the chattering magpies sang in discord. Your mother felt more pain than any mother should, And yet gave birth to less than she hoped for, A misformed and twisted thing, Nothing like the fruit of such a noble tree. You had teeth in your mouth when you were born, To show you came to bite the world: And if the rest of what I’ve heard is true, You came—
I’ll hear no more: die, prophet in thy speech:
I don’t want to hear any more: die, prophet of doom:
For this amongst the rest, was I ordain’d.
For this, among other things, was why I was chosen.
Ay, and for much more slaughter after this. God forgive my sins, and pardon thee!
Yes, and for much more killing after this. God forgive my sins, and pardon you!
What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor king’s death! O, may such purple tears be alway shed From those that wish the downfall of our house! If any spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither:
What, will the proud blood of Lancaster Sink into the earth? I thought it would rise. Look at how my sword cries for the poor king’s death! Oh, may such red tears always be shed By those who wish our house to fall! If any spark of life is left in him, Down, down to hell; and tell them I sent you there:
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Indeed, ’tis true that Henry told me of; For I have often heard my mother say I came into the world with my legs forward: Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right? The midwife wonder’d and the women cried ’O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!’ And so I was; which plainly signified That I should snarl and bite and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it. I have no brother, I am like no brother; And this word ’love,’ which graybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another And not in me: I am myself alone. Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light: But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; For I will buz abroad such prophecies That Edward shall be fearful of his life, And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death. King Henry and the prince his son are gone: Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, Counting myself but bad till I be best. I’ll throw thy body in another room And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.
I, who have no pity, love, or fear. It’s true, as Henry told me; I’ve often heard my mother say I was born with my legs forward: Didn’t I have a reason, do you think, to hurry, And bring down those who took our rightful place? The midwife was shocked, and the women cried, ’Oh, Jesus bless us, he’s born with teeth!’ And so I was; which clearly meant That I would snarl, bite, and act like a dog. Then, since the heavens have shaped my body this way, Let hell twist my mind to match it. I have no brother, I’m not like any brother; And this word ’love,’ which old men call divine, Should stay with people like one another, But not with me: I stand alone. Clarence, be careful; you block me from the light: But I’ll bring a dark day to you; I’ll spread such prophecies That Edward will be afraid for his life, And then, to clear his fear, I’ll be your death. King Henry and his son are gone: Clarence, your turn is next, and then the rest, I count myself as bad until I am the best. I’ll throw your body in another room And rejoice, Henry, in your day of doom.