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Modern English
Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home: Is this a holiday? what! know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a labouring day without the sign Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?
Get out of here! Go home, you lazy people: Is today a holiday? What! Don’t you know, That, as common workers, you shouldn’t be out On a workday without showing you’re doing your job? Tell me, what job do you do?
Why, sir, a carpenter.
Well, sir, I’m a carpenter.
Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir, what trade are you?
Where’s your leather apron and your ruler? Why are you wearing your best clothes? You there, what job do you have?
Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.
Honestly, sir, compared to a skilled worker, I’m just, as you might call it, a cobbler.
But what trade art thou? answer me directly.
But what is your actual job? Answer me directly.
A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.
It’s a job, sir, that I hope I can do with a clear conscience; I’m, in fact, a mender of bad soles.
What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?
What job, you scoundrel? You naughty scoundrel, what job?
Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
No, please, sir, don’t be angry with me: but, if you are angry, sir, I can fix you.
What meanest thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow!
What do you mean by that? Fix me, you cheeky fellow!
Why, sir, cobble you.
Well, sir, I mean I can cobble you.
Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
You’re a cobbler, aren’t you?
Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork.
Yes, sir, all I do for a living is use an awl: I don’t get involved in other people’s jobs, or in women’s business, just with my awl. I’m, in fact, sir, a surgeon for old shoes; when they’re really worn out, I fix them. The finest men who ever walked on leather shoes have stepped on work I’ve done.
But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
But why aren’t you at your shop today? Why are you leading these men around the streets?
Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.
Honestly, sir, I’m just wearing out their shoes, trying to get more work. But really, sir, we’re celebrating, to see Caesar and enjoy his victory parade.
Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome: And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks, To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude.
Why celebrate? What victory has he won? What conquered people are following him to Rome, to honor him by dragging them in chains behind his chariot? You blocks, you stones, you are worse than mindless objects! Oh, you cold-hearted, cruel people of Rome, Don’t you remember Pompey? How many times have you climbed up walls and battlements, To towers and windows, even to the tops of chimneys, Holding your babies in your arms, and sat there All day long, waiting patiently, To watch great Pompey walk through the streets of Rome: And when you saw his chariot appear, Didn’t you all shout so loudly That the Tiber River shook beneath its banks, Hearing your voices echoing back from her shores? And now you dress up in your finest clothes? Now you’re choosing a holiday? Now you’re throwing flowers in his path, The man who triumphs over Pompey’s blood? Go home! Go to your houses, fall on your knees, Pray to the gods to stop the curse That is sure to come because of your ingratitude.
Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort; Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
Go, go, good people, and for this mistake, Gather all the poor from your class; Bring them to the Tiber River, and weep your tears Into the river, until the lowest water Kisses the highest shores.
See whether their basest metal be not moved; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol;
Watch if their baseness isn’t stirred; They disappear without a word, guilty as charged. You go down that way toward the Capitol;
disrobe the images, If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.
take down the statues, If you find them decorated with Caesar’s honors.
May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
Can we do that? You know it’s the feast of Lupercal.
It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about, And drive away the vulgar from the streets: So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
It doesn’t matter; let no statues Be decorated with Caesar’s triumphs. I’ll go ahead, And drive the common people off the streets: You do the same, where you see them thick. Pull these growing feathers from Caesar’s wing, And he’ll be flying at a lower level, When he would otherwise soar above our heads And keep us all in fear and servitude.