Original
Modern English
Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
Statilius show’d the torch-light, but, my lord, He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain.
Statilius showed the torchlight, but, my lord, He didn’t come back: he’s either been captured or killed.
Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word; It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.
Sit down, Clitus: "slaying" is the word; It’s a fashionable thing to do. Listen, Clitus.
What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.
What, me, my lord? No, not for all the world.
Peace then! no words.
Fine then! No more words.
I’ll rather kill myself.
I’d rather kill myself.
Hark thee, Dardanius.
Listen, Dardanius.
Shall I do such a deed?
Should I do such a thing?
O Dardanius!
Oh, Dardanius!
O Clitus!
Oh Clitus!
What ill request did Brutus make to thee?
What bad thing did Brutus ask you to do?
To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.
To kill him, Clitus. Look, he’s thinking about it.
Now is that noble vessel full of grief, That it runs over even at his eyes.
Now this noble man is so full of sorrow, That it’s overflowing from his eyes.
Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word.
Come here, good Volumnius; listen to me.
What says my lord?
What is it, my lord?
Why, this, Volumnius: The ghost of Caesar hath appear’d to me Two several times by night; at Sardis once, And, this last night, here in Philippi fields: I know my hour is come.
Well, this, Volumnius: The ghost of Caesar has appeared to me Twice, in the night; once at Sardis, And last night here in Philippi fields: I know my time has come.
Not so, my lord.
No, my lord, that’s not true.
Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes; Our enemies have beat us to the pit:
Yes, I’m sure of it, Volumnius. You can see how the world is, Volumnius; Our enemies have beaten us to the edge:
It is more worthy to leap in ourselves, Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, Thou know’st that we two went to school together: Even for that our love of old, I prithee, Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it.
It’s better to jump in ourselves, Than wait until they push us. Good Volumnius, You know that we went to school together: Because of that old friendship, I ask you, Hold my sword-hilts while I run myself through.
That’s not an office for a friend, my lord.
That’s not a job for a friend, my lord.
Fly, fly, my lord; there is no tarrying here.
Run, run, my lord; we can’t stay here.
Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen, My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile conquest shall attain unto. So fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongue Hath almost ended his life’s history: Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have but labour’d to attain this hour.
Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, you’ve been asleep this whole time; Farewell to you too, Strato. Fellow countrymen, My heart is glad that in all my life I’ve never met a man who wasn’t loyal to me. I’ll find more glory in this day of loss Than Octavius and Mark Antony Will find in their vile victory. So farewell to you all; for Brutus’ words Are nearly done with his life’s story: Night is falling on my eyes; my body is tired, After all the struggle to reach this hour.
Fly, my lord, fly.
Run, my lord, run.
Hence! I will follow.
Go away! I will follow.
I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord: Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it: Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?
I beg you, Strato, stay with your lord: You are a man of good standing; Your life has had some honor in it: So hold my sword, and turn your face away, While I fall on it. Will you, Strato?
Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord.
First, take my hand. Farewell, my lord.
Farewell, good Strato.
Goodbye, good Strato.
Caesar, now be still: I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.
Caesar, rest now: I didn’t kill you with half as much desire.
What man is that?
Who is that man?
My master’s man. Strato, where is thy master?
My master’s servant. Strato, where is your master?
Free from the bondage you are in, Messala: The conquerors can but make a fire of him; For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honour by his death.
He’s free from the bondage you’re in, Messala: The conquerors can only burn him; For Brutus only defeated himself, And no one else gains honor from his death.
So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus, That thou hast proved Lucilius’ saying true.
That’s how Brutus should be found. Thank you, Brutus, For proving Lucilius’ words to be true.
All that served Brutus, I will entertain them. Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?
Anyone who served Brutus, I will take them in. Man, will you spend your time with me?
Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you.
Yes, if Messala will recommend me to you.
Do so, good Messala.
Go ahead, good Messala.
How died my master, Strato?
How did my master die, Strato?
I held the sword, and he did run on it.
I held the sword, and he ran onto it.
Octavius, then take him to follow thee, That did the latest service to my master.
Octavius, take him to follow you, He who did the final service for my master.
This was the noblest Roman of them all: All the conspirators save only he Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world ’This was a man!’
This was the noblest Roman of them all: All the conspirators except for him Did what they did out of jealousy of great Caesar; He alone, with pure and honest thoughts And for the common good, joined them. His life was kind, and the elements Were so perfectly balanced in him that Nature herself Could rise up and say to the world, ’This was a man!’
According to his virtue let us use him, With all respect and rites of burial. Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie, Most like a soldier, order’d honourably. So call the field to rest; and let’s away, To part the glories of this happy day.
Let us treat him according to his virtue, With all respect and proper burial rites. Tonight, his bones will rest in my tent, Just like a soldier, honored in the proper way. So call the army to rest, and let’s go, To share in the glory of this victorious day.