Original
Modern English
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood, A whole armado of convicted sail Is scatter’d and disjoin’d from fellowship.
So, like a wild storm on the sea, A whole fleet of doomed ships Is scattered and broken apart.
Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.
Be brave and stay hopeful! Everything will turn out fine.
What can go well, when we have run so ill? Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost? Arthur ta’en prisoner? divers dear friends slain? And bloody England into England gone, O’erbearing interruption, spite of France?
What can go well, when we’ve done so badly? Have we not been defeated? Is not Angiers lost? Isn’t Arthur captured? Haven’t many good friends been killed? And bloody England has come into France, Overcoming us, in spite of all we’ve done?
What he hath won, that hath he fortified: So hot a speed with such advice disposed, Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, Doth want example: who hath read or heard Of any kindred action like to this?
What he has won, he has defended: Such a fast pace with such good strategy, Such careful organization in such a fierce fight, Has never been seen before: who has read or heard Of any similar action like this?
Well could I bear that England had this praise, So we could find some pattern of our shame.
I could accept that England deserves this praise, If we could find some example of our own shame.
Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul; Holding the eternal spirit against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath. I prithee, lady, go away with me.
Look, here comes someone! A living person who is like a tomb; Holding onto her soul against her will, In the miserable prison of her suffering breath. Please, lady, come away with me.
Lo, now I now see the issue of your peace.
Now I see the result of your peace.
Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!
Be patient, good lady! Stay calm, gentle Constance!
No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress, Death, death; O amiable lovely death! Thou odouriferous stench! sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I will kiss thy detestable bones And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows And ring these fingers with thy household worms And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust And be a carrion monster like thyself: Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest And buss thee as thy wife. Misery’s love, O, come to me!
No, I reject all advice, all solutions, Except that which ends all advice, true solutions, Death, death; O lovable, beautiful death! You foul-smelling stench! rotten decay! Arise from the bed of endless night, You hate and fear to prosperity, And I will kiss your horrible bones And place my eyeballs in your hollow brows And cover these fingers with your household worms And stop this breath with filthy dust And become a rotten monster like you: Come, grin at me, and I’ll think you’re smiling And kiss you like I’m your wife. Misery’s love, O, come to me!
O fair affliction, peace!
O sweet suffering, peace!
No, no, I will not, having breath to cry: O, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world; And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation.
No, no, I will not, as long as I can still cry: O, if only my tongue were in the mouth of thunder! Then with such passion, I would shake the world; And wake up from sleep that cruel body Which can’t hear a woman’s weak voice, Which mocks modern pleas.
Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Lady, you’re speaking madness, not sorrow.
Thou art not holy to belie me so; I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance; I was Geffrey’s wife; Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost: I am not mad: I would to heaven I were! For then, ’tis like I should forget myself: O, if I could, what grief should I forget! Preach some philosophy to make me mad, And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal; For being not mad but sensible of grief, My reasonable part produces reason How I may be deliver’d of these woes, And teaches me to kill or hang myself: If I were mad, I should forget my son, Or madly think a babe of clouts were he: I am not mad; too well, too well I feel The different plague of each calamity.
You are not holy enough to lie about me like that; I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance; I was Geoffrey’s wife; Young Arthur is my son, and he’s gone: I am not mad: I wish to God I were! For then, maybe, I’d forget myself: Oh, if I could, what grief would I forget! Teach me some philosophy to make me mad, And you’ll be canonized, cardinal; Because not being mad, but feeling sorrow, My sane mind gives me reason On how I may be freed from this pain, And teaches me to kill or hang myself: If I were mad, I’d forget my son, Or madly think a ragged baby was him: I am not mad; too well, too well I feel The different suffering of each disaster.
Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs! Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends Do glue themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity.
Tie up those locks. Oh, what love I see In the many strands of her hair! Where, by chance, a silver tear has fallen, Even to that drop, ten thousand wiry friends Stick to it in shared grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity.
To England, if you will.
To England, if you want.
Bind up your hairs.
Tie up your hair.
Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud ’O that these hands could so redeem my son, As they have given these hairs their liberty!’ But now I envy at their liberty, And will again commit them to their bonds, Because my poor child is a prisoner. And, father cardinal, I have heard you say That we shall see and know our friends in heaven: If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born. But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit, And so he’ll die; and, rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him: therefore never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
Yes, I will; and why will I do it? I tore them from their bonds and cried out "Oh, that these hands could save my son, As they have given this hair its freedom!" But now I envy their freedom, And will put them back in their bonds, Because my poor child is a prisoner. And, Father Cardinal, I’ve heard you say That we will see and recognize our friends in heaven: If that’s true, I’ll see my boy again; Because since the birth of Cain, the first son, To the one who just sighed yesterday, There’s been no such kind creature born. But now grief will eat my flower And strip the natural beauty from his face And he’ll look as pale as a ghost, As weak and sick as someone with a fever, And then he’ll die; and when he rises again, When I meet him in heaven’s court I won’t recognize him: so never, never Must I see my sweet Arthur again.
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
You give too much weight to grief.
He talks to me that never had a son.
He speaks to me, yet he’s never had a son.
You are as fond of grief as of your child.
You’re as attached to grief as you are to your child.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do. I will not keep this form upon my head, When there is such disorder in my wit. O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!
Grief fills the room with my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks around with me, Wears his sweet expressions, repeats his words, Reminds me of all his lovely qualities, Fills his empty clothes with his shape; So, do I have a reason to hold onto grief? Farewell: if you had lost what I’ve lost, I could give you more comfort than you’re giving me. I won’t keep this weight on my head, When there’s so much confusion in my mind. Oh Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my sweet son! My life, my joy, my sustenance, my entire world! My comfort in widowhood, and my cure for sorrow!
I fear some outrage, and I’ll follow her.
I fear some violence, and I’ll follow her.
There’s nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweet world’s taste That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
Nothing in this world can make me happy: Life is as boring as a story that’s been told twice Annoying the ear of a tired person; And bitter shame has ruined the sweetness of the world So that it offers nothing but shame and bitterness.
Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest; evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil: What have you lost by losing of this day?
Before a serious illness is cured, Even in the moment when health is returning, The disease is at its worst; evils that leave, Show their worst as they depart: What have you lost by losing this day?
All days of glory, joy and happiness.
All the days of glory, joy, and happiness.
If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threatening eye. ’Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost In this which he accounts so clearly won: Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?
If you had won, you certainly would have. No, no; when Fortune wants to do good for people, She does so while looking at them with a threatening gaze. It’s strange to think how much King John has lost In what he thought was a clear victory: Aren’t you upset that Arthur is his prisoner?
As heartily as he is glad he hath him.
As much as he is happy to have him.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood. Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit; For even the breath of what I mean to speak Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub, Out of the path which shall directly lead Thy foot to England’s throne; and therefore mark. John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be That, whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins, The misplaced John should entertain an hour, One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. A sceptre snatch’d with an unruly hand Must be as boisterously maintain’d as gain’d; And he that stands upon a slippery place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up: That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall; So be it, for it cannot be but so.
Your mind is as youthful as your blood. Now listen to me speak with a prophetic spirit; For even the words I am about to speak Will blow away all obstacles in your way And lead you straight to England’s throne; so pay attention. John has captured Arthur; and it cannot be That while life still flows in that young boy’s veins, The wrongfully placed John should have a moment, One minute, or even a single breath of peace. A scepter grabbed with an unsteady hand Must be just as violently held onto as it was taken; And he who stands on a slippery place Will not hesitate to use anything to support himself: For John to remain in power, Arthur must fall; So it shall be, for it cannot be otherwise.
But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s fall?
But what will I gain from young Arthur’s downfall?
You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did.
You, in the right of Lady Blanch, your wife, Can make all the claims that Arthur did.
And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.
And lose it, life and all, just like Arthur did.
How green you are and fresh in this old world! John lays you plots; the times conspire with you; For he that steeps his safety in true blood Shall find but bloody safety and untrue. This act so evilly born shall cool the hearts Of all his people and freeze up their zeal, That none so small advantage shall step forth To cheque his reign, but they will cherish it; No natural exhalation in the sky, No scope of nature, no distemper’d day, No common wind, no customed event, But they will pluck away his natural cause And call them meteors, prodigies and signs, Abortives, presages and tongues of heaven, Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.
How inexperienced and naive you are in this old world! John is plotting against you; the times are on your side; For he who tries to secure his safety with innocent blood Will find only a bloody and false safety. This wicked action will cool the hearts Of all his people and freeze their passion, So that no small opportunity to challenge his reign Will be ignored, and they will support it; No natural occurrence in the sky, No natural event, no unlucky day, No common wind, no usual happening, But they will take his natural causes And call them omens, disasters, and signs, Signs from heaven clearly warning of vengeance on John.
May be he will not touch young Arthur’s life, But hold himself safe in his prisonment.
Maybe he won’t harm young Arthur, But will keep himself safe in prison.
O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already, Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts Of all his people shall revolt from him And kiss the lips of unacquainted change And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John. Methinks I see this hurly all on foot: And, O, what better matter breeds for you Than I have named! The bastard Faulconbridge Is now in England, ransacking the church, Offending charity: if but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a call To train ten thousand English to their side, Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the king: ’tis wonderful What may be wrought out of their discontent, Now that their souls are topful of offence. For England go: I will whet on the king.
Oh, sir, when he hears of your arrival, If young Arthur isn’t already dead, Just the news of your coming will kill him; and then the hearts Of all his people will turn against him And welcome the unknown changes And find reasons for revolt and anger From the bloody hands of John. I think I can see it all happening now: And, oh, what better opportunity for you Than what I’ve just described! The bastard Faulconbridge Is now in England, plundering the church, Offending charity: if just a dozen French Were there in arms, they would quickly rally Ten thousand English to their side, Or like a little snow, scattered about, It would soon become a mountain. Oh noble Dauphin, Come with me to the king: it’s amazing What can be achieved from their discontent, Now that their hearts are full of anger. Go to England: I will encourage the king.
Strong reasons make strong actions: let us go: If you say ay, the king will not say no.
Strong reasons lead to strong actions: let’s go: If you agree, the king won’t say no.