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The wall is high, and yet will I leap down: Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not! There’s few or none do know me: if they did, This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguised me quite. I am afraid; and yet I’ll venture it. If I get down, and do not break my limbs, I’ll find a thousand shifts to get away: As good to die and go, as die and stay.
The wall is high, but I’ll still jump down: Good ground, be kind and don’t hurt me! Few people know me: if they did, This ship-boy’s appearance has disguised me completely. I’m scared, but I’ll take the risk. If I get down without breaking my bones, I’ll find a thousand ways to escape: It’s just as good to die trying to leave as to stay and die.
O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones: Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
Oh no! My uncle’s spirit is in these stones: Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury: It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time.
Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury: It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time.
Who brought that letter from the cardinal?
Who brought that letter from the cardinal?
The Count Melun, a noble lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love Is much more general than these lines import.
The Count Melun, a noble lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love Is much more general than these lines import.
To-morrow morning let us meet him then.
Tomorrow morning, let’s meet him then.
Or rather then set forward; for ’twill be Two long days’ journey, lords, or ere we meet.
Or better yet, let’s leave now; it’ll be A two-day journey, lords, before we meet.
Once more to-day well met, distemper’d lords! The king by me requests your presence straight.
Once again today, well met, upset lords! The king asks for your presence immediately.
The king hath dispossess’d himself of us: We will not line his thin bestained cloak With our pure honours, nor attend the foot That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks. Return and tell him so: we know the worst.
The king has cast us aside: We won’t stain our pure honour by joining him Or follow a leader who leaves a trail of blood. Go back and tell him that: we know the worst.
Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best.
Whatever you think, good words, I think, are best.
Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
Our grief, not our manners, is what speaks now.
But there is little reason in your grief; Therefore ’twere reason you had manners now.
But there’s little sense in your grief; So it would make sense for you to have some manners now.
Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.
Sir, sir, impatience has its own privilege.
’Tis true, to hurt his master, no man else.
It’s true, when it comes to hurting his master, no one else has the right.
This is the prison. What is he lies here?
This is the prison. Who is lying here?
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty! The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
Oh death, proud of pure and princely beauty! The earth had no hole deep enough to hide this deed.
Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.
Murder, as hating what he has done, Exposes itself to provoke revenge.
Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave, Found it too precious-princely for a grave.
Or, when he sentenced this beauty to the grave, He found it too precious and royal for a grave.
Sir Richard, what think you? have you beheld, Or have you read or heard? or could you think? Or do you almost think, although you see, That you do see? could thought, without this object, Form such another? This is the very top, The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder’s arms: this is the bloodiest shame, The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage Presented to the tears of soft remorse.
Sir Richard, what do you think? Have you seen, Or have you read or heard? Or could you imagine? Or do you almost think, even though you see, That you truly see? Could thought, without this object, Create something like it? This is the very peak, The highest point, the crest of murder’s weapons: This is the bloodiest shame, The wildest cruelty, the vilest blow, That ever uncontrolled anger or staring rage Showed to the tears of gentle remorse.
All murders past do stand excused in this: And this, so sole and so unmatchable, Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet unbegotten sin of times; And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle.
All past murders are excused in comparison to this: And this, so unique and unmatched, Will give holiness, purity, To the still unborn sins of future times; And turn deadly bloodshed into a joke, As shown by this horrible spectacle.
It is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand.
It’s a cursed and bloody deed; The thoughtless act of a strong hand, If it even was the work of any hand.
If that it be the work of any hand! We had a kind of light what would ensue: It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand; The practise and the purpose of the king: From whose obedience I forbid my soul, Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, And breathing to his breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow, Never to taste the pleasures of the world, Never to be infected with delight, Nor conversant with ease and idleness, Till I have set a glory to this hand, By giving it the worship of revenge.
If it was the work of any hand! We had some sense of what would happen: It is the disgraceful work of Hubert’s hand; The plan and purpose of the king: From whose commands I refuse to bow my soul, Kneeling before this destruction of sweet life, And breathing to his lifeless greatness The scent of a vow, a holy vow, Never to enjoy the pleasures of the world, Never to be touched by joy, Nor engaged with comfort and laziness, Until I have honored this hand, By offering it the worship of revenge.
Our souls religiously confirm thy words.
Our souls religiously confirm your words.
Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you: Arthur doth live; the king hath sent for you.
Lords, I’m in a hurry to find you: Arthur is alive; the king has sent for you.
O, he is old and blushes not at death. Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!
Oh, he’s old and doesn’t fear death. Away, you hateful villain, get out of here!
I am no villain.
I am not a villain.
Must I rob the law?
Must I break the law?
Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.
Your sword is shiny, sir; put it away.
Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin.
Not until I bury it in a murderer’s flesh.
Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say; By heaven, I think my sword’s as sharp as yours: I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatness and nobility.
Stay back, Lord Salisbury, stay back, I say; I swear, I think my sword’s just as sharp as yours: I wouldn’t want you, my lord, to lose your temper, Or put yourself in the path of my honest defense; Lest I, by noticing your anger, forget Your value, your greatness, and your nobility.
Out, dunghill! darest thou brave a nobleman?
Get lost, you scoundrel! Do you dare challenge a nobleman?
Not for my life: but yet I dare defend My innocent life against an emperor.
Not for my life, but I would still defend My innocent life against an emperor.
Thou art a murderer.
You’re a murderer.
Do not prove me so; Yet I am none: whose tongue soe’er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.
Don’t accuse me of that; But I am not one: whoever speaks falsely, Doesn’t speak the truth; and whoever doesn’t speak the truth, lies.
Cut him to pieces.
Cut him into pieces.
Keep the peace, I say.
Stay calm, I say.
Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.
Stay back, or I’ll hurt you, Faulconbridge.
Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury: If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, I’ll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime; Or I’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron, That you shall think the devil is come from hell.
You’d be better off attacking the devil, Salisbury: If you just frown at me, or move your foot, Or let your quick temper try to shame me, I’ll kill you. Put away your sword now; Or I’ll so mess you up and your fancy sword, That you’ll think the devil’s come from hell.
What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? Second a villain and a murderer?
What will you do, famous Faulconbridge? Support a villain and a murderer?
Lord Bigot, I am none.
Lord Bigot, I am not one.
Who kill’d this prince?
Who killed this prince?
’Tis not an hour since I left him well: I honour’d him, I loved him, and will weep My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss.
It’s only been an hour since I left him fine: I respected him, I loved him, and I will mourn The rest of my life for the loss of his sweet life.
Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villany is not without such rheum; And he, long traded in it, makes it seem Like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away with me, all you whose souls abhor The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house; For I am stifled with this smell of sin.
Don’t trust those fake tears of his, Because evil people don’t cry like that; And he, who’s used to this, makes it look Like rivers of regret and innocence. Get away from me, all of you who can’t stand The disgusting stench of a slaughterhouse; Because I’m suffocating from this smell of sin.
Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!
Go away to Bury, to the Dauphin there!
There tell the king he may inquire us out.
There, tell the king he can ask us to explain.
Here’s a good world! Knew you of this fair work? Beyond the infinite and boundless reach Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, Art thou damn’d, Hubert.
This is a crazy world! Did you know about this terrible thing? It goes beyond the endless and unlimited reach Of mercy. If you did this murderous act, You’re damned, Hubert.
Do but hear me, sir.
Just listen to me, sir.
Ha! I’ll tell thee what; Thou’rt damn’d as black--nay, nothing is so black; Thou art more deep damn’d than Prince Lucifer: There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.
Ha! Let me tell you something; You’re damned as black as night—no, nothing’s as dark as you; You’re more deeply damned than Prince Lucifer: There isn’t yet such an ugly demon of hell As you will be if you killed this child.
Upon my soul--
I swear on my soul—
If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair; And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee, a rush will be a beam To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon, And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to stifle such a villain up. I do suspect thee very grievously.
If you just agreed To this most cruel act, you should just give up hope; And if you need a rope, even the thinnest thread That any spider ever spun Would be enough to strangle you. A reed would be a strong enough pole To hang you from; or if you want to drown yourself, Just put a little water in a spoon, And it’ll be like the whole ocean, Enough to drown such a villain. I suspect you terribly.
If I in act, consent, or sin of thought, Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough to torture me. I left him well.
If I’m guilty of this, in action, consent, or even thought, Of taking that sweet breath Which was trapped in this beautiful body, Let hell not have enough pain to torture me. I left him in good health.
Go, bear him in thine arms. I am amazed, methinks, and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world. How easy dost thou take all England up! From forth this morsel of dead royalty, The life, the right and truth of all this realm Is fled to heaven; and England now is left To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth The unowed interest of proud-swelling state. Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace: Now powers from home and discontents at home Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits, As doth a raven on a sick-fall’n beast, The imminent decay of wrested pomp. Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child And follow me with speed: I’ll to the king: A thousand businesses are brief in hand, And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.
Go, carry him in your arms. I’m amazed, I think, and can’t find my way Through the thorns and dangers of this world. How easily you take over all of England! From this little piece of dead royalty, The life, the rightful power and truth of this realm Has gone to heaven, and now England is left To fight and scramble and tear apart the unearned power Of a swelling, proud state. Now, for the bare-bones of majesty Does stubborn war raise his angry crest And snarls at the gentle eyes of peace: Now powers from within and discontent at home Meet in one place; and great confusion waits, Like a raven on a sick, fallen beast, The inevitable decay of stolen glory. Now happy is he whose cloak and belt can Withstand this storm. Carry away that child And follow me quickly: I’ll go to the king: A thousand urgent matters are at hand, And heaven itself is frowning upon the land.