Original
Modern English
I did not think the king so stored with friends.
I didn’t think the king had so many friends.
Up once again; put spirit in the French: If they miscarry, we miscarry too.
Get up again; give the French some spirit: If they fail, we fail too.
That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.
That wicked Faulconbridge, Despite everything, is single-handedly keeping us in the fight.
They say King John sore sick hath left the field.
They say King John, terribly sick, has left the field.
Lead me to the revolts of England here.
Take me to the rebels of England here.
When we were happy we had other names.
When we were happy, we had different names.
It is the Count Melun.
It’s the Count Melun.
Wounded to death.
He’s mortally wounded.
Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold; Unthread the rude eye of rebellion And welcome home again discarded faith. Seek out King John and fall before his feet; For if the French be lords of this loud day, He means to recompense the pains you take By cutting off your heads: thus hath he sworn And I with him, and many moe with me, Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury; Even on that altar where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love.
Run, noble English, you’ve been bought and sold; Undo the harsh eye of rebellion And welcome back the faith you once threw away. Look for King John and fall at his feet; Because if the French win today, He plans to repay your efforts By chopping off your heads: he swore this And I with him, and many more with me, At the altar in Saint Edmundsbury; Even at that same altar where we swore to you True friendship and everlasting love.
May this be possible? may this be true?
Can this be real? Is this really true?
Have I not hideous death within my view, Retaining but a quantity of life, Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax Resolveth from his figure ’gainst the fire? What in the world should make me now deceive, Since I must lose the use of all deceit? Why should I then be false, since it is true That I must die here and live hence by truth? I say again, if Lewis do win the day, He is forsworn, if e’er those eyes of yours Behold another day break in the east: But even this night, whose black contagious breath Already smokes about the burning crest Of the old, feeble and day-wearied sun, Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, Paying the fine of rated treachery Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, If Lewis by your assistance win the day. Commend me to one Hubert with your king: The love of him, and this respect besides, For that my grandsire was an Englishman, Awakes my conscience to confess all this. In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence From forth the noise and rumour of the field, Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts In peace, and part this body and my soul With contemplation and devout desires.
Don’t I have a horrible death in front of me, Holding only a little bit of life, Which is bleeding away, like a piece of wax Melting when it’s heated? What in the world could make me lie now, When I’m losing the ability to deceive? Why should I be false, since it’s true That I must die here and live after by truth? I say again, if Lewis wins the day, He’s broken his oath, if your eyes ever see Another day rise in the east: But even tonight, whose dark, contagious breath Already surrounds the fading sun, Even tonight, your breath will stop, Paying the price for your treachery With the treacherous price of all your lives, If Lewis wins the day with your help. Send me to Hubert with your king: His love, and this respect, too, Because my grandfather was English, Makes me confess all of this. In return, I ask you to take me away From the noise and chaos of the battlefield, So I can think the last of my thoughts In peace, and part my body and soul With quiet contemplation and devout wishes.
We do believe thee: and beshrew my soul But I do love the favour and the form Of this most fair occasion, by the which We will untread the steps of damned flight, And like a bated and retired flood, Leaving our rankness and irregular course, Stoop low within those bounds we have o’erlook’d And cabby run on in obedience Even to our ocean, to our great King John. My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence; For I do see the cruel pangs of death Right in thine eye. Away, my friends! New flight; And happy newness, that intends old right.
We believe you: and curse my soul But I do love the chance we have here, With which we’ll undo the steps of our shameful retreat, And like a river that’s turned back, Leaving behind our disorderly ways, We’ll lower ourselves into the bounds we’ve overlooked And run obediently toward our great King John. My arm will help you leave; I see the cruel pains of death Right in your eyes. Away, my friends! New direction; And happy renewal, which brings back what’s right.