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Modern English
It is too late: the life of all his blood Is touch’d corruptibly, and his pure brain, Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house, Doth by the idle comments that it makes Foretell the ending of mortality.
It’s too late: the life of all his blood Is tainted, and his pure brain, Which some believe is the soul’s fragile home, Is making useless noises that Predict the end of his life.
His highness yet doth speak, and holds belief That, being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
His highness is still speaking, and believes That, if he’s brought into the open air, It will reduce the burning effect Of the deadly poison attacking him.
Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage?
Let them bring him into the orchard here. Is he still angry?
He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung.
He’s calmer Than when you left him; he was even singing just now.
O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes In their continuance will not feel themselves. Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts, Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Whi ch, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest.
Oh, how foolish sickness is! In its extremes, People don’t realize the damage they’re doing. Death, having attacked the outer parts, Leaves them unseen, and now his assault is On the mind, which he tortures and wounds With many bizarre and confusing thoughts, Which, in their chaos, are all fighting for control And end up making things worse. It’s strange that death should sing. I am like a young swan to this pale, dying bird, Who sings a sad song to his own death, And from the fragile organ, sings His soul and body to their final rest.
Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.
Be of good cheer, prince; you’re here to shape The chaos he left behind, which is now formless and rude.
Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; It would not out at windows nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom, That all my bowels crumble up to dust: I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up.
Yes, now I feel like my soul has room to breathe; It wouldn’t leave through the windows or doors. There’s such a burning heat in my chest, That it feels like all my insides are turning to dust: I’m like a scribbled form, drawn with a pen On a piece of paper, shrinking away from this fire.
How fares your majesty?
How is your majesty?
Poison’d,--ill fare--dead, forsook, cast off: And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course Through my burn’d bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much, I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait And so ingrateful, you deny me that.
Poisoned—feeling terrible—dead, abandoned, cast aside: And none of you will call for winter to come And shove his icy fingers into my mouth, Or let my kingdom’s rivers flood through my burned chest, Or ask the north wind to kiss my dry lips And give me cold comfort. I don’t ask for much, Just cold comfort, and you’re too selfish And ungrateful to give me that.
O that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you!
Oh, if only there were something my tears could do To ease your pain!
The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is as a fiend confined to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood.
The salt in them burns. Inside me is a hell; and the poison there Is like a demon locked in to torment Unforgiven blood.
O, I am scalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to see your majesty!
Oh, I’m exhausted from rushing here so fast, And the frustration of hurrying to see your majesty!
O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye: The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d, And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail Are turned to one thread, one little hair: My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest is but a clod And module of confounded royalty.
Oh cousin, you’ve come to open my eyes: The heart of mine is cracked and burned, And all the sails that should carry my life Are reduced to one thread, one tiny strand: My heart has only one weak string holding it together, Which will snap once you deliver your news; And after that, all you see before you is just a lump And a ruined symbol of a fallen king.
The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where heaven He knows how we shall answer him; For in a night the best part of my power, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the Washes all unwarily Devoured by the unexpected flood.
The Dauphin is on his way here, And heaven knows how we’ll respond to him; For in one night, most of my army, As I tried to move them to a better position, Was swallowed up by the unexpected flood.
You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! my lord! but now a king, now thus.
You tell this bad news to someone who doesn’t care. My king! my lord! once a king, now just like this.
Even so must I run on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay?
I must keep going, and then I must stop. What guarantee does the world offer, what hope, what support, When he was a king, and now he’s just dust?
Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind To do the office for thee of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers? show now your mended faiths, And instantly return with me again, To push destruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land. Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels.
Are you really gone? I’m just staying behind To take revenge for you, And then my soul will follow you to heaven, As I have always been your servant on earth. Now, stars that move in your proper places, Where are your powers? show us your renewed faith, And come back with me right now, To bring ruin and eternal shame Out of the weak door of our faltering land. Let’s go quickly, or we’ll be chased; The Dauphin is right behind us.
It seems you know not, then, so much as we: The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this war.
It seems you don’t know as much as we do: Cardinal Pandulph is inside, resting, He just came from the Dauphin half an hour ago, And brings us offers of peace That we can accept with honor and respect, With the intention to end this war right now.
He will the rather do it when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.
He’ll be more willing when he sees That we’re well-prepared to defend ourselves.
Nay, it is in a manner done already; For many carriages he hath dispatch’d To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the cardinal: With whom yourself, myself and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily.
No, it’s already nearly done; He’s sent many wagons To the coast, and handed his cause and quarrel Over to the Cardinal: If you think it’s best, myself, you, and other lords Will leave this afternoon to finish this deal.
Let it be so: and you, my noble prince, With other princes that may best be spared, Shall wait upon your father’s funeral.
Let it be so: and you, my noble prince, With other princes who can be spared, Will attend your father’s funeral.
At Worcester must his body be interr’d; For so he will’d it.
His body must be buried at Worcester; That’s what he wanted.
Thither shall it then: And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and glory of the land! To whom with all submission, on my knee I do bequeath my faithful services And true subjection everlastingly.
It shall be there: And may you, my dear prince, take up The rightful rule and honor of the land! To whom, with all humility, on my knees I pledge my loyal service And true obedience forever.
And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore.
And we offer you the same love, To remain spotless forever.
I have a kind soul that would give you thanks And knows not how to do it but with tears.
I have a kind heart that wants to thank you And doesn’t know how to do it except with tears.
O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
Oh, let us show only the necessary sorrow, Since it has already come before our griefs. This England never did, nor ever will, Kneel to the proud foot of a conqueror, Except when it first helped to wound itself. Now these princes have come back home, With the three corners of the world coming together in arms, And we’ll stand against them. Nothing will make us regret, If England stays true to itself.