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Modern English
I thought the king had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.
I thought the king liked the Duke of Albany more than Cornwall.
It did always seem so to us: but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most; for equalities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.
It always seemed that way to us, but now, with the division of the kingdom, it’s unclear which of the dukes he favors more; the choices are so balanced that neither can truly choose between them.
Is not this your son, my lord?
Isn’t this your son, my lord?
His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to it.
His upbringing, sir, has been my responsibility: I’ve been so embarrassed to admit he’s mine that now I’ve grown used to it.
I cannot conceive you.
I don’t understand you.
Sir, this young fellow’s mother could: whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had, indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?
Sir, his mother understood: that’s why she got pregnant and had, indeed, sir, a son before she had a husband. Do you get the idea of the mistake?
I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.
I can’t say I wish the mistake was undone, since the result is such a fine young man.
But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came something saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?
But I have, sir, a legitimate son, a year older than this one, who is no more precious to me: though this rascal came into the world a bit too early, before he was wanted, still his mother was a beauty; there was some fun in making him, and the bastard has to be acknowledged. Do you know this fine young man, Edmund?
No, my lord.
No, my lord.
My lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend.
My lord of Kent: remember him as my honourable friend.
My services to your lordship.
My services to your lordship.
I must love you, and sue to know you better.
I must like you, and try to get to know you better.
Sir, I shall study deserving.
Sir, I will strive to deserve your favour.
He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The king is coming.
He’s been gone for nine years, and he’ll leave again. The king is coming.
Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.
Gloucester, make sure to give attention to the lords of France and Burgundy.
I shall, my liege.
I will, my king.
Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know that we have divided In three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age; Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburthen’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daughters,-- Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state,-- Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril, Our eldest-born, speak first.
In the meantime, we will reveal our true intentions. Give me the map there. Know that we have divided Our kingdom into three parts: and it is our firm decision To cast off the responsibilities and worries of old age; Passing them on to younger people, while we Slowly crawl toward death, unburdened. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less beloved son of Albany, We have decided, this very hour, to announce Our daughters’ dowries, to prevent any future disputes. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in the love of our youngest daughter, Have been here in our court for some time, seeking her love, And now they are here to receive an answer. Tell me, my daughters— Since we are now going to give up our rule, The control over our lands, and the worries of the state— Which of you will tell us you love us the most? That way, we can give our largest gift To the one who most deserves it. Goneril, Our first-born, you speak first.
Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter; Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child e’er loved, or father found; A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable; Beyond all manner of so much I love you.
Sir, I love you more than words can express; More than sight, space, and freedom; More than anything valuable, rich, or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, and honor; As much as any child has ever loved, or father has found; A love so great that it makes speech impossible; Beyond any comparison, I love you more than I can say.
[Aside] What shall Cordelia do? Love, and be silent.
[Aside] What can Cordelia do? Love, and remain silent.
Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.
Of all these lands, from this line to this one, With shadowy forests and fertile plains, With abundant rivers and wide, open meadows, We make you lady of them: to you and Albany’s descendants This land shall belong forever. Now, our joy, Although last, is not least; to whose young love The riches of France and the wealth of Burgundy Try to claim a part; what can you say to win A third as rich as your sisters’ share? Speak.
Sir, I am made Of the self-same metal that my sister is, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short: that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys, Which the most precious square of sense possesses; And find I am alone felicitate In your dear highness’ love.
Sir, I am made Of the same stuff as my sister, And I value myself as much as she values herself. In my true heart, I find that she expresses my love as well. But she falls short: for I declare That I reject all other pleasures, Which the best senses can possess; And I find myself only truly happy In your dear love.
[Aside] Then poor Cordelia! And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s More richer than my tongue.
[Aside] Then poor Cordelia! And yet not so; for I know my love Is more valuable than my words can express.
To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom; No less in space, validity, and pleasure, Than that conferr’d on Goneril. Now, our joy, Although the last, not least; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.
To you and your descendants forever Will remain this third of our fair kingdom; No less in size, value, or pleasure, Than the portion given to Goneril. Now, our joy, Though last, not least; to whom young love Has made the wealth of France and Burgundy Strive to be shared; what can you say to gain A third as rich as your sisters’? Speak.
Nothing, my lord.
Nothing, my lord.
Nothing!
Nothing?
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.
Nothing will come of nothing: say something again.
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty According to my bond; nor more nor less.
I’m so unhappy, I can’t even speak what’s in my heart: I love you, my king, as much as I’m supposed to; No more, no less.
How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little, Lest it may mar your fortunes.
What? What, Cordelia! Change your words a bit, Or it might ruin your future.
Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all.
My lord, You gave me life, raised me, loved me: I Return those duties as I should, Obey you, love you, and honor you most. Why do my sisters have husbands, if they say They love you as well? Maybe, when I marry, The man who will take me as his wife will carry Half my love, half my care and duty with him: I’m sure I won’t marry like my sisters, To love my father above all.
But goes thy heart with this?
But does your heart agree with this?
Ay, good my lord.
Yes, my lord.
So young, and so untender?
So young, and so cold?
So young, my lord, and true.
Yes, my lord, but I am true.
Let it be so; thy truth, then, be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist, and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and relieved, As thou my sometime daughter.
Then let it be so; your truth will be your dowry: By the holy light of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; By all the forces of the stars From which we live and die; I now give up all my care for you, And the bond of blood between us. From now on, I will treat you as a stranger, Forever. The barbaric Scythian, Or the man who treats his family like food To satisfy his hunger, will be as close to my heart As you once were, my daughter.
Good my liege,--
My king,
Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I loved her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight! So be my grave my peace, as here I give Her father’s heart from her! Call France; who stirs? Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters’ dowers digest this third: Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly with my power, Pre-eminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights, By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain The name, and all the additions to a king; The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm, This coronet part betwixt you.
Quiet, Kent! Don’t get between the dragon and his anger. I loved her most, and thought I’d be at peace With her nurturing love. Now go, and get out of my sight! May my grave bring me peace, as I now give Her father’s heart away from her! Call France; who’s there? Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters’ dowries, deal with this third: Let her pride, which she calls honesty, marry her. I now give you both my power, Rank, and all the royal privileges That come with being a king. From now on, every month, I’ll stay with you in turns, with an allowance of a hundred knights To support me. Only we’ll still keep The name and all the titles of a king; The control, the wealth, the authority over everything else, Beloved sons, will be yours: to confirm this, Take this crown between you.
Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour’d as my king, Loved as my father, as my master follow’d, As my great patron thought on in my prayers,--
Royal Lear, Whom I have always honored as my king, Loved as my father, followed as my master, And prayed for as my great patron,--
The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.
The bow is bent and drawn, so step aside.
Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly, When Lear is mad. What wilt thou do, old man? Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak, When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound, When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom; And, in thy best consideration, cheque This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgment, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least; Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness.
Let it fall, even if it breaks my heart: Let me be rude, when Lear is mad. What will you do, old man? Do you think duty should fear to speak, When power bows down to flattery? Honesty should be honored, When majesty stoops to foolishness. Reverse your decision; And, for your own good, stop this reckless action: Answer me with your judgment, my king, Your youngest daughter doesn’t love you any less; And those who speak with sincerity are not empty-hearted.
Kent, on thy life, no more.
Kent, for your life, say no more.
My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thy enemies; nor fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive.
My life has never meant anything to me, but as a tool To fight for your safety; and I don’t fear to lose it, As long as your well-being is the reason.
Out of my sight!
Get out of my sight!
See better, Lear; and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye.
See more clearly, Lear; and let me stay The honest blind spot in your eye.
Now, by Apollo,--
Now, by Apollo,--
Now, by Apollo, king, Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.
Now, by Apollo, king, You swear by your gods for no good reason.
O, vassal! miscreant!
Oh, servant! villain!
Dear sir, forbear.
Sir, please stop.
Do: Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon thy foul disease. Revoke thy doom; Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I’ll tell thee thou dost evil.
I will: Kill your doctor, and spend the money on Your terrible sickness. Take back your sentence; Or, as long as I can shout, I’ll tell you that you’re wrong.
Hear me, recreant! On thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow, Which we durst never yet, and with strain’d pride To come between our sentence and our power, Which nor our nature nor our place can bear, Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee, for provision To shield thee from diseases of the world; And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following, Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! by Jupiter, This shall not be revoked.
Listen to me, coward! On your loyalty, listen to me! Since you’ve tried to make us break our promise, A promise we’ve never broken, and with false pride Tried to stand between us and our authority, A power we can’t deny, now take your punishment. We give you five days to make arrangements To protect yourself from the world’s dangers; And on the sixth day, turn your back on our kingdom: if, on the tenth day after, Your exiled body is found in our land, You will be executed. Go! By Jupiter, This decision will not be changed.
Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.
Goodbye, king: since you insist on doing this, Freedom is gone, and banishment is here.
The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think’st, and hast most rightly said!
May the gods take you, dear girl, You who think justly and have spoken wisely!
And your large speeches may your deeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; He’ll shape his old course in a country new.
And may your grand speeches be matched by your actions, So that good things may come from words of love. Thus Kent, O princesses, says goodbye to you all; He will follow his old path in a new country.
Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.
Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.
My lord of Burgundy. We first address towards you, who with this king Hath rivall’d for our daughter: what, in the least, Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love?
My lord of Burgundy. We first speak to you, who with this king Have competed for our daughter: what, at the very least, Will you ask as her dowry, or will you stop your pursuit of her love?
Most royal majesty, I crave no more than what your highness offer’d, Nor will you tender less.
Most royal majesty, I ask no more than what your highness offered, Nor will you give me less.
Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced, And nothing more, may fitly like your grace, She’s there, and she is yours.
Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we held her that way; But now her value has fallen. Sir, there she stands: If anything in that small, seeming form, Or all of it, with our anger mixed in, And nothing more, is acceptable to you, She’s there, and she’s yours.
I know no answer.
I have no response.
Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate, Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath, Take her, or leave her?
Will you, with all the flaws she has, Unloved, newly hated by us, Cursed by us, and estranged by our oath, Take her, or leave her?
Pardon me, royal sir; Election makes not up on such conditions.
Pardon me, royal sir; I cannot choose under such conditions.
Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealth.
Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I will tell you everything she owns.
For you, great king, I would not from your love make such a stray, To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you To avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom nature is ashamed Almost to acknowledge hers.
For you, great king, I would not stray from your love like this, To match you where I hate; so I ask you To turn your affection in a more worthy direction Than toward a wretch whom nature herself is almost Ashamed to claim as hers.
This is most strange, That she, that even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence Must be of such unnatural degree, That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection Fall’n into taint: which to believe of her, Must be a faith that reason without miracle Could never plant in me.
This is very strange, That she, who was just now your best treasure, The subject of your praise, the comfort of your old age, Most beloved, most dear, should in such a short time Do something so monstrous, to undo So many layers of favor. Surely, her offense Must be so unnatural, That it turns her into a monster, or your previously swearing affection Has been tainted: to believe this of her, Would require a faith that reason alone, without a miracle, Could never give me.
I yet beseech your majesty,-- If for I want that glib and oily art, To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend, I’ll do’t before I speak,--that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, No unchaste action, or dishonour’d step, That hath deprived me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for which I am richer, A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking.
I still beg your majesty,-- If only I lacked that smooth, flattering speech, To speak with insincerity; since what I truly mean, I’ll do before I speak,--that you make it known It is not some vicious crime, murder, or disgrace, No shameful act or dishonorable step, That has caused me to lose your favor; But simply for lacking that for which I am richer, A constantly flattering gaze, and a tongue Which I’m glad I don’t have, though not having it Has cost me your approval.
Better thou Hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better.
You’d have been better off Not being born than failing to please me more.
Is it but this,--a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do? My lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love’s not love When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.
Is it just this,--a delay in nature Which often leaves the story untold That it meant to tell? My lord of Burgundy, What do you think of the lady? Love is not love When it is mixed with concerns that stand Apart from the main issue. Will you take her? She herself is a dowry.
Royal Lear, Give but that portion which yourself proposed, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy.
Royal Lear, Give just that portion which you originally proposed, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy.
Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.
Nothing: I’ve made my decision; I am resolute.
I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband.
I’m sorry, then, that you’ve lost a father And now must lose a husband as well.
Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respects of fortune are his love, I shall not be his wife.
Peace be with Burgundy! Since his love is based on wealth and fortune, I won’t marry him.
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away. Gods, gods! ’tis strange that from their cold’st neglect My love should kindle to inflamed respect. Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find.
Fairest Cordelia, who is most rich even in her poverty; Most valued when abandoned; and most loved, though despised! I take you and your virtues now: Let me lawfully claim what has been discarded. Gods, gods! It’s strange that from such neglect My love should grow into such deep respect. Your dowry-less daughter, king, thrown into my hands, Is queen of us, of our people, and of our fair France: Not all the dukes of watery Burgundy Can buy this priceless, unvalued girl from me. Say goodbye to them, Cordelia, though it’s unkind: You lose here, but you’ll find better where you go.
Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy.
You have her, France: let her be yours; because we Have no daughter like her, nor will we ever see Her face again. So go now, Without our blessing, our love, or our approval. Come, noble Burgundy.
Bid farewell to your sisters.
Say goodbye to your sisters.
The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are; And like a sister am most loath to call Your faults as they are named. Use well our father: To your professed bosoms I commit him But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So, farewell to you both.
The jewels of our father, with tear-filled eyes, Cordelia leaves you: I know what you are; And like a sister, I’m too unwilling to point out Your faults as they truly are. Take good care of our father: I entrust him to your hearts, But if I were still in his favor, I would take him to a better place. So, goodbye to both of you.
Prescribe not us our duties.
Don’t tell us what to do.
Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath received you At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted.
Focus your efforts On pleasing your husband, who has accepted you With no better fortune. You’ve lacked obedience, And truly deserve the little you’ve gotten.
Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. Well may you prosper!
Time will reveal what hidden tricks are at play: Those who hide their faults will eventually be exposed. I hope you prosper!
Come, my fair Cordelia.
Come, my fair Cordelia.
Sister, it is not a little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night.
Sister, there’s much I need to tell you about what Concerns both of us. I think our Father will leave tonight.
That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.
That’s certain, and he’ll be with you; next month with us.
You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.
You can see how full of changes his old age is; the Observations we’ve made haven’t been few: he’s always loved our sister the most; And how poorly he’s now cast her aside is too obvious.
’Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.
It’s the weakness of his age; but he’s always barely understood himself.
The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.
The best and healthiest part of his life has only been reckless; so we must expect that from his old age, not just the flaws of long-held habits, but also the unruly stubbornness that weak and angry years bring with them.
Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.
We can expect unpredictable actions from him, like this banishment of Kent.
There is further compliment of leavetaking between France and him. Pray you, let’s hit together: if our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.
There’s also the formal parting between him and France. Please, let’s act together: if our father still has any authority with the temper he has, this final decision of his will only offend us.
We shall further think on’t.
We’ll think about it some more.
We must do something, and i’ the heat.
We need to do something, and quickly.