Original
Modern English
Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?
Good morning to you, friend. Are you from this place?
Ay.
Yes.
Where may we set our horses?
Where can we put our horses?
I’ the mire.
Stuck in the mud.
Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me.
Please, if you care for me, tell me.
I love thee not.
I don’t care for you.
Why, then, I care not for thee.
Well, then, I don’t care about you either.
If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.
If I had you locked up in Lipsbury, I’d make you care about me.
Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
Why are you treating me like this? I don’t even know you.
Fellow, I know thee.
Man, I know who you are.
What dost thou know me for?
And who do you think I am?
A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.
A scoundrel; a rascal; a scavenger of scraps; a lowly, proud, shallow, poor, cheaply-dressed, petty, filthy, worsted-stocking rogue; a cowardly, lawsuit-loving knave; a miserable, narcissistic, over-servile fussy fool; a pathetic heir with just one chest to inherit; one who would pimp in the name of good service, but is really just a mix of scoundrel, beggar, coward, pimp, and the son and heir of a mongrel dog: one I’ll beat into loud whining if you deny a single word I’ve said.
Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that is neither known of thee nor knows thee!
Wow, what a crazy guy you are, to insult someone who neither knows you nor is known by you!
What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels, and beat thee before the king? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw.
What a shameless scoundrel you are, to pretend you don’t know me! Wasn’t it just two days ago that I knocked you down and beat you in front of the king? Draw your sword, you rogue: even though it’s night, the moon is out; I’ll make a mess out of you by its light. Draw, you filthy, barber-loving scoundrel, draw!
Away! I have nothing to do with thee.
Go away! I have nothing to do with you.
Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the king; and take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father: draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks: draw, you rascal; come your ways.
Draw, you rascal: you carry letters against the king, and you support that vain puppet against her own father’s authority. Draw, you rogue, or I’ll slice up your legs: draw, you rascal; get over here.
Help, ho! murder! help!
Help, oh! Murder! Help!
Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike.
Fight back, you coward; stand still, rogue; you dainty slave, fight!
Help, ho! murder! murder!
Help, hey! Murder! Murder!
How now! What’s the matter?
What’s going on here? What’s happening?
With you, goodman boy, an you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.
With you, you little brat, if you want: come, I’ll teach you a lesson; come on, young man.
Weapons! arms! What ’s the matter here?
Weapons! Get your arms! What’s going on here?
Keep peace, upon your lives: He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?
Keep calm, or you’ll get yourselves killed: Anyone who hits again will die. Now, what’s going on?
The messengers from our sister and the king.
They’re messengers from our sister and the king.
What is your difference? speak.
What’s your disagreement? Speak up.
I am scarce in breath, my lord.
I’m out of breath, my lord.
No marvel, you have so bestirred your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee: a tailor made thee.
No wonder, you’ve been so busy showing off. You cowardly scoundrel, nature denies you: a tailor made you.
Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?
You’re a strange guy: a tailor made a man?
Ay, a tailor, sir: a stone-cutter or painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade.
Yes, a tailor, sir: even a stone-cutter or a painter couldn’t have done such a bad job, even if he’d only been working for two hours.
Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
Explain, how did your fight start?
This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his gray beard,--
This old thug, sir, whose life I spared out of respect for his gray beard—
Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my gray beard, you wagtail?
You lowlife! You worthless extra letter! My lord, if you’ll let me, I’ll stomp this unrefined villain into dust, and smear the walls of an outhouse with him. Spare my gray beard, you wretched fool?
Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
Quiet, you there! You disrespectful rascal, don’t you have any manners?
Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.
Yes, sir; but anger has its privileges.
Why art thou angry?
Why are you angry?
That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain Which are too intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel; Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing nought, like dogs, but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I’ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
That a scoundrel like this should carry a sword, Who has no integrity. Smiling villains like him, Are like rats that gnaw through sacred bonds Which are too tightly bound to untie; they hide every feeling That rebels in their masters’ hearts; Adding fuel to the fire, or cooling it with snow; They deny, affirm, and change like birds That shift with every breeze to suit their masters, Knowing nothing, like dogs, except to follow. Curse your twitching face! Do you laugh at what I say, as if I were a fool? Idiot, if I had you on Salisbury plain, I’d drive you squawking back to Camelot.
Why, art thou mad, old fellow?
What, are you crazy, old man?
How fell you out? say that.
What caused this argument? Explain.
No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave.
No two opposites hate each other more Than I hate this rascal.
Why dost thou call him a knave? What’s his offence?
Why do you call him a rascal? What did he do?
His countenance likes me not.
I don’t like his face.
No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.
Perhaps neither does mine, or his, or hers.
Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain: I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.
Sir, it’s my duty to speak plainly: I’ve seen better faces in my time Than any face I see In front of me right now.
This is some fellow, Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he, An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain. These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely.
This is some fellow Who, having been praised for bluntness, now pretends To be brash and rude, forcing himself Out of his natural character: he says he can’t flatter, Claims to be honest and plain, insisting on the truth! If they accept it, fine; if not, he’s just “being honest.” I know these types, who use their bluntness To hide more deceit and corrupt intentions Than twenty fawning flatterers Who carefully obey every command.
Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity, Under the allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus’ front,--
Sir, truly, in all sincerity, With all due respect to your noble presence, Whose influence, like a shining crown On flickering Apollo’s brow--
What mean’st by this?
What do you mean by this?
To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to ’t.
To step out of my usual manner, which you criticize so much. I know, sir, I am not one to flatter: the one who fooled you with plain words was simply a plain rogue; and for my part, I won’t do that, even if it costs me your anger to convince me to do it.
What was the offence you gave him?
What offense did you give him?
I never gave him any: It pleased the king his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, conjunct and flattering his displeasure, Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d, And put upon him such a deal of man, That worthied him, got praises of the king For him attempting who was self-subdued; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Drew on me here again.
I never gave him any excuse: The king, his master, recently got angry And hit me because he misunderstood; Then, joining in and flattering the king’s anger, He tripped me from behind; once I was down, he insulted me, Yelled at me, and acted so confidently, That it impressed the king, earning him praise For attacking someone who was already beaten; And, emboldened by that earlier act, He came after me again here.
None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool.
None of these scoundrels and cowards Are any better than a fool like Ajax.
Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart, We’ll teach you--
Bring out the stocks! You stubborn old rascal, you arrogant elder, We’ll teach you--
Sir, I am too old to learn: Call not your stocks for me: I serve the king; On whose employment I was sent to you: You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger.
Sir, I am too old to be taught anything new: Don’t call for the stocks for me: I serve the king; I was sent here on his orders: You would show little respect and excessive malice Against the honor and dignity of my master By putting his messenger in the stocks.
Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, There shall he sit till noon.
Bring out the stocks! As long as I live and have honor, He will sit there until noon.
Till noon! till night, my lord; and all night too.
Until noon? No, my lord, until night; and all night as well.
Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog, You should not use me so.
Why, madam, if I were just your father’s dog, You wouldn’t treat me this way.
Sir, being his knave, I will.
Since you’re just his servant, I will.
This is a fellow of the self-same colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!
This man is just like the type my sister spoke of. Come on, bring the stocks!
Let me beseech your grace not to do so: His fault is much, and the good king his master Will cheque him for ’t: your purposed low correction Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches For pilferings and most common trespasses Are punish’d with: the king must take it ill, That he’s so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrain’d.
I beg you, don’t do this: His offense is serious, but the good king, his master, Will reprimand him for it: your harsh punishment Is usually reserved for the lowest and most despised criminals For thefts and petty crimes. The king will take offense, That you would so lightly value his messenger, By restraining him like this.
I’ll answer that.
I’ll take responsibility for that.
My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abused, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put in his legs.
My sister might take it even worse, Seeing her servant mistreated and attacked, For simply carrying out her orders. Put his legs in.
Come, my good lord, away.
Come, my good lord, let’s go.
I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the duke’s pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d: I’ll entreat for thee.
I’m sorry for you, friend; it’s the duke’s decision, And everyone knows he won’t be opposed or stopped. I’ll plead for you.
Pray, do not, sir: I have watched and travell’d hard; Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle. A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels: Give you good morrow!
Please, don’t, sir. I’ve stayed awake and traveled hard; I’ll find some time to sleep later, and until then I’ll keep myself occupied. A good man’s luck can wear thin. Good morning to you!
The duke’s to blame in this; ’twill be ill taken.
The duke is wrong in this; it won’t be taken well.
Good king, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven’s benediction comest To the warm sun! Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter! Nothing almost sees miracles But misery: I know ’tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform’d Of my obscured course; and shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night: smile once more: turn thy wheel!
Good king, you have to prove the old saying true, That you’ve fallen from heaven’s blessing To just the warmth of the sun! Rise, you beacon to this dark world, So your comforting light can help me Read this letter! Hardly anything seems like a miracle Except in times of suffering. I know it’s from Cordelia, Who luckily has found out About my secret actions. She’ll find a way To fix the damage in this terrible situation. Exhausted and tired, Let my heavy eyes close without seeing This disgraceful place to rest. Fortune, good night. Smile on me again, and turn your wheel!