Original
Modern English
I heard myself proclaim’d; And by the happy hollow of a tree Escaped the hunt. No port is free; no place, That guard, and most unusual vigilance, Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may ’scape, I will preserve myself: and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury, in contempt of man, Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth; Blanket my loins: elf all my hair in knots; And with presented nakedness out-face The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom! That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.
I heard myself declared an outlaw; And by hiding inside the hollow of a tree, I escaped the hunt. No port is open; no place Is free from guards and extreme watchfulness Trying to capture me. As long as I can escape, I’ll stay alive. I’ve decided To take on the lowest, poorest disguise That poverty, in its hatred of man, Ever brought close to the level of an animal: I’ll smear my face with dirt, Wrap myself in rags, twist my hair into knots, And face the winds and storms Naked and exposed. I’ve seen enough examples Of crazy beggars, who, with loud voices, Pierce their numb, scarred arms With pins, wooden sticks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this shocking appearance, from small farms, Poor little villages, sheep pens, and mills, Sometimes with mad curses, sometimes with prayers, They force people to give them charity. Poor Tom, poor mad Tom! That’s something at least: Edgar is nothing now.