Original
Modern English
Who’s there, besides foul weather?
Who’s there, besides this terrible weather?
One minded like the weather, most unquietly.
Someone whose mood matches the storm, full of unrest.
I know you. Where’s the king?
I recognize you. Where’s the king?
Contending with the fretful element: Bids the winds blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled water ’bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury, and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.
Battling against the raging storm: He’s telling the winds to blow the earth into the sea, Or to make the waves rise above the shore, So that things might change or end; he’s tearing his white hair, Which the wild winds, with their blind rage, Grab in their fury and toss around; He struggles in his little human world to out-shout The clashing wind and rain. Tonight, when even the hungry bear Would find shelter, and the lion and starving wolf Stay dry in their dens, he runs bareheaded, Defying whatever might come.
But who is with him?
But who’s with him?
None but the fool; who labours to out-jest His heart-struck injuries.
Only the fool, who tries to joke away The king’s deep sorrows.
Sir, I do know you; And dare, upon the warrant of my note, Commend a dear thing to you. There is division, Although as yet the face of it be cover’d With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have--as who have not, that their great stars Throned and set high?--servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state; what hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes, Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind king; or something deeper, Whereof perchance these are but furnishings; But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports, and are at point To show their open banner. Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you, making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The king hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; And, from some knowledge and assurance, offer This office to you.
Sir, I know you; And I trust you enough To entrust something important to you. There’s a split, Though for now it’s hidden by false appearances, Between Albany and Cornwall; Who doesn’t have powerful allies at their side? They have servants who are, in fact, Spies for France, observing our situation; whatever’s been seen, Whether it’s the secret plotting of the dukes, Or their harsh treatment of the old king, Or something even deeper, of which this is just a hint. But it’s true—France is sending forces To our divided kingdom; they already, Knowing we’ve been negligent, have secretly landed In some of our best ports, and are ready To openly raise their flag. Now, to you: If you trust my word, hurry to Dover; you’ll find Some who will appreciate your report On how the king is suffering from unnatural grief. I am a gentleman by birth; And with some knowledge and confidence, I offer This task to you.
I will talk further with you.
I’ll speak with you further about this.
No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia,-- As fear not but you shall,--show her this ring; And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go seek the king.
No, don’t. To prove that I am more than I appear, Open this purse and take What’s inside. If you see Cordelia— And you will—show her this ring; She will tell you who I am, Though you don’t know me now. Curse this storm! I will go find the king.
Give me your hand: have you no more to say?
Give me your hand—do you have anything more to say?
Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet; That, when we have found the king,--in which your pain That way, I’ll this,--he that first lights on him Holla the other.
Few words, but important ones; When we find the king—I’ll go one way, You another—whoever finds him first, Call out to the other.