Original
Modern English
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, an germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man!
Blow, winds, and burst your cheeks! Rage on, blow! You waterfalls and hurricanes, pour down Until you’ve flooded our churches, drowned the weathercocks! You lightning and deadly fires, Messengers of tree-splitting thunderbolts, Burn my white hair! And you, all-shaking thunder, Flatten the entire world! Shatter nature’s molds and spill the seeds That create ungrateful humans!
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters’ blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise man nor fool.
Oh uncle, holy water in a dry house Is better than this rainwater outside. Please, uncle, go in and ask your daughters for their blessing: This night shows no mercy to either the wise or the foolish.
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters: I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children, You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join’d Your high engender’d battles ’gainst a head So old and white as this. O! O! ’tis foul!
Thunder all you want! Spit fire! Pour rain! Neither rain, wind, thunder, nor fire are my daughters: I don’t blame you, forces of nature, for being cruel; I never gave you a kingdom or called you my children, You don’t owe me any loyalty: so unleash Your terrible will! Here I stand, your servant, A poor, weak, old, and despised man: But still, I call you obedient servants Who, along with my two evil daughters, Wage your powerful battles against a head So old and white as mine. Oh! Oh! It’s so wrong!
He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The cod-piece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse; So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
A man who has a house to put his head in has a good head. The groin that finds shelter Before the head has any, Will get lice in the head; That’s why beggars marry many times. The man who treats his foot Like he should treat his heart Will cry out in pain from a sore, And lose sleep at night. For there was never a beautiful woman who didn’t make Faces in a mirror.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
No, I will be the model of patience; I will stay silent.
Who’s there?
Who’s there?
Marry, here’s grace and a cod-piece; that’s a wise man and a fool.
Well, here’s wisdom and a groin cover; that’s both a wise man and a fool.
Alas, sir, are you here? things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves: since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard: man’s nature cannot carry The affliction nor the fear.
Oh sir, are you here? Creatures that love the night Don’t love nights like this; the angry skies Terrify even the creatures of darkness And make them hide in their caves: ever since I became a man, I’ve never seen such sheets of lightning, such terrifying thunder, Such roaring winds and rain. I’ve never Heard anything like this; no human can bear This suffering or this fear.
Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes, Unwhipp’d of justice: hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjured, and thou simular man of virtue That art incestuous: caitiff, to pieces shake, That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practised on man’s life: close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn’d against than sinning.
Let the mighty gods, Who cause this terrifying chaos above us, Find their enemies now. Tremble, you wretch, Who hides inside with undiscovered crimes, Unpunished by justice: hide, you with bloody hands; You perjurer, you hypocrite acting virtuous, But are actually incestuous: you villain, shake apart, You who, under the cover of respectability, Have plotted against people’s lives: secret guilts, Break out of your hiding places and beg These dreadful forces for mercy. I am a man Wronged more than I’ve wronged others.
Alack, bare-headed! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest: Repose you there; while I to this hard house-- More harder than the stones whereof ’tis raised; Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in--return, and force Their scanted courtesy.
Oh no, you’re bareheaded! My gracious lord, nearby there’s a shack; It will offer you some shelter from the storm: Rest there while I return to this harsh house-- Harder than the stones it’s made from; Just a moment ago, when I asked about you, They refused to let me in--but I will return And force them to show some kindness.
My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy: how dost, my boy? art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That’s sorry yet for thee.
My mind is starting to go. Come on, my boy: how are you, my boy? Are you cold? I’m cold too. Where’s that straw, my friend? It’s strange how our needs Can make worthless things seem valuable. Come, to your shack. Poor fool and servant, there’s a part of my heart That still feels sorry for you.
[Singing] He that has and a little tiny wit-- With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,-- Must make content with his fortunes fit, For the rain it raineth every day.
[Singing] He who has just a little bit of sense-- With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,-- Must be content with whatever life gives him, For the rain will always fall.
True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
True, my good boy. Come, take us to this shack.
This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles are their tailors’ tutors; No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors; When every case in law is right; No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; When slanders do not live in tongues; Nor cutpurses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i’ the field; And bawds and whores do churches build; Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion: Then comes the time, who lives to see’t, That going shall be used with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.
This is a great night to cool off a prostitute. I’ll make a prophecy before I go: When priests talk more than they act; When brewers water down their beer; When nobles get fashion advice from their tailors; No heretics burned, but only suitors of women; When every court case is fair; No squire in debt, and no poor knight; When people stop spreading rumors; And pickpockets stop robbing crowds; When moneylenders count their gold in open fields; And pimps and prostitutes start building churches; Then shall the land of England Fall into great confusion: Then comes the time, for those who live to see it, That walking will be done with feet. This prophecy Merlin will make; for I’m here before his time.