Original
Modern English
Is Banquo gone from court?
Has Banquo left the court?
Ay, madam, but returns again to-night.
Yes, madam, but he’ll return tonight.
Say to the king, I would attend his leisure For a few words.
Tell the king I’d like to speak with him when he has a moment, Just for a few words.
Madam, I will.
Madam, I will.
Nought’s had, all’s spent, Where our desire is got without content: ’Tis safer to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
Nothing’s gained, everything’s lost, When what we want is achieved but we’re still not happy: It’s safer to be the thing we destroy Than to live in joy that’s uncertain because of destruction.
How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making, Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what’s done is done.
What’s wrong, my lord? Why are you isolating yourself, Making yourself miserable with these sad thoughts, Thinking about things that should have died with the people who thought of them? Things that can’t be fixed Shouldn’t be dwelled on: what’s done is done.
We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it: She’ll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further.
We’ve wounded the snake, but we haven’t killed it: It will heal and be itself again, while our poor anger Is still at risk of being bitten by it. But let the world fall apart, let both worlds suffer, Before we’ll continue living in fear and tortured sleep From these terrible dreams that shake us every night: it’s better to be with the dead, Whom we sent to peace to gain our own peace, Than to lie in mental agony In endless distress. Duncan’s in his grave; After life’s restless fever, he sleeps peacefully; Treason did its worst: not steel, nor poison, Domestic malice, foreign armies, nothing, Can hurt him anymore.
Come on; Gentle my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.
Come now; Darling, smooth over your troubled face; Be cheerful and lively among your guests tonight.
So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you: Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honours in these flattering streams, And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are.
I will, my love; and I pray that you do too: Remember Banquo; Give him special attention, both with your eyes and your words: It’s dangerous for now, that we Must wash our honor in these flattering lies, And put on faces that hide our true feelings, Pretending to be something we’re not.
You must leave this.
You need to stop thinking this way.
O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know’st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives.
Oh, my mind is full of scorpions, dear wife! You know that Banquo and his son Fleance are still alive.
But in them nature’s copy’s not eterne.
But their lives are not eternal.
There’s comfort yet; they are assailable; Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown His cloister’d flight, ere to black Hecate’s summons The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums Hath rung night’s yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note.
There’s still hope; they can be attacked; So be happy: before the bat has flown In its dark flight, before the beetle with its sleepy hum Rings the night’s loud bell, we will do A terrible deed.
What’s to be done?
What should we do?
Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale! Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. Thou marvell’st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. So, prithee, go with me.
Don’t worry about knowing, my dear, Until you cheer the deed. Come, dark night, Cover the soft eyes of the sad day; And with your bloody, invisible hand Tear apart the bond that keeps me weak! Light fades; and the crow Flies to the dark woods: The good things of day begin to wilt and sleep; While night’s dark agents wake to do their dirty work. You’re amazed by what I’m saying, but stay quiet; Bad things grow stronger when they’re followed by more evil. So, please, come with me.