Original
Modern English
Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still ’They come:’ our castle’s strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up: Were they not forced with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home.
Hang our banners on the outside walls; The shout is still "They’re coming:" our castle’s strength Will mock any siege: let them stay here Until hunger and disease destroy them: If they weren’t forced by the ones who should be ours, We might have faced them boldly, face to face, And driven them back home.
What is that noise?
What’s that noise?
It is the cry of women, my good lord.
It’s the cry of women, my lord.
I have almost forgot the taste of fears; The time has been, my senses would have cool’d To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts Cannot once start me.
I’ve almost forgotten what fear feels like; There was a time when the sound of a scream at night Would have chilled me to the bone; and my hair Would stand up at a tragic story As if life were still in me: I’ve had my fill of horrors; Evil, familiar to my murderous thoughts, Can’t startle me anymore.
Wherefore was that cry?
Why was there that cry?
The queen, my lord, is dead.
The queen, my lord, is dead.
She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
She should have died later; There would have been a time for me to hear this. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Crawls slowly along, day by day, Until the very end of time, And all our yesterdays have shown fools The way to a dusty death. Out, out, short candle! Life is just a walking shadow, a bad actor Who struts and worries on stage for an hour And then is heard no more: it’s a story Told by an idiot, full of noise and anger, Meaning nothing.
Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.
You’ve come to speak; tell your story quickly.
Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it.
My lord, I must report what I saw, But I don’t know how to explain it.
Well, say, sir.
Well, speak, then.
As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move.
As I was on watch on the hill, I looked toward Birnam, and then, I thought, The forest began to move.
Liar and slave!
Liar and coward!
Let me endure your wrath, if’t be not so: Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove.
Let me face your anger, if it’s not true: Within three miles, you’ll see it coming; I’m telling you, a moving forest.
If thou speak’st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much. I pull in resolution, and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth: ’Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane:’ and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out! If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish the estate o’ the world were now undone. Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.
If you’re lying, You’ll be hanged on the next tree, alive, Until hunger takes you: but if you speak the truth, I don’t care if you do the same to me. I am firm in my decision, but I’m starting to Doubt the devil’s trickery That sounds like the truth: ’Fear not until Birnam Wood Comes to Dunsinane;’ and now a forest Is moving towards Dunsinane. Arm yourselves, arm yourselves, and let’s go! If what he says is true, There’s no way to escape, nor to stay here. I’m beginning to grow tired of this fight, And wish the whole world’s situation were undone. Ring the alarm bell! Blow, wind! Come, destruction! At least we’ll die with our armor on.