Original
Modern English
Boy!
Boy!
Signior?
Sir?
In my chamber-window lies a book: bring it hither to me in the orchard.
There’s a book in my room’s window; bring it to me here in the orchard.
I am here already, sir.
I’m already here, sir.
I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again.
I know, but I want you to leave and come back again.
I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by failing in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabour and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile a-foot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.
I really wonder how one man, seeing how foolish another man is when he gives his heart to love, can, after laughing at those silly things in others, become the subject of his own mockery by falling in love: and that man is Claudio. I’ve known him when the only music he cared for was the drum and fife; now, he’d rather hear the tambourine and the pipe. I’ve known him when he would walk ten miles just to see a good suit of armor; now he’ll stay awake for ten nights, designing a new jacket. He used to speak clearly and to the point, like an honest man and a soldier; now, he’s obsessed with spelling; his words are a weird feast, just a bunch of odd dishes. Could I be so changed and see with his eyes? I don’t know; I don’t think so: I won’t swear to it, but love could turn me into an oyster; still, I swear, until love turns me into an oyster, he won’t make me this much of a fool. One woman might be beautiful, but that’s not enough for me; another might be wise, but that’s not enough; another might be virtuous, but that’s still not enough. Until all those qualities are in one woman, she’ll never have my favor. She must be rich, that’s certain; wise, or I won’t have her; virtuous, or I won’t even consider her; beautiful, or I’ll never look at her; gentle, or don’t come near me; noble, or not good enough for an angel; with good conversation, an excellent musician, and her hair can be whatever color God chooses. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I’ll hide in the arbour.
Come, shall we hear this music?
Come, shall we listen to this music?
Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is, As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony!
Yes, my lord. How quiet the evening is, as if it’s been silenced just to honor the music!
See you where Benedick hath hid himself?
Do you see where Benedick has hidden himself?
O, very well, my lord: the music ended, We’ll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.
Oh, very well, my lord: the music has ended, We’ll find the young fox with a little effort.
Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again.
Come on, Balthasar, let’s hear that song again.
O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than once.
Oh, good my lord, don’t criticize my voice And make music seem worse than it is.
It is the witness still of excellency To put a strange face on his own perfection. I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
It still shows excellence To put on a new face to hide perfection. Please, sing, and let me stop wooing.
Because you talk of wooing, I will sing; Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes, Yet will he swear he loves.
Because you’re talking about wooing, I’ll sing; Since many a suitor begins his courtship With someone he doesn’t think is worthy, yet he courts her, And still swears he loves her.
Now, pray thee, come; Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes.
Now, please, go ahead; Or if you want to talk longer, Do it in song.
Note this before my notes; There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.
Listen to this before my song; There’s not a note of mine that’s worth listening to.
Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks; Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing.
Why, these are nonsense words he speaks; Notes, notes, really, just nonsense.
Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done.
Now, a heavenly tune! now his soul is swept away! Isn’t it strange that sheep’s guts should drag souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s said and done.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never: Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no moe, Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leafy: Then sigh not so, & c.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers forever, One foot in the sea and one on the shore, Never constant to one thing: So don’t sigh so much, just let them go, And be happy and cheerful, Turning all your sadness Into a cheerful "Hey nonny, nonny." Sing no more songs, sing no more, Of sad and heavy thoughts; Men’s deceit has always been this way, Since the first leaves of summer: So don’t sigh so much, &c.
By my troth, a good song.
Truly, that’s a good song.
And an ill singer, my lord.
And a bad singer, my lord.
Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.
Ha, no, no, honestly; you sing well enough for a change.
An he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him: and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it.
If he had been a dog that howled like that, they would have hanged him: and I pray God his bad voice doesn’t bring any trouble. I’d rather have heard the night-raven, whatever bad luck might come with it.
Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music; for to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber-window.
Yeah, really, did you hear that, Balthasar? Please, get us some great music; for tomorrow night we want it at Lady Hero’s window.
The best I can, my lord.
The best I can, my lord.
Do so: farewell.
Do so: farewell.
Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?
Come here, Leonato. What was it you told me today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?
O, ay: stalk on. stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.
Oh, yes: go on. Go on; the bird is in the nest. I never thought that lady would love any man.
No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.
No, nor I either; but it’s most amazing that she would be so crazy about Signior Benedick, whom she has always acted like she couldn’t stand.
Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner?
Is it possible? Is the wind blowing in that direction?
By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection: it is past the infinite of thought.
Honestly, my lord, I don’t know what to think about it except that she loves him with a wild, overwhelming affection: it’s beyond belief.
May be she doth but counterfeit.
Maybe she’s just pretending.
Faith, like enough.
Honestly, that’s likely.
O God, counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.
Oh God, pretending! There’s never been a fake show of passion that felt so real as what she shows.
Why, what effects of passion shows she?
Well, what signs of passion does she show?
Bait the hook well; this fish will bite.
Set the bait well; this fish will bite.
What effects, my lord? She will sit you, you heard my daughter tell you how.
What results, my lord? She will marry you, you heard my daughter tell you how.
She did, indeed.
She did, indeed.
How, how, pray you? You amaze me: I would have I thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.
How, how, please tell me? You surprise me: I would have thought her heart was too strong to be affected by love.
I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick.
I would have sworn it was, my lord; especially against Benedick.
I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.
I would think this is a joke, but since the old man said it: trickery can’t hide in such respect.
He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up.
He has caught the disease: hold on to it.
Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?
Has she told Benedick that she loves him?
No; and swears she never will: that’s her torment.
No; and she swears she never will: that’s her suffering.
’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: ’Shall I,’ says she, ’that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’
It’s true, indeed; so your daughter says: ‘Should I,’ she says, ‘the one who has so often treated him with disdain, write to him that I love him?’
This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.
This is what she says now when she’s about to write to him; she’ll be up twenty times at night, sitting there in her nightdress until she’s written a whole sheet of paper: my daughter tells us everything.
Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.
Now that you mention a sheet of paper, I remember a funny story your daughter told us.
O, when she had writ it and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?
Oh, when she had written it and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice on the page?
That.
Yes.
O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her; ’I measure him,’ says she, ’by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.’
Oh, she tore the letter into a thousand pieces; yelled at herself for being so shameless to write to someone who would just mock her; ‘I judge him,’ she says, ‘by my own feelings; because I would mock him if he wrote to me; yes, even if I loved him, I would.’
Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ’O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’
Then she falls to her knees, weeping, sobbing, clutching her chest, tearing her hair, praying, cursing; ‘Oh sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’
She doth indeed; my daughter says so: and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeared she will do a desperate outrage to herself: it is very true.
She truly does; my daughter says so: and the emotion has overwhelmed her so much that my daughter sometimes fears she will hurt herself: it’s very true.
It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.
It would be good if Benedick heard about it from someone else, if she won’t tell him herself.
To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse.
For what purpose? He’d just make fun of it and make the poor woman’s situation even worse.
An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.
If he did, he’d deserve to be hanged. She’s an incredibly sweet woman; and, without a doubt, she is virtuous.
And she is exceeding wise.
And she’s very wise.
In every thing but in loving Benedick.
In everything except loving Benedick.
O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.
Oh, my lord, when wisdom and passion fight inside such a tender heart, we have ten times more evidence that passion will win. I feel sorry for her, as I have every right to, being her uncle and her guardian.
I would she had bestowed this dotage on me: I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what a’ will say.
I wish she’d fallen for me instead: I’d have ignored everything else and made her half of me. Please, tell Benedick about it, and see what he’ll say.
Were it good, think you?
Do you think that’s a good idea?
Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die, if he love her not, and she will die, ere she make her love known, and she will die, if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness.
Hero truly thinks she will die; she says she’ll die if he doesn’t love her, and she’ll die before she reveals her love, and she’ll die if he proposes to her, rather than lower her usual stubbornness by even a single breath.
She doth well: if she should make tender of her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.
She’s right to do so: if she offered her love, it’s very likely he’d reject it, because the man, as you all know, has a disdainful nature.
He is a very proper man.
He’s a very handsome man.
He hath indeed a good outward happiness.
He does indeed have good looks.
Before God! and, in my mind, very wise.
Before God! And, in my opinion, very smart too.
He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.
He does show some signs of wit, I’ll admit.
And I take him to be valiant.
And I think he’s brave.
As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear.
Like Hector, I assure you. And when it comes to handling arguments, you could say he’s wise; either he avoids them with great care, or he enters them with a most religious fear.
If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.
If he fears God, he must keep the peace: if he breaks the peace, he should enter a fight with fear and trembling.
And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love?
And so he will; because the man fears God, even though it might not seem like it when he makes some big jokes. Well, I’m sorry for your niece. Should we go find Benedick and tell him about her love?
Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel.
Don’t tell him, my lord: let her handle it with good advice.
Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first.
No, that’s impossible: she’ll end up wearing her heart out first.
Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well; and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.
Well, we’ll hear more about it from your daughter: let it cool down for now. I like Benedick a lot; and I wish he would humbly look at himself, to see how unworthy he is of such a good lady.
My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.
My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready.
If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.
If he doesn’t fall in love with her now, I will never trust my expectations again.
Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewomen carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb-show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.
Let’s make sure the same trap is set for her; and your daughter and her ladies should handle it. The fun will be when they all think each other is in love, but it’s not true: that’s the scene I want to see, and it will be a silent performance. Let’s send her to call him in to dinner.
[Coming forward] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems her affections have their full bent. Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair; ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous; ’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage: but doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she’s a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her.
[Coming forward] This can’t be a trick: the conversation was genuinely serious. They got the truth of this from Hero. They seem to feel sorry for the lady: it looks like her feelings are really set. Love me! Why, it has to be returned. I hear what they say about me: they say I’ll act proudly if I find out she loves me; they say too that she would rather die than show any sign of affection. I never planned on getting married: I can’t seem proud. Lucky are those who hear their criticism and can fix it. They say the lady is beautiful; that’s a fact, I can confirm it; and virtuous; that’s true, I can’t argue with it; and wise, but for loving me; honestly, it doesn’t add to her intelligence, nor is it a big sign of her foolishness, because I’ll be horribly in love with her. I might have some random moments of wit, from all the time I’ve spent mocking marriage, but doesn’t desire change? A man likes the food he can’t stand when he’s older. Will jokes and clever remarks and these mental games stop a man from acting on his emotions? No, the world needs to be populated. When I said I would die a bachelor, I didn’t expect to live long enough to get married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she’s a beautiful lady: I see some signs of love in her.
Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.
Against my will, I’ve been sent to tell you to come in to dinner.
Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your trouble.
I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.
I didn’t put any more effort into those thanks than you did in thanking me: if it had been a bother, I wouldn’t have come.
You take pleasure then in the message?
So you enjoy delivering the message?
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.
Yes, about as much as you would enjoy being poked with a knife and having a crow choke on it. You have no appetite, sir: goodbye.
Ha! ’Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner;’ there’s a double meaning in that ’I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me.’ that’s as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.
Ha! ’Against my will, I was sent to tell you to come in for dinner;’ there’s a double meaning in that ’I didn’t put any more effort into those thanks than you did in thanking me.’ That’s basically saying, Any effort I make for you is as easy as saying thanks. If I don’t show pity for her, I’m a villain; if I don’t love her, I’m a heartless person. I’ll go get her picture.