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Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges, Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou, that hast Upon the winds command, bind them in brass, Having call’d them from the deep! O, still Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida, How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously; Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman’s whistle Is as a whisper in the ears of death, Unheard. Lychorida!--Lucina, O Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle To those that cry by night, convey thy deity Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs Of my queen’s travails!
You god of this vast sea, stop these waves, Which crash against heaven and hell; and you, who have Control over the winds, bind them with chains, Having called them from the depths! Oh, keep Your deafening, terrifying thunder; gently calm Your swift, fiery flashes! Oh, how, Lychorida, How is my queen? You rage so venomously; Will you unleash all your fury? The sailor’s whistle Is like a whisper in the ears of death, Unheard. Lychorida!—Lucina, oh Most divine protector, and gentle midwife To those who cry at night, bring your power Aboard our rocking boat; speed the pains Of my queen’s labor!
Now, Lychorida!
Now, Lychorida!
Here is a thing too young for such a place, Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I Am like to do: take in your arms this piece Of your dead queen.
Here is a thing too young for such a place, Who, if it had the sense, would die, as I Am about to do: take in your arms this piece Of your dead queen.
How, how, Lychorida!
What, what, Lychorida!
Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm. Here’s all that is left living of your queen, A little daughter: for the sake of it, Be manly, and take comfort.
Patience, good sir; do not fight the storm. Here’s all that is left of your queen, A little daughter: for her sake, Be brave, and find comfort.
O you gods! Why do you make us love your goodly gifts, And snatch them straight away? We here below Recall not what we give, and therein may Use honour with you.
Oh you gods! Why do you make us love your beautiful gifts, And then take them away so quickly? We here below Forget what we give, and that’s where We gain honor with you.
Patience, good sir, Even for this charge.
Patience, good sir, Even in this situation.
Now, mild may be thy life! For a more blustrous birth had never babe: Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world That ever was prince’s child. Happy what follows! Thou hast as chiding a nativity As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make, To herald thee from the womb: even at the first Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit, With all thou canst find here. Now, the good gods Throw their best eyes upon’t!
Now, may your life be peaceful! For no child ever had a more difficult birth: May your nature be calm and gentle! For You are the roughest welcome to this world That any prince’s child has ever had. I hope what follows is happy! You have a birth as stormy As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make, To announce your arrival into the world: even from the start Your loss is greater than anything you can carry with you, With all you will find here. Now, may the good gods Look kindly upon it!
What courage, sir? God save you!
What courage, sir? God keep you safe!
Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw; It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love Of this poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer, I would it would be quiet.
Enough courage: I don’t fear the storm; It has already done its worst to me. Yet, for the love Of this poor baby, this new sailor on the sea, I wish it would calm down.
Slack the bolins there! Thou wilt not, wilt thou? Blow, and split thyself.
Loosen the ropes there! You won’t, will you? Blow, and tear yourself apart.
But sea-room, an the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not.
But with plenty of space, if the salt water and the stormy waves kiss the moon, I don’t care.
Sir, your queen must overboard: the sea works high, the wind is loud, and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead.
Sir, your queen must be thrown overboard: the sea is rough, the wind is loud, and won’t calm down until the ship is rid of the dead.
That’s your superstition.
That’s just your superstition.
Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath been still observed: and we are strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield her; for she must overboard straight.
Pardon us, sir; this has always been the custom at sea: And we are strong in tradition. So, please give in quickly; she must go overboard right now.
As you think meet. Most wretched queen!
As you think best. Most miserable queen!
Here she lies, sir.
Here she lies, sir.
A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear; No light, no fire: the unfriendly elements Forgot thee utterly: nor have I time To give thee hallow’d to thy grave, but straight Must cast thee, scarcely coffin’d, in the ooze; Where, for a monument upon thy bones, And e’er-remaining lamps, the belching whale And humming water must o’erwhelm thy corpse, Lying with simple shells. O Lychorida, Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper, My casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander Bring me the satin coffer: lay the babe Upon the pillow: hie thee, whiles I say A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman.
You’ve had a terrible childbirth, my dear; No light, no warmth: the harsh elements Completely forgot about you: nor do I have time To give you a proper funeral, but must immediately Cast you, barely in a coffin, into the sea; Where, as a monument on your bones, And everlasting lights, the belching whale And the swarming water must cover your body, Lying with simple shells. Oh Lychorida, Tell Nestor to bring me spices, ink, and paper, My chest and my jewels; and tell Nicander To bring me the satin box: lay the baby On the pillow: hurry, while I say A priestly farewell to her: quickly, woman.
Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulked and bitumed ready.
Sir, we have a chest below deck, sealed up And ready for use.
I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is this?
Thank you. Sailor, tell me, what coast is this?
We are near Tarsus.
We are near Tarsus.
Thither, gentle mariner. Alter thy course for Tyre. When canst thou reach it?
Go there, kind sailor. Change your course for Tyre. When can you get there?
By break of day, if the wind cease.
By dawn, if the wind stops.
O, make for Tarsus! There will I visit Cleon, for the babe Cannot hold out to Tyrus: there I’ll leave it At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner: I’ll bring the body presently.
Oh, head for Tarsus! I’ll visit Cleon there, because the baby Can’t make it to Tyre: I’ll leave it there To be carefully looked after. Go on, good sailor: I’ll bring the body right away.