Original
Modern English
My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm’d?
My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed?
Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.
Yes, completely; and he’s eager to get started.
The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet.
The Duke of Norfolk, lively and bold, Is just waiting for the call of the appellant’s trumpet.
Why, then, the champions are prepared, and stay For nothing but his majesty’s approach.
Then the champions are ready, just waiting For nothing but the king’s arrival.
Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms: Ask him his name and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause.
Marshal, ask that champion over there The reason he’s come here in armor: Ask him his name and proceed properly To swear him in for justice in his case.
In God’s name and the king’s, say who thou art And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms, Against what man thou comest, and what thy quarrel: Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath; As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!
In God’s name and the king’s, tell us who you are And why you’re dressed in armor like a knight, Who you’re fighting, and what your quarrel is: Speak honestly, on your knighthood and your oath; May heaven and your courage protect you!
My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk; Who hither come engaged by my oath-- Which God defend a knight should violate!-- Both to defend my loyalty and truth To God, my king and my succeeding issue, Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, To prove him, in defending of myself, A traitor to my God, my king, and me: And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!
My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk; I’m here, bound by my oath-- God forbid a knight should ever break that oath!-- To defend my loyalty and truth To God, my king, and my heirs, Against the Duke of Hereford, who accuses me And, by God’s grace and my strength, To prove him a traitor to God, my king, and me: And as I fight with honor, may heaven defend me!
Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, Both who he is and why he cometh hither Thus plated in habiliments of war, And formally, according to our law, Depose him in the justice of his cause.
Marshal, ask that knight in armor, Both who he is and why he’s come here All suited in the trappings of war, And formally, according to our law, Examine him to make sure his cause is just.
What is thy name? and wherefore comest thou hither, Before King Richard in his royal lists? Against whom comest thou? and what’s thy quarrel? Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!
What’s your name? And why have you come here, Before King Richard in his royal lists? Who are you fighting, and what’s your quarrel? Speak like a true knight, may heaven defend you!
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, To prove, by God’s grace and my body’s valour, In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous, To God of heaven, King Richard and to me; And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!
I’m Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby And I stand here in armor, Ready to prove, by God’s grace and my body’s courage, In this contest, against Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, That he is a traitor, wicked and dangerous, To God in heaven, to King Richard, and to me; And as I fight with honor, may heaven protect me!
On pain of death, no person be so bold Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists, Except the marshal and such officers Appointed to direct these fair designs.
Under pain of death, no one be so bold Or reckless enough to touch the lists, Except the marshal and the officers Appointed to oversee this event.
Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand, And bow my knee before his majesty: For Mowbray and myself are like two men That vow a long and weary pilgrimage; Then let us take a ceremonious leave And loving farewell of our several friends.
Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand, And bow my knee before his majesty: For Mowbray and I are like two men Who vow to make a long and tiring journey; So let us say a formal goodbye And a heartfelt farewell to our friends.
The appellant in all duty greets your highness, And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.
The petitioner greets your highness with respect, And asks to kiss your hand and take his leave.
We will descend and fold him in our arms. Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, So be thy fortune in this royal fight! Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.
We will come down and embrace him. Cousin of Hereford, since your cause is just, May your fortune be good in this royal fight! Farewell, my blood; if you shed it today, We will mourn, but we won’t avenge you if you’re dead.
O let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear: As confident as is the falcon’s flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, I take my leave of you; Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle; Not sick, although I have to do with death, But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet: O thou, the earthly author of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head, Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers; And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point, That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat, And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt, Even in the lusty havior of his son.
Oh, let no noble eye shed a tear For me, if I’m struck down by Mowbray’s spear: As sure as a falcon’s flight is against a bird, So sure am I in fighting Mowbray. My dear lord, I bid you farewell; And you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle; I am not sick, though I’m facing death, But I am strong, young, and breathing cheerfully. Look, as we do at English feasts, so I bid you The sweetest goodbye, to make the end most pleasant: Oh you, the earthly source of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, reborn in me, Gives me double strength to strive For victory above my head, Add strength to my armor with your prayers; And with your blessings, sharpen my lance’s tip, So that it may pierce Mowbray’s armor, And renew the name of John of Gaunt, Even in the strong actions of his son.
God in thy good cause make thee prosperous! Be swift like lightning in the execution; And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the casque Of thy adverse pernicious enemy: Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.
May God make you successful in your just cause! Be quick as lightning in your actions; And let your blows, doubled and redoubled, Fall like thunder on your dangerous enemy: Stir up your youthful courage, be brave, and live.
Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive!
May my innocence and Saint George make me prosper!
However God or fortune cast my lot, There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne, A loyal, just and upright gentleman: Never did captive with a freer heart Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace His golden uncontroll’d enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This feast of battle with mine adversary. Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, Take from my mouth the wish of happy years: As gentle and as jocund as to jest Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.
No matter how God or fortune decides my fate, I live or die true to King Richard’s throne, A loyal, just, and upright man: Never did a prisoner with a freer heart Shake off his chains of imprisonment and embrace His unrestrained freedom, More than my joyful soul celebrates This battle feast against my opponent. Most mighty king, and my fellow peers, Accept my wish for happy years: As cheerful and lighthearted as jesting I go to fight: truth is calm at heart.
Farewell, my lord: securely I espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. Order the trial, marshal, and begin.
Farewell, my lord: I can clearly see Virtue and courage in your eyes. Marshal the trial, and let it begin.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Take your lance; and may God defend the right!
Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen.
Strong as a tower in hope, I say amen.
Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.
Take this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, A traitor to his God, his king and him; And dares him to set forward to the fight.
Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his king, and himself, On pain of being found false and disloyal, To prove that the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, Is a traitor to God, his king, and to him; And dares him to step forward to the fight.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himself and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, To God, his sovereign and to him disloyal; Courageously and with a free desire Attending but the signal to begin.
Here stands Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain of being found false and disloyal, To defend himself and to prove That Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Is disloyal to God, his king, and to him; He stands ready, with courage and determination, Waiting only for the signal to begin.
Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants.
Sound the trumpets; let the combatants begin.
Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down.
Stay, the king has dropped his scepter.
Let them lay by their helmets and their spears, And both return back to their chairs again: Withdraw with us: and let the trumpets sound While we return these dukes what we decree.
Let them put aside their helmets and spears, And both go back to their chairs again: Come with us: and let the trumpets play While we give these dukes what we have decided.
Draw near, And list what with our council we have done. For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soil’d With that dear blood which it hath fostered; And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds plough’d up with neighbours’ sword; And for we think the eagle-winged pride Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set on you To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep; Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums, With harsh resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood, Therefore, we banish you our territories: You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, Till twice five summers have enrich’d our fields Shall not regreet our fair dominions, But tread the stranger paths of banishment.
Come closer, And listen to what our council has decided. So that our kingdom’s land is not stained By that precious blood it has nurtured; And because we despise the terrible sight Of civil wounds torn open by our neighbors’ swords; And because we believe the eagle-like pride Of ambitious, sky-reaching thoughts, With envy and hatred of rivals, sets you against us And stirs up our peace, which in our country’s cradle Gently allows the sweet sleep of innocence; Which, when disturbed by loud, untuned drums, And the terrifying blare of trumpets, And the clash of angry, rattling arms, Might drive fair peace from our borders And make us wade through our own kin’s blood, Therefore, we banish you from our lands: You, cousin Hereford, under threat of death, Will not return to our lands for twenty years, But will walk the foreign paths of exile.
Your will be done: this must my comfort be, Sun that warms you here shall shine on me; And those his golden beams to you here lent Shall point on me and gild my banishment.
Your will is done: this must be my comfort, The sun that warms you here will shine on me; And those golden rays you lend to you here Will shine on me and make my exile bright.
Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, Which I with some unwillingness pronounce: The sly slow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile; The hopeless word of ’never to return’ Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.
Norfolk, for you there is an even harsher sentence, Which I announce with great reluctance: The slow-moving hours will not decide The endless length of your dear exile; The hopeless word of ’never to return’ I speak against you, under threat of death.
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlook’d for from your highness’ mouth: A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your highness’ hands. The language I have learn’d these forty years, My native English, now I must forego: And now my tongue’s use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up, Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony: Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue, Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips; And dull unfeeling barren ignorance Is made my gaoler to attend on me. I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now: What is thy sentence then but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
A heavy sentence, my most sovereign lord, And all unexpected from your highness’ lips: A greater wrong, not such a deep punishment, As to be cast out into the world’s air, Have I deserved from your highness. The language I’ve spoken these forty years, My native English, I must now give up: And now my tongue is no more useful to me Than an unplayed violin or harp, Or like an instrument put away, Or, when open, put into the hands Of someone who doesn’t know how to play it: In my mouth, you’ve imprisoned my tongue, Doubly locked by my teeth and lips; And dull, uncaring, barren ignorance Has become my jailer to watch over me. I’m too old to beg for pity from a nurse, Too old to be a student now: So what is your sentence but a kind of death, That robs me of my native speech?
It boots thee not to be compassionate: After our sentence plaining comes too late.
It does you no good to show sympathy: Complaints after our sentence are too late.
Then thus I turn me from my country’s light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.
Then I turn away from the light of my country, To live in the dark shadows of eternal night.
Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banish’d hands; Swear by the duty that you owe to God-- Our part therein we banish with yourselves-- To keep the oath that we administer: You never shall, so help you truth and God! Embrace each other’s love in banishment; Nor never look upon each other’s face; Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile This louring tempest of your home-bred hate; Nor never by advised purpose meet To plot, contrive, or complot any ill ’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.
Come back, and take an oath with us. Place your banished hands on our royal sword; Swear by the duty you owe to God— We banish our part in this along with you— To keep the oath we make you swear: You shall never, so help you God and truth! Embrace each other’s love in exile; Never look at each other’s face again; Never write, or greet, or reconcile This stormy hatred born in your homeland; Never meet with any purpose to plot Or scheme against us, our state, our people, or our land.
I swear.
I swear.
And I, to keep all this.
And I swear to keep all this.
Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy:-- By this time, had the king permitted us, One of our souls had wander’d in the air. Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banish’d from this land: Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm; Since thou hast far to go, bear not along The clogging burthen of a guilty soul.
Norfolk, you are now my enemy:— By now, had the king allowed us, One of our souls would have wandered in the air. Exiled from this fragile tomb of our bodies, Just as now our bodies are exiled from this land: Confess your treason before you leave the kingdom; Since you have far to go, do not carry The burden of a guilty soul with you.
No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heaven banish’d as from hence! But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know; And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue. Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray; Save back to England, all the world’s my way.
No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were a traitor, Let my name be erased from the book of life, And let me be cast out of heaven as I am from here! But what you are, God, you, and I know; And I fear that all too soon the king will regret this. Farewell, my lord. Now I cannot go astray; Except back to England, where all the world’s my path.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banish’d years Pluck’d four away.
Uncle, even in the reflection of your eyes I see your troubled heart: your sad look Has taken away four of the years of his exile.
Six frozen winter spent, Return with welcome home from banishment.
Six cold winters have passed, Now he returns home from exile, with a warm welcome.
How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters and four wanton springs End in a word: such is the breath of kings.
How much time is hidden in just one little word! Four slow winters and four carefree springs End with a single word: such is the power of kings.
I thank my liege, that in regard of me He shortens four years of my son’s exile: But little vantage shall I reap thereby; For, ere the six years that he hath to spend Can change their moons and bring their times about My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light Shall be extinct with age and endless night; My inch of taper will be burnt and done, And blindfold death not let me see my son.
I thank my king, that because of me He shortens my son’s exile by four years: But I won’t gain much from it; For before the six years my son has to spend Can pass and change with the turning of the moons, My lamp, worn out by age, and my fading light Will be snuffed out by time and endless night; My small flicker of life will burn out and die, And death, with its blindfold, won’t let me see my son.
Why uncle, thou hast many years to live.
Why, uncle, you have many years left to live.
But not a minute, king, that thou canst give: Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage; Thy word is current with him for my death, But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.
But not a single minute, king, that you can give me: You can shorten my days with gloomy sorrow, And steal nights from me, but you can’t give me a tomorrow; You can help time age me with wrinkles, But you can’t stop time from its course; Your words are enough to make my death come faster, But once I’m dead, your kingdom can’t bring me back.
Thy son is banish’d upon good advice, Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave: Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour?
Your son was banished for good reason, And you yourself supported the verdict: Why, then, do you seem upset by our justice?
Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. You urged me as a judge; but I had rather You would have bid me argue like a father. O, had it been a stranger, not my child, To smooth his fault I should have been more mild: A partial slander sought I to avoid, And in the sentence my own life destroy’d. Alas, I look’d when some of you should say, I was too strict to make mine own away; But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue Against my will to do myself this wrong.
Things that seem sweet to the taste often turn bitter in the stomach. You made me speak as a judge; but I would have preferred If you had asked me to speak as a father. Oh, if it had been a stranger, not my child, I would have been gentler in smoothing over his faults: I tried to avoid being accused of partiality, And in my judgment, I destroyed my own life. Alas, I hoped that some of you would say, I was too harsh in condemning my own kin; But you forced my unwilling tongue To wrong myself against my will.
Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so: Six years we banish him, and he shall go.
Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, tell him the same: We banish him for six years, and then he must leave.
Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know, From where you do remain let paper show.
Cousin, farewell: what cannot be known in person, Let paper reveal from where you have gone.
My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride, As far as land will let me, by your side.
My lord, I won’t take leave; I will ride, As far as the land allows, by your side.
O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words, That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends?
Oh, what’s the point of hoarding your words, That you don’t even greet your friends?
I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue’s office should be prodigal To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.
I don’t have enough words to say goodbye to you, When the tongue should be generous To express the sorrow in the heart.
Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.
Your grief is just your absence for a while.
Joy absent, grief is present for that time.
When joy is absent, grief fills that time.
What is six winters? they are quickly gone.
What’s six winters? They’ll pass quickly.
To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.
To people who are happy; but grief makes one hour feel like ten.
Call it a travel that thou takest for pleasure.
Call it a journey you take for pleasure.
My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.
My heart will sigh if I call it that, Which feels more like a forced pilgrimage.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home return.
The gloomy path of your tired steps Should be seen as the setting for The precious jewel of your return home.
Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Will but remember me what a deal of world I wander from the jewels that I love. Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages, and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?
No, rather, every slow step I take Will only remind me how far from home I am, and from the things I love. Must I not serve a long apprenticeship To foreign lands, and in the end, When I have my freedom, boast of nothing Except that I was a servant to grief?
All places that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus; There is no virtue like necessity. Think not the king did banish thee, But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit, Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour And not the king exiled thee; or suppose Devouring pestilence hangs in our air And thou art flying to a fresher clime: Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou comest: Suppose the singing birds musicians, The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strew’d, The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more Than a delightful measure or a dance; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
All places the eye of heaven touches Are, for a wise man, ports and happy havens. Teach yourself to think this way; There is no virtue greater than necessity. Don’t think the king banished you, But that you banished the king. Woe is heavier, When it sees it’s barely being carried. Go, say I sent you to seek honor, Not that the king exiled you; or imagine A deadly plague is in the air And you’re flying to a better place: Think of what your soul holds dear, and imagine it Is ahead of you, not behind: Picture the birds singing as musicians, The grass you walk on as a carpet, The flowers as fair ladies, and your steps no more Than a joyful dance; For sorrow has less power to wound The person who mocks it and doesn’t take it seriously.
O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse: Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.
Oh, who can hold fire in his hand By thinking of the icy Caucasus? Or satisfy hunger by merely thinking of a feast? Or roll in the snow in December By imagining the heat of summer? Oh, no! The thought of good things Only makes the bad seem worse: Grief’s tooth never hurts more Than when it bites but doesn’t pierce the wound.
Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way: Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.
Come, come, my son, I’ll send you on your way: If I had your youth and reason, I wouldn’t stay.
Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu; My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet! Where’er I wander, boast of this I can, Though banish’d, yet a trueborn Englishman.
Then, farewell, England’s ground; sweet soil, goodbye; My mother, and my nurse, who still sustains me! Wherever I go, I can boast of this, Though exiled, I am still a trueborn Englishman.