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Madam, your majesty is too much sad: You promised, when you parted with the king, To lay aside life-harming heaviness And entertain a cheerful disposition.
Your Majesty, you’re too sad: You promised, when you last saw the king, To let go of heavy sadness And try to be cheerful.
To please the king I did; to please myself I cannot do it; yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks, Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb, Is coming towards me, and my inward soul With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves, More than with parting from my lord the king.
I did it to please the king; but for myself I just can’t do it. Still, I don’t know why I should welcome grief, Except for saying goodbye to such a sweet person As my dear Richard. But again, I feel like Some new sorrow, ready to be born, is coming my way, And my soul trembles with no reason: something’s bothering me, More than just parting from my lord the king.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects; Like perspectives, which rightly gazed upon Show nothing but confusion, eyed awry Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty, Looking awry upon your lord’s departure, Find shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail; Which, look’d on as it is, is nought but shadows Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen, More than your lord’s departure weep not: more’s not seen; Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye, Which for things true weeps things imaginary.
Every kind of grief has many different faces, Which look like grief itself, but aren’t really it; For sorrow’s eyes, blinded by tears, See one thing as many different things; Like looking through a distorted lens, Which, when seen straight, shows only confusion, But when seen crookedly, shows clear shapes. So, your majesty, Looking wrongly at your lord’s departure, Sees more things to grieve about than just him leaving, But when you look at it clearly, it’s nothing but shadows Of what isn’t really there. So, dear queen, Don’t weep for more than your lord’s departure: that’s all there is; Or if you do, it’s just a false kind of sorrow, Weeping for imaginary things instead of the real ones.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise: howe’er it be, I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad As, though on thinking on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.
Maybe so; but still, my soul tells me otherwise: However it may be, I can’t help but feel sad; So deeply sad That even when I think of nothing at all, I still feel exhausted and weak with this empty sadness.
’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.
It’s just a trick of the mind, my lady.
’Tis nothing less: conceit is still derived From some forefather grief; mine is not so, For nothing had begot my something grief; Or something hath the nothing that I grieve: ’Tis in reversion that I do possess; But what it is, that is not yet known; what I cannot name; ’tis nameless woe, I wot.
It’s not just a trick: this feeling comes from some old grief; Mine’s different, though, Because nothing has caused my grief; Or maybe something has caused my grief, but it’s a grief I can’t explain: It’s something I possess, but don’t understand yet. Whatever it is, it’s too painful to name; it’s nameless sorrow.
God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen: I hope the king is not yet shipp’d for Ireland.
God save your majesty! And good to see you, gentlemen: I hope the king hasn’t yet sailed for Ireland.
Why hopest thou so? ’tis better hope he is; For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope: Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp’d?
Why do you hope that? It’s better to hope he has; His plans need speed, and his speed brings hope: So why do you hope he hasn’t sailed?
That he, our hope, might have retired his power, And driven into despair an enemy’s hope, Who strongly hath set footing in this land: The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arrived At Ravenspurgh.
Because he, our hope, might have pulled back his forces, And crushed the hopes of our enemy, Who has already taken a strong hold on this land: Banished Bolingbroke has come back, And safely arrived at Ravenspurgh with raised arms.
Now God in heaven forbid!
God forbid!
Ah, madam, ’tis too true: and that is worse, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy, The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.
Alas, madam, it’s true: and worse still, The Lord Northumberland, his son, young Henry Percy, The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, Along with all their powerful allies, have fled to him.
Why have you not proclaim’d Northumberland And all the rest revolted faction traitors?
Why haven’t you announced Northumberland And all the other traitors who’ve joined the rebellion?
We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester Hath broke his staff, resign’d his stewardship, And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke.
We have: because of that, the Earl of Worcester Has broken his staff, resigned his position as steward, And all the servants in the household have fled with him To join Bolingbroke.
So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe, And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir: Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy, And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother, Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d.
So, Green, you’re the one who’s helped bring about my misery, And Bolingbroke is the sad heir to my grief: Now my soul has given birth to this disaster, And I, a struggling, newly delivered mother, Have grief upon grief, sorrow upon sorrow added.
Despair not, madam.
Don’t despair, madam.
Who shall hinder me? I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope: he is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper back of death, Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, Which false hope lingers in extremity.
Who will stop me? I will despair, and be at odds With the deceiving hope: it’s a flatterer, A parasite, a delay of death, Who gently wants to break the ties of life, While false hope lingers in the worst moments.
Here comes the Duke of York.
Here comes the Duke of York.
With signs of war about his aged neck: O, full of careful business are his looks! Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words.
He’s wearing signs of war around his aging neck: Oh, his face looks full of troubling business! Uncle, for God’s sake, say something comforting.
Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts: Comfort’s in heaven; and we are on the earth, Where nothing lives but crosses, cares and grief. Your husband, he is gone to save far off, Whilst others come to make him lose at home: Here am I left to underprop his land, Who, weak with age, cannot support myself: Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made; Now shall he try his friends that flatter’d him.
If I did, I would be lying to myself: Comfort comes from heaven; we live on earth, Where nothing exists but struggles, worries, and sorrow. Your husband is gone to fight far away, While others are here to make him lose at home: Here I am, left to support his land, While, weak with age, I can barely support myself: Now comes the moment of reckoning that his excesses caused; Now he’ll see which friends truly supported him.
My lord, your son was gone before I came.
My lord, your son left before I arrived.
He was? Why, so! go all which way it will! The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold, And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side. Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester; Bid her send me presently a thousand pound: Hold, take my ring.
He did? Well, that’s just how it is! The nobles have fled, the common people are indifferent, And I fear they’ll side with Hereford. Go, get to Plashy, to my sister in Gloucester; Tell her to send me a thousand pounds right away: Here, take my ring.
My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship, To-day, as I came by, I called there; But I shall grieve you to report the rest.
My lord, I forgot to tell you, As I was passing by today, I stopped there; But I’ll regret having to tell you the rest.
What is’t, knave?
What’s happened, you scoundrel?
An hour before I came, the duchess died.
An hour before I arrived, the duchess died.
God for his mercy! what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do: I would to God, So my untruth had not provoked him to it, The king had cut off my head with my brother’s. What, are there no posts dispatch’d for Ireland? How shall we do for money for these wars? Come, sister,--cousin, I would say--pray, pardon me. Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts And bring away the armour that is there.
God have mercy! What a flood of misfortunes Is sweeping over this sorrowful land all at once! I don’t know what to do: I wish to God, That my dishonesty hadn’t led to this, And that the king had cut off my head along with my brother’s. What, haven’t any messengers been sent to Ireland? How will we pay for these wars? Come, sister--I mean cousin, forgive me. Go, fellow, get home, prepare some carts And bring back the armor that’s there.
Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus thrust disorderly into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen: The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; the other again Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d, Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I’ll Dispose of you. Gentlemen, go, muster up your men, And meet me presently at Berkeley. I should to Plashy too; But time will not permit: all is uneven, And every thing is left at six and seven.
Gentlemen, will you go gather men? If I know how or which way to organize these problems That have been so suddenly thrown into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my relatives: One is my king, whom both my oath And duty say I must protect; the other, again, Is my relative, whom the king has wronged, Whom my conscience and my family say I must help. Well, we must do something. Come, cousin, I’ll Take care of you. Gentlemen, go, gather up your men, And meet me soon at Berkeley. I should go to Plashy too; But time won’t allow it: everything is chaotic, And nothing is in order.
The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland, But none returns. For us to levy power Proportionable to the enemy Is all unpossible.
The wind is right for news to go to Ireland, But no one returns. For us to raise an army That matches the enemy’s strength Is completely impossible.
Besides, our nearness to the king in love Is near the hate of those love not the king.
Besides, our closeness to the king in loyalty Is close to the hatred of those who don’t love the king.
And that’s the wavering commons: for their love Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
And that’s the uncertain common people: their loyalty Lies in their wallets, and whoever empties them Fills their hearts with hatred.
Wherein the king stands generally condemn’d.
That’s why the king is generally condemned.
If judgement lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the king.
If judgement lies with them, then we’re guilty too, Because we’ve always been close to the king.
Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol castle: The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
Well, I’ll go for safety straight to Bristol castle: The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
Thither will I with you; for little office The hateful commons will perform for us, Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. Will you go along with us?
I’ll go there with you; because the angry common people Will do nothing for us, Except tear us apart like dogs. Will you come with us?
No; I will to Ireland to his majesty. Farewell: if heart’s presages be not vain, We three here art that ne’er shall meet again.
No; I’ll go to Ireland to join his majesty. Goodbye: if my feelings are right, We three here will never meet again.
That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.
That’s if York manages to drive back Bolingbroke.
Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry: Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever.
Poor duke! The task he’s taken on Is like counting sand and drinking the ocean dry: For every one who fights on his side, thousands will run. Farewell now, forever.
Well, we may meet again.
Well, we may meet again.
I fear me, never.
I fear we never will.