Original
Modern English
What sport shall we devise here in this garden, To drive away the heavy thought of care?
What shall we do in this garden To drive away these heavy thoughts of care?
Madam, we’ll play at bowls.
Madam, we’ll play bowls.
’Twill make me think the world is full of rubs, And that my fortune rubs against the bias.
That will make me think the world is full of obstacles, And my fortune is against me.
Madam, we’ll dance.
Madam, we’ll dance.
My legs can keep no measure in delight, When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief: Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport.
I cannot dance with joy in my heart, When my heart is full of grief: So no dancing, girl; choose something else.
Madam, we’ll tell tales.
Madam, we’ll tell tales.
Of sorrow or of joy?
Of sorrow or of joy?
Of either, madam.
Of either, madam.
Of neither, girl: For of joy, being altogether wanting, It doth remember me the more of sorrow; Or if of grief, being altogether had, It adds more sorrow to my want of joy: For what I have I need not to repeat; And what I want it boots not to complain.
Not either, girl: Because when joy is completely gone, It only makes me feel more sorrow; Or if grief is all I have, It only adds to my sorrow and takes away my joy: What I have, I don’t need to repeat; And what I lack, complaining won’t help.
Madam, I’ll sing.
Madam, I’ll sing.
’Tis well that thou hast cause But thou shouldst please me better, wouldst thou weep.
It’s good you have a reason, But you’d please me more if you would weep.
I could weep, madam, would it do you good.
I could weep, madam, if it would do you any good.
And I could sing, would weeping do me good, And never borrow any tear of thee.
And I could sing, if weeping would do me any good, And never borrow a tear from you.
But stay, here come the gardeners: Let’s step into the shadow of these trees. My wretchedness unto a row of pins, They’ll talk of state; for every one doth so Against a change; woe is forerun with woe.
But wait, here come the gardeners: Let’s step into the shade of these trees. My misery is like a row of pins, They’ll talk about the state of things; because everyone does that When change is coming; sorrow always comes before sorrow.
Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight: Give some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and like an executioner, Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays, That look too lofty in our commonwealth: All must be even in our government. You thus employ’d, I will go root away The noisome weeds, which without profit suck The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.
Go, tie up those hanging apricots, Which, like unruly children, make their father Bend under the weight of their wasteful growth: Support the bending branches. You, go, and like an executioner, Cut off the heads of the fast-growing branches, That look too proud in our society: Everything must be balanced in our government. While you do that, I’ll go dig up The harmful weeds, which suck the life out of the soil And stop the healthy flowers from growing.
Why should we in the compass of a pale Keep law and form and due proportion, Showing, as in a model, our firm estate, When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choked up, Her fruit-trees all upturned, her hedges ruin’d, Her knots disorder’d and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars?
Why should we keep law and order Within the boundaries of a fence, Showing, like a model, our strong position, When our entire land, surrounded by the sea, Is full of weeds, with its finest flowers choked, Its fruit trees all turned over, its hedges ruined, Its flower beds disorganized, and its healthy herbs Infested with caterpillars?
Hold thy peace: He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d spring Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf: The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, That seem’d in eating him to hold him up, Are pluck’d up root and all by Bolingbroke, I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
Quiet down: The one who allowed this disordered spring Has now faced the downfall of his rule: The weeds that his broad leaves once protected, That seemed to support him as they ate him up, Are now uprooted by Bolingbroke, I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
What, are they dead?
What, are they dead?
They are; and Bolingbroke Hath seized the wasteful king. O, what pity is it That he had not so trimm’d and dress’d his land As we this garden! We at time of year Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, With too much riches it confound itself: Had he done so to great and growing men, They might have lived to bear and he to taste Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live: Had he done so, himself had borne the crown, Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.
Yes, they are; and Bolingbroke Has taken over the wasteful king. Oh, how sad it is That he didn’t trim and care for his land Like we care for this garden! We, at the right time of year, Cut the bark and skin of our fruit trees, To keep them from becoming too proud in sap and blood, Which would cause them to ruin themselves with too much richness: If he had done the same with powerful and rising men, They might have lived to serve, and he could have enjoyed The fruits of their loyalty: unnecessary branches We cut away, so the useful ones can live: Had he done so, he would have worn the crown, Which he lost because of wasting time.
What, think you then the king shall be deposed?
What, do you really think the king will be overthrown?
Depress’d he is already, and deposed ’Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s, That tell black tidings.
He’s already fallen, and it’s likely he will be removed. Letters came last night To a close friend of the good Duke of York, Bringing bad news.
O, I am press’d to death through want of speaking!
Oh, I am suffocating with grief because I can’t speak!
Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden, How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news? What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee To make a second fall of cursed man? Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed? Darest thou, thou little better thing than earth, Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how, Camest thou by this ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.
You, like an old man, assigned to tend this garden, How dare you use your harsh, rude tongue to spread this unpleasant news? What temptation, what evil force, led you To cause a second fall for this cursed man? Why do you say King Richard is overthrown? Dare you, you little more than dirt, Predict his downfall? Tell me where, when, and how You learned this bad news? Speak, you miserable wretch.
Pardon me, madam: little joy have I To breathe this news; yet what I say is true. King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bolingbroke: their fortunes both are weigh’d: In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself, And some few vanities that make him light; But in the balance of great Bolingbroke, Besides himself, are all the English peers, And with that odds he weighs King Richard down. Post you to London, and you will find it so; I speak no more than every one doth know.
Forgive me, madam: I have no joy In sharing this news; but what I say is true. King Richard is in the powerful control Of Bolingbroke: their fates have been weighed: In your lord’s balance, there is nothing but himself, And a few foolish things that make him seem lighter; But in the balance of mighty Bolingbroke, Besides himself, are all the English nobles, And with that advantage, he outweighs King Richard. Go to London, and you’ll see it’s true; I’m saying no more than everyone already knows.
Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knows it? O, thou think’st To serve me last, that I may longest keep Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go, To meet at London London’s king in woe. What, was I born to this, that my sad look Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke? Gardener, for telling me these news of woe, Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow.
Quick misfortune, you who are so swift, Doesn’t this message belong to me? Am I the last to hear it? Oh, you think To serve me last, so I can keep Your sorrow in my heart the longest. Come, ladies, let’s go, To meet the king of London in his grief. What, was I born for this, that my sorrowful face Should mark the triumph of great Bolingbroke? Gardener, for bringing me this sad news, I pray God that the plants you tend may never grow.
Poor queen! so that thy state might be no worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse. Here did she fall a tear; here in this place I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace: Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance of a weeping queen.
Poor queen! If only your situation weren’t worse, I’d wish my skill could be used to curse you. Here, she shed a tear; right here in this spot I’ll plant rue, the bitter herb of grace: Rue, to remind us of pity, will soon be here, In memory of a weeping queen.