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Modern English
My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off, of our two cousins coming into London.
My lord, you told me you would finish the story, When your tears made you stop telling it, About our two cousins coming into London.
Where did I leave?
Where did I leave off?
At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgovern’d hands from windows’ tops Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head.
At that sad moment, my lord, When rough, mismanaged hands from the tops of windows Threw dust and trash on King Richard’s head.
Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know, With slow but stately pace kept on his course, Whilst all tongues cried ’God save thee, Bolingbroke!’ You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage, and that all the walls With painted imagery had said at once ’Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!’ Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning, Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck, Bespake them thus: ’I thank you, countrymen:’ And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along.
Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Rode a hot and fiery horse Which his ambitious rider seemed to know, With slow but noble steps he kept moving forward, While all around shouted, ’God save you, Bolingbroke!’ You would have thought the very windows spoke, So many eager gazes from young and old Shot their longing eyes through the windows At his face, as if the walls With painted pictures had all said at once ’Jesus protect you! Welcome, Bolingbroke!’ While he, turning from one side to the other, Bareheaded, lower than his proud horse’s neck, Spoke to them: ’Thank you, my countrymen:’ And while doing this, he passed on.
Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?
Oh dear, poor Richard! Where was he during all this?
As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious; Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes Did scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried ’God save him!’ No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home: But dust was thrown upon his sacred head: Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience, That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted And barbarism itself have pitied him. But heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents. To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now, Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
Like when, in a theatre, the audience, After a well-liked actor leaves the stage, Stares idly at the next person who enters, Thinking his talk is boring; Just like that, or with even more disdain, people’s eyes Gloomed at gentle Richard; no one shouted ’God save him!’ No joyful voice welcomed him back home: Instead, dust was thrown on his holy head: Which, with such gentle sadness, he shook off, His face still struggling with tears and smiles, The signs of his grief and patience, If God had not, for some strong reason, hardened The hearts of men, they must have melted And even savagery itself would have pitied him. But heaven has a hand in these events, To whose will we submit our peaceful hearts. Now we are sworn subjects of Bolingbroke, Whose state and honor I will always support.
Here comes my son Aumerle.
Here comes my son Aumerle.
Aumerle that was; But that is lost for being Richard’s friend, And, madam, you must call him Rutland now: I am in parliament pledge for his truth And lasting fealty to the new-made king.
Aumerle, who used to be called that; But now that’s lost because he was Richard’s friend, And, madam, you have to call him Rutland now: I am standing in parliament to vouch for his loyalty And his lasting allegiance to the new king.
Welcome, my son: who are the violets now That strew the green lap of the new come spring?
Welcome, my son: who are the young favorites now That fill the bright new season with their presence?
Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not: God knows I had as lief be none as one.
Madam, I don’t know, and I don’t really care: God knows I’d rather be nobody than somebody.
Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?
Well, I hope you thrive in this new season of life, Lest you be cut down before you reach your full potential. Any news from Oxford? Are those tournaments and celebrations still happening?
For aught I know, my lord, they do.
As far as I know, my lord, they are.
You will be there, I know.
I know you’ll be there.
If God prevent not, I purpose so.
If God allows, I plan to be.
What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom? Yea, look’st thou pale? let me see the writing.
What’s that seal hanging outside your chest? Yes, you look pale. Let me see what’s written on it.
My lord, ’tis nothing.
My lord, it’s nothing.
No matter, then, who see it; I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.
It doesn’t matter who sees it; I’ll be satisfied. Let me see what’s written on it.
I do beseech your grace to pardon me: It is a matter of small consequence, Which for some reasons I would not have seen.
I beg you, your grace, please forgive me: It’s something small and insignificant, Which, for certain reasons, I didn’t want you to see.
Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. I fear, I fear,--
For certain reasons, sir, I do want to see it. I’m worried, I’m worried—
What should you fear? ’Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter’d into For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.
What should you be worried about? It’s just some bond he’s signed, To buy fancy clothes for the celebration day.
Bound to himself! what doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. Boy, let me see the writing.
A bond to himself! What’s he need with a bond That he’s already bound by? Wife, you’re being foolish. Boy, let me see what’s written.
I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.
Please forgive me; I can’t show it.
I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.
I’ll be satisfied; let me see it, I insist.
Treason! foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!
Treason! Horrible treason! Scoundrel! Traitor! Slave!
What is the matter, my lord?
What’s wrong, my lord?
Ho! who is within there?
Hey! Who’s there?
Saddle my horse. God for his mercy, what treachery is here!
Prepare my horse. God, have mercy, what betrayal is this?
Why, what is it, my lord?
What’s going on, my lord?
Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse. Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth, I will appeach the villain.
Give me my boots, I said; prepare my horse. Now, by my honor, my life, my word, I will accuse the traitor.
What is the matter?
What’s happening?
Peace, foolish woman.
Be quiet, foolish woman.
I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle.
I won’t be quiet. What’s going on, Aumerle?
Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life must answer.
Good mother, please calm down; it’s nothing more Than my poor life has to answer for.
Thy life answer!
Your life has to answer for it?
Bring me my boots: I will unto the king.
Bring me my boots: I’m going to the king.
Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed. Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.
Hit him, Aumerle. Poor boy, you’re confused. Go away, villain! never come before me again.
Give me my boots, I say.
Give me my boots, I said.
Why, York, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? Have we more sons? or are we like to have? Is not my teeming date drunk up with time? And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age, And rob me of a happy mother’s name? Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
Why, York, what are you going to do? Won’t you hide your own wrongdoing? Do we have more sons? or are we going to have more? Is my time running out? And are you going to take my fair son away from me, And rob me of the joy of being a mother? Isn’t he just like you? Isn’t he your own?
Thou fond mad woman, Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament, And interchangeably set down their hands, To kill the king at Oxford.
You crazy woman, Are you going to cover up this dark plot? A dozen of them here have taken an oath, And each of them signed it, To kill the king at Oxford.
He shall be none; We’ll keep him here: then what is that to him?
He won’t be one of them; We’ll keep him here: what does that have to do with him?
Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son, I would appeach him.
Get away, foolish woman! even if he were my son twenty times over, I would accuse him.
Hadst thou groan’d for him As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful. But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect That I have been disloyal to thy bed, And that he is a bastard, not thy son: Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind: He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, or any of my kin, And yet I love him.
If you had grieved for him Like I have, you would be more compassionate. But now I understand what you’re thinking; you suspect That I’ve been unfaithful to you, And that he’s a bastard, not your son: Sweet York, sweet husband, don’t think that way: He’s as much like you as any man can be, Not like me, or any of my relatives, And yet I love him.
Make way, unruly woman!
Move aside, unruly woman!
After, Aumerle! mount thee upon his horse; Spur post, and get before him to the king, And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. I’ll not be long behind; though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York: And never will I rise up from the ground Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away, be gone!
Aumerle, go after him! get on his horse; Ride fast, and get ahead of him to the king, And beg for your pardon before he accuses you. I won’t be far behind; even though I’m old, I’m sure I can ride as fast as York: And I won’t get up from the ground Until Bolingbroke has forgiven you. Go, hurry!