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Modern English
Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have consumed with fire Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire; But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not.
Dear uncle York, the latest news we’ve heard Is that the rebels have burned down Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire; But whether they’ve been captured or killed, we don’t know.
Welcome, my lord what is the news?
Welcome, my lord, what news do you bring?
First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is, I have to London sent The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent: The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here.
First, I wish all happiness to your royal state. The next piece of news is that I’ve sent to London The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent: The details of their capture are written out In this paper here for you to read.
We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.
We thank you, gentle Percy, for your efforts; And for your worth, we’ll reward you well.
My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, Two of the dangerous consorted traitors That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.
My lord, I’ve sent to London from Oxford The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, Two of the dangerous traitors working together Who tried to bring about your ruin at Oxford.
Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.
Fitzwater, I won’t forget your efforts; Your nobility is clear, I can see that well.
The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience and sour melancholy Hath yielded up his body to the grave; But here is Carlisle living, to abide Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.
The chief conspirator, the Abbot of Westminster, With the weight of his guilty conscience and deep sorrow Has surrendered his body to the grave; But here is Carlisle, still alive, to face Your kingly judgment and the punishment for his arrogance.
Carlisle, this is your doom: Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life; So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife: For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.
Carlisle, this is your fate: Choose a quiet place, a respectable room, More than you have now, and live there in peace; As long as you live without conflict, die free from strife: For though you’ve always been my enemy, I’ve seen noble qualities in you.
Great king, within this coffin I present Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
Great king, inside this coffin I present Your buried fear: here lies, breathless, The mightiest of your greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, whom I’ve brought here.
Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought A deed of slander with thy fatal hand Upon my head and all this famous land.
Exton, I do not thank you; for you’ve committed An act of dishonor with your deadly hand Against me and all this famous land.
From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.
My lord, I did this deed at your own command.
They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered. The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, But neither my good word nor princely favour: With Cain go wander through shades of night, And never show thy head by day nor light. Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe, That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow: Come, mourn with me for that I do lament, And put on sullen black incontinent: I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land, To wash this blood off from my guilty hand: March sadly after; grace my mournings here; In weeping after this untimely bier.
Those who need poison don’t love it, And I don’t love you: though I wanted him dead, I hate the killer, but pity the one who was killed. You shall bear the guilt of conscience for your actions, But neither my good word nor my royal favor: Go wander with Cain through the shadows of night, And never show your face in daylight or light. Lords, I swear, my soul is full of sorrow, That blood should stain me to make me grow: Come, mourn with me for what I grieve, And put on black immediately: I’ll make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, To wash this blood from my guilty hands: March sadly after me; join me in mourning here; Follow me weeping after this untimely coffin.