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Who m eets us here? my niece Plantagenet Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester? Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the Tower, On pure heart’s love to greet the tender princes. Daughter, well met.
Who is meeting us here? My niece Plantagenet Is being led by her kind aunt of Gloucester? Now, I swear, she’s heading to the Tower, Out of pure love to greet the young princes. Daughter, it’s good to see you.
God give your graces both A happy and a joyful time of day!
God bless you both, And may you have a happy and joyful day!
As much to you, good sister! Whither away?
Same to you, good sister! Where are you going?
No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess, Upon the like devotion as yourselves, To gratulate the gentle princes there.
No farther than the Tower; and, as I suppose, For the same reason as you, To congratulate the gentle princes there.
Kind sister, thanks: we’ll enter all together.
Kind sister, thank you: we’ll all go in together.
And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes. Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave, How doth the prince, and my young son of York?
And here comes the lieutenant, right on time. Master lieutenant, excuse me, but, How are the prince and my young son of York?
Right well, dear madam. By your patience, I may not suffer you to visit them; The king hath straitly charged the contrary.
They’re both well, dear madam. But, with your permission, I can’t let you visit them; The king has strictly forbidden it.
The king! why, who’s that?
The king! Who is that?
I cry you mercy: I mean the lord protector.
I beg your pardon: I mean the lord protector.
The Lord protect him from that kingly title! Hath he set bounds betwixt their love and me? I am their mother; who should keep me from them?
May the Lord protect him from that kingly title! Has he put limits between their love for me and my own? I am their mother; who has the right to keep me from them?
I am their fathers mother; I will see them.
I’m their father’s mother; I will see them.
Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother: Then bring me to their sights; I’ll bear thy blame And take thy office from thee, on my peril.
I’m their aunt by law, but in love, their mother: So take me to them; I’ll take the blame And relieve you of your duty, at my own risk.
No, madam, no; I may not leave it so: I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.
No, madam, no; I can’t leave it like this: I’ve sworn an oath, so please forgive me.
Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, And I’ll salute your grace of York as mother, And reverend looker on, of two fair queens.
Let me meet you, ladies, in an hour, And I’ll greet your grace of York as a mother, And as a respectful observer of two beautiful queens.
Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster, There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen.
Come, madam, you must go straight to Westminster, There to be crowned Richard’s queen.
O, cut my lace in sunder, that my pent heart May have some scope to beat, or else I swoon With this dead-killing news!
Oh, cut my laces, so my trapped heart Can beat freely, or I’ll faint From this soul-crushing news!
Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news!
Terrible news! Oh, unpleasant news!
Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your grace?
Be of good cheer: mother, how are you feeling?
O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee hence! Death and destruction dog thee at the heels; Thy mother’s name is ominous to children. If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas, And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house, Lest thou increase the number of the dead; And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse, Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen.
Oh Dorset, don’t talk to me, go away! Death and destruction are chasing you; Your mother’s name is cursed for children. If you want to escape death, cross the sea, And live with Richmond, away from hell’s reach. Go, hurry away from this slaughterhouse, Or you’ll just add to the dead; And make me die under Margaret’s curse, Neither mother, wife, nor England’s queen.
Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. Take all the swift advantage of the hours; You shall have letters from me to my son To meet you on the way, and welcome you. Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay.
Your advice is full of wise care, madam. Take every advantage of the time; I’ll send letters to my son To meet you on your way and welcome you. Don’t be delayed by foolish hesitation.
O ill-dispersing wind of misery! O my accursed womb, the bed of death! A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world, Whose unavoided eye is murderous.
Oh, spreading wind of misery! Oh, my cursed womb, the bed of death! You’ve hatched a cockatrice for the world, Whose deadly gaze is unavoidable.
Come, madam, come; I in all haste was sent.
Come, madam, come; I was sent in great haste.
And I in all unwillingness will go. I would to God that the inclusive verge Of golden metal that must round my brow Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain! Anointed let me be with deadly venom, And die, ere men can say, God save the queen!
And I, with great reluctance, will go. I wish to God that the golden crown That must encircle my brow Were red-hot steel, to burn me to the brain! Let me be anointed with deadly poison, And die before anyone can say, "God save the queen!"
Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.
Go, go, poor soul, I don’t envy your glory But I won’t wish harm on you.
No! why? When he that is my husband now Came to me, as I follow’d Henry’s corse, When scarce the blood was well wash’d from his hands Which issued from my other angel husband And that dead saint which then I weeping follow’d; O, when, I say, I look’d on Richard’s face, This was my wish: ’Be thou,’ quoth I, ’ accursed, For making me, so young, so old a widow! And, when thou wed’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed; And be thy wife--if any be so mad-- As miserable by the life of thee As thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death! Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, Even in so short a space, my woman’s heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words And proved the subject of my own soul’s curse, Which ever since hath kept my eyes from rest; For never yet one hour in his bed Have I enjoy’d the golden dew of sleep, But have been waked by his timorous dreams. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick; And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.
No! Why? When he who is my husband now Came to me, as I followed Henry’s corpse, When the blood was barely cleaned from his hands That had spilled from my other angel husband And that dead saint I wept for; Oh, when I looked at Richard’s face, This was my wish: "Be you," I said, "cursed, For making me, so young, such a widow! And when you marry, let sorrow haunt your bed; And be your wife—if any is mad enough— As miserable from your life As I am from the death of my dear lord!" Look, before I can even repeat this curse, In such a short time, my woman’s heart Grew weak from his sweet words And became the victim of my own soul’s curse, Which has kept me from rest; For never, not once, in his bed Have I enjoyed a peaceful night’s sleep, But have been awakened by his fearful dreams. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick; And soon, I have no doubt, he’ll be rid of me.
Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining.
Goodbye, poor heart! I feel sorry for your complaints.
No more than from my soul I mourn for yours.
No more than I truly mourn for yours.
Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory!
Goodbye, you sad greeter of glory!
Adieu, poor soul, that takest thy leave of it!
Goodbye, poor soul, who is saying goodbye to it!
[To DORSET] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!
[To DORSET] Go to Richmond, and may good luck guide you!
Go thou to Richard, and good angels guard thee!
Go to Richard, and may good angels protect you!
Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee! I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me! Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hour’s joy wrecked with a week of teen.
Go to sanctuary, and may good thoughts be with you! I will go to my grave, where peace and rest are with me! I’ve seen more than eighty years of sorrow, And every hour of joy destroyed by a week of grief.
Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes Whom envy hath immured within your walls! Rough cradle for such little pretty ones! Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well! So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.
Wait, but look back with me toward the Tower. Pity, you old stones, those innocent children Whom jealousy has locked up inside your walls! A rough cradle for such small, sweet ones! A harsh, ragged nurse, an old, gloomy playmate For tender princes, take good care of my children! So foolish sorrow bids your stones goodbye.