Original
Modern English
Sir, your glove.
Sir, your glove.
Not mine; my gloves are on.
Not mine; my gloves are on.
Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one.
Well, this must be yours, because it’s the only one.
Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it’s mine: Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! Ah, Silvia, Silvia!
Ha! let me see: yes, give it to me, it’s mine: A lovely accessory that belongs to something divine! Ah, Silvia, Silvia!
Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!
Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!
How now, sirrah?
What’s this, boy?
She is not within hearing, sir.
She’s not nearby, sir.
Why, sir, who bade you call her?
Then who told you to call her?
Your worship, sir; or else I mistook.
You, sir; unless I misunderstood.
Well, you’ll still be too forward.
Well, you’re always rushing ahead.
And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.
But last time, I was scolded for being too slow.
Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?
Alright, tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?
She that your worship loves?
The one your worship loves?
Why, how know you that I am in love?
Why, how do you know that I am in love?
Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malecontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money: and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.
Well, by these obvious signs: first, you’ve learned, like Sir Proteus, to cross your arms, like a disgruntled person; to enjoy a love-song, like a robin; to walk alone, like someone with the plague; to sigh, like a schoolboy who lost his A B C; to cry, like a young girl who’s just lost her grandmother; to fast, like someone on a diet; to stay up at night, like someone afraid of being robbed; to speak in a whiny voice, like a beggar on Halloween. You used to laugh like a rooster; when you walked, you walked like a lion; when you fasted, it was right after a big meal; when you looked sad, it was because you were broke: and now you’ve changed so much because of a lady, that when I look at you, I can hardly believe you’re my master.
Are all these things perceived in me?
Are all these things really noticeable in me?
They are all perceived without ye.
They’re all obvious without you even trying.
Without me? they cannot.
Without me? That can’t be true.
Without you? nay, that’s certain, for, without you were so simple, none else would: but you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady.
Without you? Oh yes, that’s for sure, because, if you weren’t so naïve, nobody else would notice: but you’re so full of these silly things, that they shine through you like the water in a public restroom, and anyone who sees you can’t help but act like a doctor, commenting on your condition.
But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?
But tell me, do you know my lady Silvia?
She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper?
The one you keep staring at when she’s sitting at dinner?
Hast thou observed that? even she, I mean.
Have you noticed that? Yes, she’s the one I mean.
Why, sir, I know her not.
Well, sir, I don’t know her.
Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet knowest her not?
You don’t know her, but you can tell who she is by my staring at her?
Is she not hard-favoured, sir?
Isn’t she plain-looking, sir?
Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured.
Not so much plain, boy, as well-favoured.
Sir, I know that well enough.
Sir, I know that well enough.
What dost thou know?
What do you mean by that?
That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favoured.
That she’s not as plain as, well, you are handsome.
I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite.
I mean that her beauty is stunning, but her charm is endless.
That’s because the one is painted and the other out of all count.
That’s because one is painted on, and the other is beyond any measure.
How painted? and how out of count?
Painted? And how is it beyond measure?
Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty.
Well, sir, she’s painted to look beautiful, so no one really counts her beauty as real.
How esteemest thou me? I account of her beauty.
How do you see me? I think her beauty is real.
You never saw her since she was deformed.
You haven’t seen her since she became ugly.
How long hath she been deformed?
How long has she been ugly?
Ever since you loved her.
Ever since you started loving her.
I have loved her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful.
I’ve loved her since I first saw her, and I still see her as beautiful.
If you love her, you cannot see her.
If you love her, you can’t see her.
Why?
Why not?
Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered!
Because Love is blind. Oh, if only you had my eyes, or if your own eyes had the sight they used to have when you scolded Sir Proteus for going around without garters!
What should I see then?
What would I see then?
Your own present folly and her passing deformity: for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose, and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose.
You’d see your own foolishness and her obvious ugliness: because he, being in love, couldn’t see to put on his garter, and you, being in love, can’t see to put on your stockings.
Belike, boy, then, you are in love; for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.
I guess, boy, you must be in love too; because just this morning, you couldn’t even see to wipe my shoes.
True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours.
True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I thank you, you beat me for my love, which makes me feel braver to scold you for yours.
In conclusion, I stand affected to her.
In the end, I am in love with her.
I would you were set, so your affection would cease.
I wish you weren’t, so your love would stop.
Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves.
Last night she asked me to write a letter to someone she loves.
And have you?
And did you?
I have.
I did.
Are they not lamely writ?
Aren’t they poorly written?
No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace! here she comes.
No, boy, they’re as good as I could make them. Quiet! Here she comes.
[Aside] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! Now will he interpret to her.
[Aside] Oh, what a great move! Oh, what a perfect fool! Now he’s going to explain it to her.
Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows.
Good morning, madam and mistress, a thousand good mornings.
[Aside] O, give ye good even! here’s a million of manners.
[Aside] Oh, good evening! Here’s a ton of politeness.
Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.
Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.
[Aside] He should give her interest and she gives it him.
[Aside] He should give her interest and she gives it back.
As you enjoin’d me, I have writ your letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours; Which I was much unwilling to proceed in But for my duty to your ladyship.
As you asked, I’ve written your letter To your secret, nameless friend; I really didn’t want to do it, But I did it because I owe it to you.
I thank you gentle servant: ’tis very clerkly done.
Thank you, kind servant. It’s very well done.
Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; For being ignorant to whom it goes I writ at random, very doubtfully.
Believe me, madam, it was hard to write; Because I didn’t know who it was for, I just wrote it randomly, not sure at all.
Perchance you think too much of so much pains?
Maybe you think too much of all this effort?
No, madam; so it stead you, I will write Please you command, a thousand times as much; And yet--
No, madam; if it pleases you, I will write As many times as you want, even a thousand times; And yet--
A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel; And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not; And yet take this again; and yet I thank you, Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.
A nice little ending! Well, I think I know what’s next; But I won’t say it; and still, I don’t care; And yet, here, take this again; and still I thank you, Meaning that I won’t bother you anymore.
[Aside] And yet you will; and yet another ’yet.’
[Aside] And yet you will; and yet another “yet.”
What means your ladyship? do you not like it?
What do you mean, madam? Do you not like it?
Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ; But since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them.
Yes, yes; the lines are very nicely written; But since I didn’t want them, take them back. No, take them.
Madam, they are for you.
Madam, they are for you.
Ay, ay: you writ them, sir, at my request; But I will none of them; they are for you; I would have had them writ more movingly.
Yes, yes: you wrote them, sir, at my request; But I don’t want them; they are for you; I would have liked them written more movingly.
Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another.
If you like, I’ll write another one for you.
And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.
And when it’s written, for my sake, read it over, And if you like it, fine; if not, then, well, whatever.
If it please me, madam, what then?
If I like it, madam, what then?
Why, if it please you, take it for your labour: And so, good morrow, servant.
Well, if you like it, take it for your trouble: And so, good morning, servant.
O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple! My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor, He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! was there ever heard a better, That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter?
Oh, this joke is unseen, impossible to understand, invisible, Like a nose on a man’s face, or a weather vane on a church steeple! My master is courting her, and she’s taught him, With him as her student, to become her teacher. Oh, what a clever idea! Has anyone ever heard a better one, Than my master, being the writer, writing the letter to himself?
How now, sir? what are you reasoning with yourself?
What’s this, sir? Are you talking to yourself?
Nay, I was rhyming: ’tis you that have the reason.
No, I was rhyming; it’s you who have the reasoning.
To do what?
To do what?
To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia.
To speak on behalf of Madam Silvia.
To whom?
To whom?
To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figure.
To you: she’s trying to win you over with a symbol.
What figure?
What symbol?
By a letter, I should say.
I should say, by a letter.
Why, she hath not writ to me?
But she hasn’t written to me?
What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?
Why does she need to, when she’s made you write to yourself? Don’t you get the joke?
No, believe me.
No, honestly.
No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest?
You don’t believe me, do you, sir? But did you notice how serious she was?
She gave me none, except an angry word.
She didn’t give me anything serious, except for an angry word.
Why, she hath given you a letter.
Well, she gave you a letter.
That’s the letter I writ to her friend.
That’s the letter I wrote to her friend.
And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end.
And she delivered that letter, and that’s the end of it.
I would it were no worse.
I wish it were no worse.
I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well: For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty, Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply; Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time.
I’m sure it’s just as good: You’ve written to her many times, and she, either out of modesty, Or because she didn’t have time to reply, couldn’t answer again; Or maybe she was afraid of some messenger who might reveal her feelings, So she taught herself to write to her lover instead. I’m saying this for sure, because I read it in print. Why are you so surprised, sir? It’s time for dinner.
I have dined.
I’ve had my meal.
Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress; be moved, be moved.
Yes, but listen, sir; even though Love, like a chameleon, can live on air, I’m someone who needs food, and I’d gladly eat. Oh, don’t be like your lady; be moved, be moved.