Original
Modern English
O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort That I have had of thee!
Oh, grave and good Paulina, the great comfort I’ve had from you!
What, sovereign sir, I did not well I meant well. All my services You have paid home: but that you have vouchsafed, With your crown’d brother and these your contracted Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace, which never My life may last to answer.
What, my sovereign lord, I didn’t do well, but I meant well. All my services You’ve paid back: but that you’ve honored, With your crowned brother and your heirs of your kingdoms, By visiting my humble house, Is an extra act of grace, which I’ll never Be able to repay in my lifetime.
O Paulina, We honour you with trouble: but we came To see the statue of our queen: your gallery Have we pass’d through, not without much content In many singularities; but we saw not That which my daughter came to look upon, The statue of her mother.
Oh Paulina, We honor you with trouble: but we came To see the statue of our queen. We’ve walked through your gallery, Not without much pleasure at many of its wonders; But we haven’t seen What my daughter came to look at, The statue of her mother.
As she lived peerless, So her dead likeness, I do well believe, Excels whatever yet you look’d upon Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare To see the life as lively mock’d as ever Still sleep mock’d death: behold, and say ’tis well.
As she lived without equal, So her dead likeness, I truly believe, Surpasses anything you’ve ever seen Or any work a human hand has made; that’s why I keep it Hidden away, apart. But here it is: get ready To see life so vividly mimicked as death is mimicked in sleep: look, and say it’s good.
I like your silence, it the more shows off Your wonder: but yet speak; first, you, my liege, Comes it not something near?
I like your silence, it makes your amazement stand out more: But still, speak; first, you, my king, Doesn’t it seem a little like it?
Her natural posture! Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she In thy not chiding, for she was as tender As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing So aged as this seems.
Her natural position! Scold me, dear statue, so I can truly say You are Hermione; or rather, you are she In your silence, because she was as gentle As a baby and full of grace. But still, Paulina, Hermione was not so wrinkled, not at all As aged as this seems.
O, not by much.
Oh, not by much.
So much the more our carver’s excellence; Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her As she lived now.
That just shows how excellent our sculptor is; Who lets time pass by, about sixteen years, and makes her Look like she’s alive now.
As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort, as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty, warm life, As now it coldly stands, when first I woo’d her! I am ashamed: does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it? O royal piece, There’s magic in thy majesty, which has My evils conjured to remembrance and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee.
She might have looked like this now, Which comforts me so much, but at the same time It cuts right through my soul. Oh, she stood just like this, With such a regal presence, warm life, As now it coldly stands, when I first courted her! I am ashamed: doesn’t the statue rebuke me For being more stone than it? Oh, royal image, There’s magic in your majesty, which has Made me remember my wrongs and Stolen the spirit from your admiring daughter, Leaving her standing like stone with you.
And give me leave, And do not say ’tis superstition, that I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, Dear queen, that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours to kiss.
And let me be, And don’t say it’s superstition, that I kneel and beg for her blessing. Lady, Dear queen, who was finished when I first began, Let me kiss your hand.
O, patience! The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s Not dry.
Oh, please wait! The statue is still newly set, the color’s not dry.
My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry; scarce any joy Did ever so long live; no sorrow But kill’d itself much sooner.
My lord, your grief was too heavy to bear, Which sixteen winters can’t blow away, As many summers can’t dry; barely any joy Has ever lasted this long; no sorrow But killed itself much sooner.
Dear my brother, Let him that was the cause of this have power To take off so much grief from you as he Will piece up in himself.
Dear brother, Let the one who caused this have the power To take away some of this grief from you, as he Will carry it inside himself.
Indeed, my lord, If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you,--for the stone is mine-- I’ld not have show’d it.
Indeed, my lord, If I had known the sight of my poor image Would affect you this way,--because the statue is mine-- I wouldn’t have shown it.
Do not draw the curtain.
Don’t draw the curtain.
No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy May think anon it moves.
You won’t look at it any longer, in case you think It moves soon.
Let be, let be. Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already-- What was he that did make it? See, my lord, Would you not deem it breathed? and that those veins Did verily bear blood?
Let it be, let it be. I wish I were dead, but I think already-- Who made this? Look, my lord, Would you not think it’s breathing? And that those veins Really carry blood?
Masterly done: The very life seems warm upon her lip.
Masterfully done: It really looks like life on her lips.
The fixture of her eye has motion in’t, As we are mock’d with art.
The way her eyes are fixed has movement in them, As if we are being tricked by art.
I’ll draw the curtain: My lord’s almost so far transported that He’ll think anon it lives.
I’ll pull the curtain: My lord’s almost so moved that He’ll soon think it’s alive.
O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together! No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let ’t alone.
Oh, sweet Paulina, Make me believe this for twenty years straight! No common sense of the world can compare To the joy of that madness. Let it go.
I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: but I could afflict you farther.
I’m sorry, sir, to have upset you this much: but I could make you suffer even more.
Do, Paulina; For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks, There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her.
Do it, Paulina; Because this suffering feels as sweet As any comforting medicine. Still, I think, There’s something in the air coming from her: what kind of fine tool Could ever carve breath? Don’t make fun of me, Because I’m going to kiss her.
Good my lord, forbear: The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; You’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?
Please, my lord, stop: The redness on her lips is wet; You’ll ruin it if you kiss it, and stain your own With greasy makeup. Should I draw the curtain?
No, not these twenty years.
No, not for another twenty years.
So long could I Stand by, a looker on.
I could stand here Watching, all this time.
Either forbear, Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. If you can behold it, I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend And take you by the hand; but then you’ll think-- Which I protest against--I am assisted By wicked powers.
Either stop, Leave the chapel right now, or prepare yourself For even more astonishment. If you can bear it, I’ll make the statue really move, come down, And take your hand; but then you’ll think— Which I swear isn’t true—I’m being helped By dark forces.
What you can make her do, I am content to look on: what to speak, I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy To make her speak as move.
Whatever you can make her do, I’m happy to watch: whatever you say, I’m happy to hear; because it’s just as easy To make her speak as it is to make her move.
It is required You do awake your faith. Then all stand still; On: those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart.
You need to believe, And then everything will stop; all of you: Those who think what I’m doing is wrong, Should leave now.
Proceed: No foot shall stir.
Go on: No one move.
Music, awake her; strike!
Music, wake her; play!
’Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach; Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come, I’ll fill your grave up: stir, nay, come away, Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs:
It’s time; come down; be stone no longer; come closer; Make all who see this marvel. Come, I’ll fill your grave: move, no, come away, Give death your stillness, because life Brings you back. You see, she’s moving:
Start not; her actions shall be holy as You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her Until you see her die again; for then You kill her double. Nay, present your hand: When she was young you woo’d her; now in age Is she become the suitor?
Don’t be afraid; her actions will be holy just as You hear my spell is legal: don’t avoid her Until you see her die again; because then You’ll be killing her twice. No, offer your hand: When she was young you courted her; now that she’s old, Is she the one asking for your hand?
O, she’s warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
Oh, she’s warm! If this is magic, let it be an art As legal as eating.
She embraces him.
She hugs him.
She hangs about his neck: If she pertain to life let her speak too.
She wraps her arms around his neck: If she’s alive, let her speak too.
Ay, and make’t manifest where she has lived, Or how stolen from the dead.
Yes, and make it clear where she’s been, Or how she escaped from the dead.
That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale: but it appears she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. Please you to interpose, fair madam: kneel And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady; Our Perdita is found.
That she’s alive, Even if I told you, you’d just laugh it off Like an old story: but it’s clear she’s alive, Even though she’s not speaking yet. Watch for a moment. Please, madam, kneel down And pray for your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady; Our Perdita is here.
You gods, look down And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine own. Where hast thou been preserved? where lived? how found Thy father’s court? for thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved Myself to see the issue.
Oh gods, look down And pour your blessings On my daughter’s head! Tell me, my own. Where have you been kept? where did you live? how did you return To your father’s court? I know, from Paulina, that the oracle Gave hope you were alive, and I’ve kept myself alive To see the outcome.
There’s time enough for that; Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together, You precious winners all; your exultation Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some wither’d bough and there My mate, that’s never to be found again, Lament till I am lost.
There’s plenty of time for that; We don’t want to spoil your joy by talking about it now. Go, all of you, and celebrate, Share your joy with everyone. I, like an old turtle, Will fly off to some dead tree and there Lament my mate, who’s lost forever, Until I’m gone too.
O, peace, Paulina! Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, As I by thine a wife: this is a match, And made between’s by vows. Thou hast found mine; But how, is to be question’d; for I saw her, As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many A prayer upon her grave. I’ll not seek far-- For him, I partly know his mind--to find thee An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty Is richly noted and here justified By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place. What! look upon my brother: both your pardons, That e’er I put between your holy looks My ill suspicion. This is your son-in-law, And son unto the king, who, heavens directing, Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely Each one demand an answer to his part Perform’d in this wide gap of time since first We were dissever’d: hastily lead away.
Oh, quiet, Paulina! You should take a husband with my blessing, Just as I gave my blessing for your wife. This is a match, Made by our vows. You’ve found mine, But how it happened is another question; I thought I saw her Dead, and prayed in vain at her grave. I won’t look far— I partly know his mind— To find you an honorable husband. Come, Camillo, Take her hand, her worth and honesty Are well known and proven here By us, two kings. Let’s leave this place. What! Look at my brother: both of you, forgive me For ever doubting your holiness With my suspicion. This is your son-in-law, And the king’s son, who, with the gods’ help, Is engaged to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us away from here, where we can take our time To question each other about the long time We’ve been apart. Let’s go quickly.