Original
Modern English
So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, Who ’twas that cut thy tongue and ravish’d thee.
Now go tell, if your tongue can speak, Who it was that cut your tongue and raped you.
Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.
Write down your thoughts, reveal your meaning, If your stumps will let you play the scribe.
See, how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.
Look, how with signs and gestures she can scribble.
Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.
Go home, call for fresh water, wash your hands.
She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And so let’s leave her to her silent walks.
She has no tongue to call for it, nor hands to wash; So let’s leave her to her silent wandering.
An ’twere my case, I should go hang myself.
If it were me, I’d hang myself.
If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.
If you had hands, you could tie the rope yourself.
Who is this? my niece, that flies away so fast! Cousin, a word; where is your husband? If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber in eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Have lopp’d and hew’d and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirr’d with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn’st away thy face for shame! And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood, As from a conduit with three issuing spouts, Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face Blushing to be encountered with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee? shall I say ’tis so? O, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast, That I might rail at him, to ease my mind! Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp’d, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sew’d her mind: But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, That could have better sew’d than Philomel. O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute, And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touch’d them for his life! Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony Which that sweet tongue hath made, He would have dropp’d his knife, and fell asleep As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet. Come, let us go, and make thy father blind; For such a sight will blind a father’s eye: One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant meads; What will whole months of tears thy father’s eyes? Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee O, could our mourning ease thy misery!
Who is this? My niece, running away so fast! Cousin, a word; where is your husband? If I’m dreaming, I wish all my wealth could wake me up! If I’m awake, let some star strike me down, So I can sleep forever! Speak, dear niece, what harsh, cruel hands Have chopped and hacked and stripped your body bare Of those two limbs, those lovely ornaments, Whose shade kings have longed to sleep in, But could never find such happiness As you had in your love? Why don’t you speak to me? Oh, a crimson river of warm blood, Like a fountain stirred by wind, Rises and falls between your lips, Coming and going with your sweet breath. But, surely, some Tereus has violated you, And, to keep you from revealing him, cut your tongue. Ah, now you turn away your face in shame! And, even with all this blood loss, As from a fountain with three streams, Your cheeks are still as red as the sun’s face Blushing at being covered by a cloud. Shall I speak for you? Shall I say it’s true? Oh, if I only knew your heart, and knew the monster, That I could rail at him, to ease my mind! Hidden sorrow, like a shut oven, Burns the heart to ashes where it is. Fair Philomela, she only lost her tongue, And in a long, tedious tapestry sewed her thoughts: But, sweet niece, that option is gone from you; A craftier Tereus, cousin, you’ve met, And he has cut off those lovely fingers, That could have sewn better than Philomela. Oh, if that monster had seen those lily hands Trembling, like aspen leaves, on a lute, And making the silken strings dance to them, He would never have touched them for all the world! Or, if he had heard the heavenly music That your sweet tongue made, He would have dropped his knife, and fallen asleep Like Cerberus at the feet of the Thracian poet. Come, let us go, and make your father blind; For such a sight will blind a father’s eyes: One hour of storm will drown the fragrant meadows; What will months of tears do to your father’s eyes? Don’t pull back, for we will mourn with you. Oh, if only our mourning could ease your pain!