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Modern English
Now, princes, for the service I have done you, The advantage of the time prompts me aloud To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind That, through the sight I bear in things to love, I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession, Incurr’d a traitor’s name; exposed myself, From certain and possess’d conveniences, To doubtful fortunes; sequestering from me all That time, acquaintance, custom and condition Made tame and most familiar to my nature, And here, to do you service, am become As new into the world, strange, unacquainted: I do beseech you, as in way of taste, To give me now a little benefit, Out of those many register’d in promise, Which, you say, live to come in my behalf.
Now, princes, for the service I’ve done you, The timing is perfect for me to ask for payment. It should be clear to you that, by choosing to love you, I’ve left Troy, abandoned my home, Taken the name of a traitor; exposed myself, Giving up comforts and security, To face uncertain dangers; cutting myself off from Everything that time, familiarity, and habit Had made comfortable to me, And now, to serve you, I’ve become Like someone new to the world, strange and unknown. I beg you, as a small favor, To give me something in return, Out of the many promises you’ve made to me, Which you say will be fulfilled for my sake.
What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? make demand.
What do you want from us, Trojan? Make your request.
You have a Trojan prisoner, call’d Antenor, Yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear. Oft have you--often have you thanks therefore-- Desired my Cressid in right great exchange, Whom Troy hath still denied: but this Antenor, I know, is such a wrest in their affairs That their negotiations all must slack, Wanting his manage; and they will almost Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam, In change of him: let him be sent, great princes, And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence Shall quite strike off all service I have done, In most accepted pain.
You have a Trojan prisoner, named Antenor, Captured yesterday: Troy holds him in high regard. You’ve often, many times, thanked me for Wanting my Cressida in exchange, Whom Troy has always refused: but this Antenor, I know, is such a key figure in their politics That their efforts will all stall, Without his leadership; and they will almost Give us a prince, a son of Priam, In exchange for him: let him be sent, great kings, And he will pay for my daughter; and her presence Will completely cancel all the work I’ve done, In the most painful way that’s accepted.
Let Diomedes bear him, And bring us Cressid hither: Calchas shall have What he requests of us. Good Diomed, Furnish you fairly for this interchange: Withal bring word if Hector will to-morrow Be answer’d in his challenge: Ajax is ready.
Let Diomedes take him, And bring us Cressida here: Calchas will get What he asks of us. Good Diomed, Prepare yourself properly for this exchange: Also bring word if Hector tomorrow Will respond to his challenge: Ajax is ready.
This shall I undertake; and ’tis a burden Which I am proud to bear.
I will take care of this; and it’s a responsibility That I’m proud to accept.
Achilles stands i’ the entrance of his tent: Please it our general to pass strangely by him, As if he were forgot; and, princes all, Lay negligent and loose regard upon him: I will come last. ’Tis like he’ll question me Why such unplausive eyes are bent on him: If so, I have derision medicinable, To use between your strangeness and his pride, Which his own will shall have desire to drink: It may be good: pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride, for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s fees.
Achilles is standing at the entrance of his tent: Let’s pass by him in a strange way, As if we’ve forgotten him; and, all of you kings, Show careless and indifferent attention to him: I’ll come last. It’s likely he’ll ask me Why such unfriendly looks are directed at him: If he does, I have a way to mock him, To use between your coldness and his pride, Which he will likely want to respond to: It might work: pride has no other way To reflect itself but pride, because humble knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s rewards.
We’ll execute your purpose, and put on A form of strangeness as we pass along: So do each lord, and either greet him not, Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more Than if not look’d on. I will lead the way.
We’ll carry out your plan, and put on A show of strangeness as we pass by: So each lord should either not greet him, Or else show disdain, which will upset him more Than if we ignored him. I’ll lead the way.
What, comes the general to speak with me? You know my mind, I’ll fight no more ’gainst Troy.
What, is the general coming to speak with me? You know my thoughts, I won’t fight against Troy anymore.
What says Achilles? would he aught with us?
What does Achilles say? Does he want anything from us?
Would you, my lord, aught with the general?
Does my lord want anything from the general?
No.
No.
Nothing, my lord.
Nothing, my lord.
The better.
That’s better.
Good day, good day.
Good day, good day.
How do you? how do you?
How are you? How are you?
What, does the cuckold scorn me?
What, is that man mocking me?
How now, Patroclus!
What’s going on, Patroclus?
Good morrow, Ajax.
Good morning, Ajax.
Ha?
Huh?
Good morrow.
Good morning.
Ay, and good next day too.
Yes, and good day too.
What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles?
What’s going on with these guys? Don’t they know who I am?
They pass by strangely: they were used to bend To send their smiles before them to Achilles; To come as humbly as they used to creep To holy altars.
They’re acting strange. They used to smile and bow Before approaching you, Achilles; They’d come humbly, like they were going to a holy altar.
What, am I poor of late? ’Tis certain, greatness, once fall’n out with fortune, Must fall out with men too: what the declined is He shall as soon read in the eyes of others As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings but to the summer, And not a man, for being simply man, Hath any honour, but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches, favour, Prizes of accident as oft as merit: Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, The love that lean’d on them as slippery too, Do one pluck down another and together Die in the fall. But ’tis not so with me: Fortune and I are friends: I do enjoy At ample point all that I did possess, Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, find out Something not worth in me such rich beholding As they have often given. Here is Ulysses; I’ll interrupt his reading. How now Ulysses!
What, have I fallen out of favor recently? It’s true that when greatness falls out of favor with fortune, It also falls out of favor with people. What the fallen is, He will see in the eyes of others As clearly as he feels his own downfall; because men, like butterflies, Don’t show their true colors except in good times. And no man, just for being a man, Has any honor, except the honor that comes from outside himself, Like position, wealth, or influence—things that come by chance more often than by merit. And when those things fall, like things that are slippery, The love that leaned on them slips too, Pulling one down after another, and they all fall together. But that’s not the case with me: Fortune and I are friends: I still have Everything I used to have, Except for the looks of these men; who, I think, no longer see anything worth Admiring in me, as they once did. Here comes Ulysses; I’ll interrupt him while he’s reading. What’s up, Ulysses?
Now, great Thetis’ son!
Ah, the great son of Thetis!
What are you reading?
What are you reading?
A strange fellow here Writes me: ’That man, how dearly ever parted, How much in having, or without or in, Cannot make boast to have that which he hath, Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection; As when his virtues shining upon others Heat them and they retort that heat again To the first giver.’
A strange guy here Writes to me: "That man, however much he’s parted, Whether he has a lot or nothing, Can’t brag about what he owns, Nor feels what he owes, except by reflection; Like when his virtues shine on others And heat them, and they send that heat back To the original giver."
This is not strange, Ulysses. The beauty that is borne here in the face The bearer knows not, but commends itself To others’ eyes; nor doth the eye itself, That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself, Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed Salutes each other with each other’s form; For speculation turns not to itself, Till it hath travell’d and is mirror’d there Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.
This isn’t strange, Ulysses. The beauty that’s seen in the face The person who has it doesn’t know, but it shows itself To others’ eyes; and the eye itself, That most pure sense, doesn’t see itself, Not going out from itself; but when one eye faces another They greet each other with each other’s image; For contemplation doesn’t turn inward, Until it has traveled and is reflected where It can see itself. This isn’t strange at all.
I do not strain at the position,-- It is familiar,--but at the author’s drift; Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves That no man is the lord of any thing, Though in and of him there be much consisting, Till he communicate his parts to others: Nor doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them form’d in the applause Where they’re extended; who, like an arch, reverberates The voice again, or, like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and renders back His figure and his heat. I was much wrapt in this; And apprehended here immediately The unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there! a very horse, That has he knows not what. Nature, what things there are Most abject in regard and dear in use! What things again most dear in the esteem And poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow-- An act that very chance doth throw upon him-- Ajax renown’d. O heavens, what some men do, While some men leave to do! How some men creep in skittish fortune’s hall, Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes! How one man eats into another’s pride, While pride is fasting in his wantonness! To see these Grecian lords!--why, even already They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder, As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast And great Troy shrieking.
I don’t have a problem with the position,-- It’s familiar,--but with the author’s meaning; Who, in his situation, clearly shows That no man owns anything, Even though he has a lot within himself, Until he shares his qualities with others: Nor does he know them for anything Until he sees them shaped by the praise Where they’re recognized; who, like an arch, bounces The voice back, or, like a steel gate Facing the sun, receives and sends back Its image and its heat. I was really caught up in this; And immediately thought of The unknown Ajax. Oh, what a man he is! A real horse, Who has things he doesn’t even know about. Nature, look at these things That are most insignificant in appearance but valuable in use! What things again are highly regarded But poor in value! Now let’s see tomorrow-- An act that pure chance will throw onto him-- Ajax made famous. Oh heavens, what some men do, While others fail to act! How some men sneak into fortune’s favor, While others act like fools in her sight! How one man undermines another’s pride, While pride itself is starving in his recklessness! To see these Greek leaders!--why, already They slap the clumsy Ajax on the back, As if his foot were on brave Hector’s chest And great Troy was screaming.
I do believe it; for they pass’d by me As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me Good word nor look: what, are my deeds forgot?
I believe it; because they passed me Like misers pass beggars, not giving me A kind word or look: what, are my deeds forgotten?
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour’d As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright: to have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or like a gallant horse fall’n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O’er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours; For time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o’er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object. Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions ’mongst the gods themselves And drave great Mars to faction.
Time, my lord, has a bag on his back, Where he puts gifts for forgetfulness, A huge monster of ingratitude: Those scraps are good deeds in the past; which are eaten up As quickly as they’re done, forgotten as soon As they’re finished: perseverance, my dear lord, Keeps honor shining: to have done something is to hang Completely out of style, like rusty armor In pointless mockery. Take the direct path; For honor travels along a narrow road, Where only one can go at a time: stay on the path; Because competition has a thousand followers Who each pursue one by one: if you give way, Or wander off the straight path, Like an incoming tide, they all rush past And leave you behind; Or like a proud horse that’s fallen in the first rank, Lie there as the pavement for the unimportant rear, Overrun and trampled on: then what they do in the present, Though less than what you’ve done in the past, must outshine yours; For time is like a fashionable host Who barely shakes his departing guest’s hand, And with his arms outstretched, as if to fly, Grabs the newcomer: welcome always smiles, And farewell leaves sighing. Oh, let not virtue seek Reward for what it was; For beauty, intelligence, Noble birth, strength of body, service, love, Friendship, charity, all fall prey To time’s envy and slander. One touch of nature makes the whole world family, That everyone, with one voice, praises newly made gods, Though they are made from things that are old, And give more praise to a little dust that’s gilded Than to gold that’s too shiny. The present eye praises the present thing. Then don’t be surprised, you great and perfect man, That all the Greeks are beginning to worship Ajax; Since things in motion catch the eye more quickly Than things that don’t move. The shout went out about you, And it could still, and maybe it will again, If you don’t bury yourself alive And hide your reputation in your tent; Whose glorious deeds, but recently, Gave rise to rivalry among the gods themselves And made great Mars take sides.
Of this my privacy I have strong reasons.
I have good reasons For this privacy of mine.
But ’gainst your privacy The reasons are more potent and heroical: ’Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam’s daughters.
But against your personal life The reasons are stronger and more heroic: It’s known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam’s daughters.
Ha! known!
Ha! Known!
Is that a wonder? The providence that’s in a watchful state Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold, Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps, Keeps place with thought and almost, like the gods, Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. There is a mystery--with whom relation Durst never meddle--in the soul of state; Which hath an operation more divine Than breath or pen can give expressure to: All the commerce that you have had with Troy As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord; And better would it fit Achilles much To throw down Hector than Polyxena: But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, When fame shall in our islands sound her trump, And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing, ’Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win, But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.’ Farewell, my lord: I as your lover speak; The fool slides o’er the ice that you should break.
Is that surprising? The care that’s always watching Knows almost every piece of gold in the world, Sees all the way to the bottom of the deepest seas, Keeps up with your thoughts and almost, like the gods, Unveils thoughts in their silent beginnings. There’s a secret--with whom talk Would never dare interfere--in the heart of power; It has a force more divine Than what breath or pen can fully express: All the dealings you’ve had with Troy Are just as much ours as yours, my lord; And it would suit Achilles much better To defeat Hector than Polyxena: But it will surely upset young Pyrrhus back home, When news spreads in our islands, And all the Greek girls will sing with joy, ‘Great Hector’s sister was won by Achilles, But our great Ajax bravely beat him down.’ Goodbye, my lord: I speak as your lover; The fool slips on the ice you should break.
To this effect, Achilles, have I moved you: A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loathed than an effeminate man In time of action. I stand condemn’d for this; They think my little stomach to the war And your great love to me restrains you thus: Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane, Be shook to air.
I’ve urged you to this, Achilles: A woman who’s become shameless and manly Is no more hated than a weak man In times of war. I’m condemned for this; They think my reluctance for war And your deep love for me holds you back like this: Sweet, wake up; and the little, weak Cupid Will loosen his hold on your neck, And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane, Be shaken off into the air.
Shall Ajax fight with Hector?
Will Ajax fight Hector?
Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him.
Yes, and he might even earn much honor from it.
I see my reputation is at stake My fame is shrewdly gored.
I see my reputation is at risk My fame is severely wounded.
O, then, beware; Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves: Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger; And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun.
Oh, then, be careful; Those wounds are hard to heal that people inflict on themselves: Failing to do what’s necessary Opens the door to a world of danger; And danger, like a fever, quietly spreads Even when we sit idly in the sun.
Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus: I’ll send the fool to Ajax and desire him To invite the Trojan lords after the combat To see us here unarm’d: I have a woman’s longing, An appetite that I am sick withal, To see great Hector in his weeds of peace, To talk with him and to behold his visage, Even to my full of view.
Go call Thersites here, sweet Patroclus: I’ll send the fool to Ajax and ask him To invite the Trojan leaders after the battle To see us here unarmed: I have a woman’s longing, A desire that I’m sick with, To see great Hector in his peaceful clothes, To talk with him and look at his face, Until I’ve had my fill.
A labour saved!
A task saved!
A wonder!
A miracle!
What?
What?
Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for himself.
Ajax is walking around the field, asking about himself.
How so?
How so?
He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in saying nothing.
He has to fight Hector one-on-one tomorrow, and he’s so ridiculously proud of his heroic beating skills that he talks nonsense.
How can that be?
How is that possible?
Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock,--a stride and a stand: ruminates like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning: bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say ’There were wit in this head, an ’twould out;’ and so there is, but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man’s undone forever; for if Hector break not his neck i’ the combat, he’ll break ’t himself in vain-glory. He knows not me: I said ’Good morrow, Ajax;’ and he replies ’Thanks, Agamemnon.’ What think you of this man that takes me for the general? He’s grown a very land-fish, language-less, a monster. A plague of opinion! a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather jerkin.
Well, he struts around like a peacock--takes a step and stops: thinks like a landlord who can’t do math and has to rely on memory to count her money: bites his lip in a political way, like he’s thinking ‘If only there was any smart thought in this head, it’d come out;’ and maybe there is, but it’s buried so deep inside him, it’s like fire in a stone that won’t burn unless you strike it. The man’s doomed; if Hector doesn’t kill him in battle, he’ll do it to himself out of vanity. He doesn’t know who I am: I said ’Good morning, Ajax;’ and he answered ’Thanks, Agamemnon.’ What do you think of this guy who thinks I’m the general? He’s turned into a fish out of water, speechless, a freak. Damn people’s opinions! A man can wear that kind of confusion on both sides, like a leather jacket.
Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.
You must be the one to talk to him, Thersites.
Who, I? why, he’ll answer nobody; he professes not answering: speaking is for beggars; he wears his tongue in’s arms. I will put on his presence: let Patroclus make demands to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax.
Me? He won’t talk to anyone; he refuses to answer. Talking is for beggars; he keeps his words locked up. I’ll pretend to be him: let Patroclus ask me things, and you’ll see the show that is Ajax.
To him, Patroclus; tell him I humbly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarmed to my tent, and to procure safe-conduct for his person of the magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honoured captain-general of the Grecian army, Agamemnon, et cetera. Do this.
Go to him, Patroclus; tell him I respectfully ask the brave Ajax to invite the great Hector to come to my tent unarmed, and to arrange safe passage for him from the noble and most honored seven-times-glorious commander of the Greek army, Agamemnon, and so on. Do this.
Jove bless great Ajax!
May Jove bless great Ajax!
Hum!
Hmph!
I come from the worthy Achilles,--
I come from the noble Achilles,--
Ha!
Oh!
Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent,--
Who very politely asks you to invite Hector to his tent,--
Hum!
Hmm!
And to procure safe-conduct from Agamemnon.
And to get safe passage from Agamemnon.
Agamemnon!
Agamemnon!
Ay, my lord.
Yes, my lord.
Ha!
Ha!
What say you to’t?
What do you think of that?
God b’ wi’ you, with all my heart.
Goodbye, with all my heart.
Your answer, sir.
Your answer, sir.
If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o’clock it will go one way or other: howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me.
If tomorrow is a nice day, by eleven o’clock it’ll go either way: but, anyway, he’ll pay for me before he gets me.
Your answer, sir.
Your answer, sir.
Fare you well, with all my heart.
Farewell, with all my heart.
Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?
Why, but he’s not saying that, is he?
No, but he’s out o’ tune thus. What music will be in him when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none, unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on.
No, but he’s out of sorts like this. What kind of music will be in him when Hector knocks his brains out, I don’t know; but I’m sure there won’t be any, unless the musician Apollo gets his muscles to make string instruments.
Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.
Come, you’ll take a letter to him right away.
Let me bear another to his horse; for that’s the more capable creature.
Let me take another letter to his horse; because it’s the more reliable creature.
My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d; And I myself see not the bottom of it.
My mind is confused, like a stirred-up fountain; And I can’t see the bottom of it.
Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it! I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ignorance.
I wish your mind’s fountain was clear again, so I could water a donkey at it! I’d rather be a tick on a sheep than be so proudly clueless.