Original
Modern English
Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field: Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Stop! We still control the field: Don’t go home; let’s wait out the night here.
Hector is slain.
Hector’s dead.
Hector! the gods forbid!
Hector! The gods forbid!
He’s dead; and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed! Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy! I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on!
He’s dead; and dragged behind the murderer’s horse, In a disgusting way, through the shameful field. Frown, heavens, and let your anger strike quickly! Sit, gods, on your thrones, and mock Troy! I say, let your short plagues be acts of mercy, And don’t delay our inevitable ruin!
My lord, you do discomfort all the host!
My lord, you are unsettling the whole army!
You understand me not that tell me so: I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death, But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone: Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d, Go in to Troy, and say there, Hector’s dead: There is a word will Priam turn to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth, and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away: Hector is dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare, I’ll through and through you! and, thou great-sized coward, No space of earth shall sunder our two hates: I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy! with comfort go: Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
You don’t understand what I’m saying: I’m not talking about running away, or fear, or death, But facing whatever dangers gods and men Can throw at us. Hector is gone: Who will tell Priam, or Hecuba? Let whoever wants to be called a screech-owl, Go to Troy and say there, Hector’s dead: That news will turn Priam to stone; It will turn the girls and wives into statues, And scare the youth into cold statues too, and, in short, It will frighten Troy into nothingness. But, march on: Hector’s dead; there’s nothing more to say. Wait, though. You disgusting, hateful tents, Set up so proudly on our Phrygian plains, Let the sun rise as early as it dares, I’ll destroy you all! And you, huge coward, There’s no land on earth that can separate our two hates: I’ll follow you like a guilty conscience, That shapes nightmares as quickly as crazy thoughts. March freely to Troy! Go with confidence: The hope of revenge will hide our inner sorrow.
But hear you, hear you!
But listen, listen!
Hence, broker-lackey! ignomy and shame Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!
Get out, you worthless servant! May disgrace and shame Follow you always, and stick with your name!
A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! world! thus is the poor agent despised! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! why should our endeavour be so loved and the performance so loathed? what verse for it? what instance for it? Let me see: Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing, Till he hath lost his honey and his sting; And being once subdued in armed tail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. As many as be here of pander’s hall, Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall; Or if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made: It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss: Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeathe you my diseases.
A fine cure for my aching bones! Oh, the world! World! World! This is how the poor servant is treated! Oh, traitors and pimps, how hard you work, and how poorly you’re paid! Why is our effort so loved but the results so hated? What’s the reason for this? What’s an example of it? Let me think: The humble bee sings cheerfully, Until it loses its honey and its sting; And when it’s defeated in battle with its tail, Sweet honey and sweet songs both disappear. Good workers in this business, put this on your fancy banners. All of you from the business of pimps, Your eyes, nearly closed, weep for Pandar’s downfall; Or if you can’t cry, at least groan, Not for me, but for your own aching bones. Brothers and sisters of the shady trade, In two months I’ll make my will here: It should be done now, but my worry is this, Some offended person from Winchester will protest: So until then, I’ll sweat and look for relief, And when the time comes, I’ll leave you my troubles.