Original
Modern English
Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.
Come on, tell me where you’ve been, or I won’t open my mouth even wide enough for a bristle to fit in as an excuse: my lady will have you hanged for being gone.
Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours.
Let her hang me. Anyone who’s properly hanged in this world doesn’t have to worry about anything else.
Make that good.
Prove that.
He shall see none to fear.
He’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.
A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was born, of ’I fear no colours.’
That’s a clever answer. I can tell you where that saying "I fear no colours" came from.
Where, good Mistress Mary?
Where, good Mistress Mary?
In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.
In the wars; and you can safely say it while you’re acting the fool.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
Well, God give wisdom to those who have it; and to those who are fools, let them make good use of their stupidity.
Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or, to be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?
But you’ll be hanged for being gone so long; or, being sent away, isn’t that pretty much the same as a hanging to you?
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out.
Many a good hanging saves a bad marriage; and, as for being sent away, let summer handle that.
You are resolute, then?
So you’re set on it, then?
Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two points.
Not really; but I’ve made up my mind about two things.
That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall.
That if one breaks, the other will hold; or, if both break, your pants will fall down.
Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria.
Clever, truly; very clever. Well, go on then; if Sir Toby would stop drinking, you’d be as sharp-witted as anyone in Illyria.
Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.
Be quiet, you rascal, no more of that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse carefully, you’d better.
Wit, an’t be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus? ’Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.’
If it’s your will, put me in a good mood for joking! Those wits who think they’ve got you often prove themselves fools; and I, who know I don’t have you, can pass for wise: because what does Quinapalus say? "Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit."
God bless thee, lady!
God bless you, madam!
Take the fool away.
Take the fool away.
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
Don’t you hear, guys? Take away the lady.
Go to, you’re a dry fool; I’ll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.
Come on, you’re a dry fool; I’ve had enough of you: besides, you’re becoming dishonest.
Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry: bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing that’s mended is but patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.
Two mistakes, madam, that drink and good advice can fix: because if you give a dry fool a drink, he’s no longer dry; tell the dishonest man to fix himself; if he does, he’s no longer dishonest; if he can’t, let a tailor fix him. Anything that’s fixed is just patched up: virtue that sins is just patched with sin; and sin that changes is just patched with virtue. If this simple argument works, fine; if not, what’s to be done? As there’s no true cuckold but disaster, beauty’s like a flower. The lady told you to take away the fool; so I say again, take her away.
Sir, I bade them take away you.
Sir, I told them to take you away.
Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non facit monachum; that’s as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
A huge misunderstanding! Lady, a hood doesn’t make the monk; that’s like saying I don’t wear foolishness in my mind. Good lady, let me prove you’re the fool.
Can you do it?
Can you do that?
Dexterously, good madonna.
Skillfully, good lady.
Make your proof.
Prove it.
I must catechise you for it, madonna: good my mouse of virtue, answer me.
I have to question you about it, madam: please, my good virtuous lady, answer me.
Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll bide your proof.
Alright, sir, since I have nothing better to do, I’ll listen to your proof.
Good madonna, why mournest thou?
Good madam, why are you grieving?
Good fool, for my brother’s death.
Good fool, because of my brother’s death.
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
I think his soul is in hell, madam.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.
Then you’re the bigger fool, madam, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take the fool away, gentlemen.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
What do you think of this fool, Malvolio? Isn’t he getting better?
Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
Yes, and he will keep getting better until the pain of death shakes him: weakness, which wears down the wise, always makes a bigger fool.
God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two pence that you are no fool.
God grant you, sir, a quick illness, so it can make your foolishness grow stronger! Sir Toby would swear I’m no fox; but he wouldn’t bet two pence that you’re not a fool.
How say you to that, Malvolio?
What do you think of that, Malvolio?
I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he’s out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies.
I’m surprised you, madam, take pleasure in such a useless scoundrel: I saw him put down the other day by a common fool who has no more sense than a rock. Look at him now, he’s already lost his guard; unless you laugh and give him the chance, he’s silenced. I swear, I think these so-called wise men, who crow at these types of fools, are no better than the clowns’ lackeys.
Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets: there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.
Oh, you’re sick with self-love, Malvolio, and your judgment is clouded. To be generous, innocent, and open-hearted is to see those things you call harmless jests as nothing but harmless fun: there’s no dishonor in a licensed fool, even if all he does is mock; nor any disgrace in a known sensible man, even if all he does is criticize.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools!
Now may Mercury gift you with falsehood, for you speak well of fools!
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.
Madam, there is a young man at the gate who really wants to talk to you.
From the Count Orsino, is it?
Is it from Count Orsino?
I know not, madam: ’tis a fair young man, and well attended.
I don’t know, madam; he’s a handsome young man, and well attended.
Who of my people hold him in delay?
Which of my people is keeping him waiting?
Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
Sir Toby, madam, your relative.
Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fie on him!
Please send him away; he’s nothing but a fool: shame on him!
Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it.
Go, Malvolio: if it’s a message from the count, I’ll say I’m sick, or not home; do whatever you need to dismiss him.
Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.
Now you can see, sir, how your jokes are getting old, and people are starting to dislike them.
Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with brains! for,--here he comes,--one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.
You’ve spoken for us, madam, as if your oldest son should be a fool; may Jupiter fill his skull with brains! For—look, here he comes—one of your relatives has a very weak mind.
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?
By my honor, he’s half-drunk. What’s going on at the gate, cousin?
A gentleman.
A gentleman.
A gentleman! what gentleman?
A gentleman? What gentleman?
’Tis a gentle man here--a plague o’ these pickle-herring! How now, sot!
He’s a gentleman here—a plague on these pickled herrings! What’s up, drunkard!
Good Sir Toby!
Good Sir Toby!
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
Cousin, cousin, how did you end up in this state so early?
Lechery! I defy lechery. There’s one at the gate.
Lust! I reject lust. There’s someone at the gate.
Ay, marry, what is he?
Oh, really, who is it?
Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one.
Let him be the devil if he wants, I don’t care: trust me, I say. Well, it’s the same either way.
What’s a drunken man like, fool?
What’s a drunk man like, fool?
Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.
Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one drink past drunk makes him a fool; the second makes him mad; and the third drowns him.
Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o’ my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink, he’s drowned: go, look after him.
Go and find the coroner, and have him look at my cousin; he’s in the third stage of drunkenness, he’s drowned: go, take care of him.
He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.
He’s still just mad, madam; and the fool will take care of the madman.
Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he’s fortified against any denial.
Madam, that young man over there swears he will talk to you. I told him you were sick; he acts like he knows that, and still comes to talk to you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to know that too, and still comes to talk to you. What should I say to him, madam? He’s ready for any refusal.
Tell him he shall not speak with me.
Tell him he won’t be speaking with me.
Has been told so; and he says, he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he’ll speak with you.
He’s been told that; and he says he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and act as the support for a bench, but he’ll still talk to you.
What kind o’ man is he?
What kind of man is he?
Why, of mankind.
Why, of mankind.
What manner of man?
What kind of man?
Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, will you or no.
A very rude one; he’ll talk to you whether you want him to or not.
Of what personage and years is he?
How old is he?
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a cooling when ’tis almost an apple: ’tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him.
Not old enough to be a man, nor young enough to be a boy; like a squash before it’s a pea pod, or a cooling fruit before it’s really an apple: he’s stuck somewhere in the middle, like standing water, between boy and man. He’s very good-looking and speaks in a very sharp way; you’d think his mother’s milk had barely left him.
Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.
Let him come: call in my servant.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
Servant, my lady calls.
Give me my veil: come, throw it o’er my face. We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.
Bring me my veil: come, throw it over my face. We’ll listen to Orsino’s messenger again.
The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
The noble lady of the house, which one is she?
Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?
Talk to me; I’ll speak for her. What do you want?
Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,--I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.
Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatched beauty—please, tell me if this is the lady of the house, for I’ve never seen her before: I would hate to waste my speech, since it’s very well written, and I’ve worked hard to memorize it. Please, beautiful one, don’t let me be ridiculed; I’m very polite, even if treated with the least bit of disrespect.
Whence came you, sir?
Where did you come from, sir?
I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.
I can only say what I’ve been taught, and that question isn’t part of my role. Please, good lady, give me a simple answer if you are the lady of the house, so I can continue with my speech.
Are you a comedian?
Are you a comedian?
No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?
No, my sincere heart: and yet, by the very teeth of hatred I swear, I am not who I appear to be. Are you the lady of the house?
If I do not usurp myself, I am.
If I don’t take someone else’s place, I am.
Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.
Definitely, if you are she, you are taking someone else’s place; because what you have to give away is not yours to keep. But this is part of my task: I will continue with my speech praising you, and then tell you the heart of my message.
Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise.
Get to the important part: I forgive you the praise.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical.
Alas, I put a lot of effort into it, and it’s poetic.
It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
That’s even more likely to be fake: please, keep it in. I heard you were rude at my gates, and let your approach be more about wondering at you than about hearing you. If you’re not mad, leave; if you have a good reason, be quick: this is not the right time for me to have such a silly conversation.
Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.
Are you leaving, sir? here’s your way out.
No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger.
No, good maid; I need to stay here a bit longer. Some softening for your tough lady. Tell me what you want: I’m a messenger.
Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.
Surely, you have some terrible news to deliver, when the politeness of it is so frightening. Speak your purpose.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as fun of peace as matter.
It only concerns your ears. I bring no threat of war, no demand for respect: I hold the olive branch in my hand; my words are as full of peace as my message.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?
Yet you started rudely. Who are you? What do you want?
The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears, divinity, to any other’s, profanation.
The rudeness you’ve seen in me, I learned from the way I’ve been treated. What I am, and what I want, are as private as virginity; to your ears, it’s divine, to anyone else’s, sacrilege.
Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.
Leave us alone for a moment: we’ll listen to this divine message.
Now, sir, what is your text?
Now, sir, what is your message?
Most sweet lady,--
Most sweet lady,--
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?
That’s a comforting thought, and a lot could be said about it. Where’s your source?
In Orsino’s bosom.
In Orsino’s heart.
In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?
In his heart! In what part of his heart?
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
To put it simply, in the first part of his heart.
O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
Oh, I’ve read that: it’s nonsense. Do you have anything else to say?
Good madam, let me see your face.
Please, madam, let me see your face.
Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: is’t not well done?
Do you have any permission from your lord to speak to my face? You’ve gone off-topic: but we’ll pull back the curtain and show you the picture. Look, sir, this is what I looked like just now: isn’t it well done?
Excellently done, if God did all.
It’s beautifully done, if God is the one who did it.
’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather.
It’s permanent, sir; it will withstand wind and weather.
’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruell’st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
It’s true beauty blended perfectly, with red and white that Nature’s own sweet and clever hand has painted on: Lady, you’re the cruelest woman alive, if you bury these graces in the grave and leave the world no image of them.
O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?
Oh, sir, I won’t be so heartless; I’ll share various descriptions of my beauty: it’ll be itemized, and every detail and feature labeled according to my liking: like, for example, two lips, fairly red; two grey eyes, with eyelids; one neck, one chin, and so on. Were you sent here to praise me?
I see you what you are, you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you: O, such love Could be but recompensed, though you were crown’d The nonpareil of beauty!
I see what you are, you’re too proud; But, even if you were the devil, you’re still beautiful. My lord and master loves you: Oh, such love Could only be repaid, even if you were crowned the greatest beauty ever!
How does he love me?
How does he love me?
With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
With worship, abundant tears, With groans that echo love, with sighs of fire.
Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him: Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; In voices well divulged, free, learn’d and valiant; And in dimension and the shape of nature A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him; He might have took his answer long ago.
Your lord knows how I feel; I cannot love him: But I think he’s virtuous, I know he’s noble, He’s wealthy, young and pure; Well-spoken, generous, educated, and brave; And in size and shape, a handsome person: but still I cannot love him; He could’ve taken my answer a long time ago.
If I did love you in my master’s flame, With such a suffering, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense; I would not understand it.
If I loved you the way my master does, With all the suffering, with this painful life, I wouldn’t understand your rejection; I wouldn’t make sense of it.
Why, what would you?
What would you do then?
Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Halloo your name to the reverberate hills And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out ’Olivia!’ O, You should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me!
I’d build myself a small cabin of willow trees at your gate, And call out to you from inside it; I’d write songs of unreturned love And sing them loudly even in the middle of the night; I’d shout your name to echo across the hills And make the air itself gossip about me Crying out "Olivia!" Oh, you wouldn’t be able to rest Between air and earth, You would have to pity me!
You might do much. What is your parentage?
You could do a lot. Who are your parents?
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.
I’m not rich, but I’m in a good position: I am a gentleman.
Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more; Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.
Go back to your lord; I cannot love him: don’t bring him to me again; Unless, maybe, you return to tell me how he’s taking it. Goodbye: Thank you for your trouble: take this for your effort.
I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse: My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint that you shall love; And let your fervor, like my master’s, be Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.
I’m not a paid messenger, lady; keep your money: My master, not me, deserves the reward. May love turn his heart to stone, so that you can love him; And let your passion, like my master’s, be Held in contempt! Goodbye, cruel beauty.
’What is your parentage?’ ’Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art; Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon: not too fast: soft, soft! Unless the master were the man. How now! Even so quickly may one catch the plague? Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections With an invisible and subtle stealth To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. What ho, Malvolio!
’What’s your parentage?’ ’I’m not rich, but I’m well off: I am a gentleman.’ I’ll swear you are; Your speech, your face, your body, your actions, and your spirit, All show you’re truly noble: but wait: Easy, easy! Unless the master was the man. What’s this? Could I have caught this so quickly? I think I can feel this young man’s virtues Slipping into my eyes unnoticed, Slowly and subtly. Well, let it happen. What’s that? Malvolio!
Here, madam, at your service.
Here, madam, at your service.
Run after that same peevish messenger, The county’s man: he left this ring behind him, Would I or not: tell him I’ll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him: If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, I’ll give him reasons for’t: hie thee, Malvolio.
Go after that annoying messenger, The one from the county: he left this ring behind, Whether I wanted him to or not. Tell him I won’t take it. Don’t let him try to flatter my lord, Or give him false hope; I’m not interested in him: If that young man comes this way tomorrow, I’ll give him my reasons; hurry, Malvolio.
Madam, I will.
Madam, I will.
I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed must be, and be this so.
I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m afraid I might be Liking him too much without meaning to. Fate, show your power: we don’t control ourselves; What’s meant to happen will happen, and let it be.