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Modern English
Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night: Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times: Come, but one verse.
Give me some music. Good morning, friends. Now, good Cesario, play that song, The old one we heard last night: I thought it really eased my emotions, More than the light tunes and quick words of these fast-moving times: Come on, just one verse.
He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it.
He’s not here, my lord, the one who should sing it.
Who was it?
Who was it?
Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house.
Feste, the fool, my lord; he’s a jester who Olivia’s father really liked. He’s around the house.
Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
Go find him, and play the tune while you’re at it.
Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me; For such as I am all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?
Come here, boy: if you ever fall in love, In the sweet pain of it, remember me; For people like me are what all true lovers are, Restless and unpredictable in every way, Except when thinking of the person they love. How do you like this song?
It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is throned.
It really echoes the place Where Love rules.
Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves: Hath it not, boy?
You speak very well: I swear, even though you’re young, your eyes Have focused on someone you love: Haven’t they, boy?
A little, by your favour.
A little, if I may say so.
What kind of woman is’t?
What kind of woman is she?
Of your complexion.
She’s like you, in appearance.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?
She’s not good enough for you, then. How old is she, really?
About your years, my lord.
About your age, my lord.
Too old by heaven: let still the woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband’s heart: For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women’s are.
Too old, by heaven: let the woman always marry A man older than herself: this way, she stays faithful to him, And keeps herself in her husband’s heart: Because, boy, however much we praise ourselves, Our feelings are more flighty and unstable, More eager, changeable, and quicker to fade, Than women’s are.
I think it well, my lord.
I think you’re right, my lord.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent; For women are as roses, whose fair flower Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.
Then let your love be younger than you, Or your affection won’t stay strong; Because women are like roses, whose beauty, Once it’s revealed, starts fading that very moment.
And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow!
And so they are: alas, that they are like this; To die, even when they’ve reached their full beauty!
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun And the free maids that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Oh, fellow, come, let’s hear the song we had last night. Pay attention, Cesario, it’s old and simple; The women spinning and the weavers in the sun, And the free young women who weave with bones Always sing it: it’s a foolish truth, And plays with the innocence of love, Like old age.
Are you ready, sir?
Are you ready, sir?
Ay; prithee, sing.
Yes; please, sing.
SONG.
SONG.
Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there!
Come, take me away, death, And bury me in the sad cypress tree; Fly away, fly away breath; I’m killed by a beautiful but cruel woman. My white shroud, covered in yew, Oh, get it ready! No one has ever shared in death as faithfully As I have. No flower, no sweet flower Should be placed on my black coffin; No friend, no friend should greet My poor body, where my bones will be thrown: A thousand sighs to save me, Lay me, oh, where A true lover will never find my grave, To weep there!
There’s for thy pains.
Here’s something for your trouble.
No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.
No trouble, sir: I enjoy singing, sir.
I’ll pay thy pleasure then.
Then I’ll pay for your enjoyment.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.
Truly, sir, pleasure will be paid, sooner or later.
Give me now leave to leave thee.
Now let me leave you.
Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing and their intent every where; for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.
May the gloomy god protect you; and may your tailor make your jacket from changeable taffeta, because your mind is like an opal. I wish men like you, so fickle, would go to sea, so their work could be everything and their purpose everywhere; because that’s what always turns a wasted trip into something worthwhile. Farewell.
Let all the rest give place.
Let everyone else leave.
Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty: Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her, Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune; But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.
Once more, Cesario, Go to that same unyielding woman: Tell her, my love, more noble than anything in the world, Doesn’t care about how much land someone has; The things that fortune has given her, Tell her, I value them as little as fortune herself; But it’s that miracle, that queen of gems That nature decks her with, that captures my soul.
But if she cannot love you, sir?
But if she can’t love you, sir?
I cannot be so answer’d.
I can’t accept that answer.
Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love a great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so; must she not then be answer’d?
Truly, you must. Say there’s some lady, maybe there is, Who feels as much pain in her heart for your love As you feel for Olivia: you can’t love her; You tell her so; should she not be answered then?
There is no woman’s sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart; no woman’s heart So big, to hold so much; they lack retention Alas, their love may be call’d appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much: make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia.
There is no woman’s sides Can bear the weight of such strong feelings As love gives my heart; no woman’s heart So big to hold so much; they can’t keep it in Sadly, their love can be called desire, Just a feeling in the stomach, not the heart, That gets too much, becomes sick, and turns away; But mine is always as hungry as the sea, And can take in as much: don’t compare The love a woman might have for me To the love I have for Olivia.
Ay, but I know--
Yes, but I know--
What dost thou know?
What do you know?
Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.
I know too well what love women can feel for men: Honestly, they are just as true-hearted as we. My father had a daughter who loved a man, And maybe, if I were a woman, I would love you, my lord.
And what’s her history?
And what’s her story?
A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but indeed Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.
It’s a blank, my lord. She never shared her love, But let hiding, like a worm in a bud, Eat away at her soft cheek: she wasted away in thought, And with a sad, sickly feeling, She sat like patience on a tombstone, Smiling through the pain. Wasn’t that love, really? We men may say more, swear more: but truly Our actions show more than our words; for still we prove Much in our promises, but little in our love.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
But did your sister die of her love, my boy?
I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady?
I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I don’t know. Sir, shall I go to this lady?
Ay, that’s the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, My love can give no place, bide no denay.
Yes, that’s the task. Go to her quickly; give her this jewel; say, My love won’t be denied, can’t be refused.