The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)
Page 21
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your Highness' hands.
The language I have learnt these forty years,
My native English, now I must forgo;
And now my tongue's use is to me no more
Than an unstringed viol or a harp;
Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up
Or, being open, put into his hands
That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue,
Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips;
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
Is made my gaoler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now.
What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
A heavy sentence, my most royal lord,
and one I didn't expect to hear from your Highness.
I deserved a better reward, not such a great injury
from the hands of your Highness as to be
sent away into the world.
The language I have learnt for the past forty years,
my native English, I must now forget;
now my tongue is no more use to me
than a violin or a heart that has no strings;
or like a lovely instrument in its case–or
if it is out that is placed in the hands
of one who doesn't know how to tune it or play it.
You have made my tongue a prisoner in my mouth,
fenced in twice by my teeth and lips,
and my dull and empty ignorance
becomes my jailer.
I am too old to learn from a nanny,
too far gone in years to be a pupil now:
so what is your sentence but a speechless death,
which robs my tongue of its right to speak its native language?
KING RICHARD.
It boots thee not to be compassionate;
After our sentence plaining comes too late.
Feeling sorry for yourself will not help you;
sentence has been passed, it's too late to complain.
MOWBRAY.
Then thus I turn me from my countrv's light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.
Then I will turn away from my country's light,
to go and live in the darkness for ever.
KING RICHARD.
Return again, and take an oath with thee.
Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to God,
Our part therein we banish with yourselves,
To keep the oath that we administer:
You never shall, so help you truth and God,
Embrace each other's love in banishment;
Nor never look upon each other's face;
Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile
This louring tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor never by advised purpose meet
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.
Come back, and make an oath to go with you.
Put your exiled hands on my royal sword;
swear by the duty that you owe to God
(the duty you owe me disappears with your exile)
to keep the oath we place on you:
you must swear by God and truth that you will never
come together in your exile;
you must never see each other;
you must not write to each other; never greet each other again,
you must never join your hatreds together;
never arrange to meet
to construct any plots against
me, my office, my subjects or my country.
BOLINGBROKE.
I swear.
I swear.
MOWBRAY.
And I, to keep all this.
And so do I, I shall keep to this.
BOLINGBROKE.
Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy.
By this time, had the King permitted us,
One of our souls had wand'red in the air,
Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this land-
Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burden of a guilty soul.
Norfolk, I address you though you are still my enemy.
If the king had allowed it, by this time
one of our souls would be wandering in the air,
exiled from the weak tomb of our flesh,
in the same way as our flesh is exiled from this land–
confess your treason before you flee the country;
since you have a long journey, do not take with you
the heavy burden of a guilty soul.
MOWBRAY.
No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banish'd as from hence!
But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.
Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray:
Save back to England, an the world's my way.
No, Bolingbroke; if I was ever traitor,
may my name be blotted out of the book of life,
and let me be exiled from heaven as I am exiled from here!
But God, you, and I all know what you are;
and I'm afraid the King will regret this all too soon.
Farewell, my lord. I can never go astray now,
unless I come back to England, I can walk wherever in the world I like.
Exit
KING RICHARD.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish'd years
Pluck'd four away. [To BOLINGBROKE] Six frozen winters spent,
Return with welcome home from banishment.
Uncle, I can see the grief in your heart in the
glistening of your eyes. Your sad face
takes four years off the term
of his exile.[To Bolingbroke] When six cold winters have passed,
you will be welcomed home from your banishment.
BOLINGBROKE.
How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
End in a word: such is the breath of Kings.
What a great period can be spanned with one word!
Four slow winters and four lusty springs
vanish with a word: this is the power of kings.
GAUNT.
I thank my liege that in regard of me
He shortens four years of my son's exile;
But little vantage shall I reap thereby,
For ere the six years that he hath to spend
Can change their moons and bring their times about,
My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light
Shall be extinct with age and endless night;
My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
And blindfold death not let me see my son.
I thank my lord that he has shortened my son's
exile by four years on my account;
but I shall gain little advantage from that,
for before the six years that he is
sentenced to are up,
my ancient light will have
been extinguished by time;
my candle will have burnt out,
andthe blindness of death will stop me from seeing my son.
KING RICHARD.
Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.
Why, uncle, you have many years left to live.
GAUNT.
; But not a minute, King, that thou canst give:
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
Thou can'st help time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
Thy word is current with him for my death,
But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.
But, King, you cannot give me an extra minute;
you can shorten my days with miserable sadness,
and take nights away from me, but you cannot add a day;
you can help time to line my face with wrinkles,
but you can't stop a single one of them growing;
your words can easily buy my death,
but your whole kingdom can't buy my life back once I'm dead.
KING RICHARD.
Thy son is banish'd upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave.
Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour?
Your son is exiled on wise advice,
to which you agreed.
Why does our sentence now seem so bad?
GAUNT.
Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.
You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O, had it been a stranger, not my child,
To smooth his fault I should have been more mild.
A partial slander sought I to avoid,
And in the sentence my own life destroy'd.
Alas, I look'd when some of you should say
I was too strict to make mine own away;
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue
Against my will to do myself this wrong.
Things which taste sweet can often upset the digestion.
You asked me to rule as a judge; I would rather
that you asked me to argue as a father.
Oh, if it had been a stranger, not my child,
I would not have punished him so harshly.
I wanted to avoid accusations of bias,
and by doing so destroyed my own life.
Alas, I hoped that some of you would say
that I was being too strict in exiling my own son;
but you allowed my unwilling tongue
to commit this harm against myself.
KING RICHARD.
Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so.
Six years we banish him, and he shall go.
Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, say the same to him.
I have banished him for six years, and he shall go.
Flourish. Exit KING with train
AUMERLE.
Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know,
From where you do remain let paper show.
Cousin, farewell; what I can't hear from your own mouth,
let me know in your letters.
MARSHAL.
My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride
As far as land will let me by your side.
My lord, I won't say goodbye, for I will ride
with you to the frontiers of the kingdom.
GAUNT.
O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends?
Why are you saving your words,
not answering your friends?
BOLINGBROKE.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal
To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.
I have too few words to say goodbye,
my tongue is not rich enough to show
the wealth of grief that is in my heart.
GAUNT.
Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.
Your sadness is only at your exile for a time.
BOLINGBROKE.
Joy absent, grief is present for that time.
For all that time joy will be absent, grief present.
GAUNT.
What is six winters? They are quickly gone.
What are six winters? They will pass quickly.
BOLINGBROKE.
To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.
For happy men; sorrow makes every hour seem like ten.
GAUNT.
Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.
Think of it as a holiday you are taking for pleasure.
BOLINGBROKE.
My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.
If I misdescribed it like that my heart would sigh,
it thinks of this as an enforced pilgrimage.
GAUNT.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home return.
Think of your weary dull journey as
a setting in which you will place
the precious jewel of your return home.
BOLINGBROKE.
Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make
Will but remember me what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
To foreign passages; and in the end,
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
But that I was a journeyman to grief?
No, it's more like every tedious step I take
will remind me how far I am travelling
away from the jewels that I love.
I am condemned to spending years
wandering abroad; and in the end,
when I regain my freedom, all I shall have
when I come home is sorrow.
GAUNT.
All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not the King did banish thee,
But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not the King exil'd thee; or suppose
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com'st.
Suppose the singing birds musicians,
The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd,
The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
Than a delightful measure or a dance;
For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
Every place the sun shines on
is a happy one and a good shelter for the wise man.
You must learn to think like this:
necessity creates its own virtues.
Don't think that the King has exiled you,
but that you have exiled the king. Sorrow is greater
when you do not face it courageously.
Go, say I sent you away to seek your fortune,
and not that the King banished you; or pretend
that there is a fatal plague in our air
and that you are fleeing to a more healthy climate.
Think of what is dearest to you, and imagine
that you are journeying towards it, not away from it.
Imagine that the singing birds are musicians,
the grass you walk on the carpet of the royal chamber,
the flowers fair ladies, and your steps are no more
than a delightful dance;
snarling sorrow has less power to harm
the man who mocks it and doesn't care.
BOLINGBROKE.
O, who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Ca
ucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.
Oh, who can keep warm
by thinking of the frosty Caucasus?
Who can take the edge off his hunger
by imagining a feast?
Who can run naked through the snow of December
by imagining the heat of summer?
Oh no, remembering good things
just makes the bad things seem worse.
The bite of sorrow it is at its worst
when it just breaks the skin, to make a festering sore.
GAUNT.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.
Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.
Come, come, my son, I'll go with you on your way.
If I had your youth and cause, I would not stay.
BOLINGBROKE.
Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil,
adieu;
My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!
Where'er I wander, boast of this I can:
Though banish'd, yet a trueborn English man.
So, farewell to the land of England; sweet soil,
goodbye;
my mother, and my nurse, that still carries me!
Wherever I wonder, I can boast of this:
although I am exiled, I am still a true born English man.
Exeunt
London. The court
Enter the KING, with BAGOT and GREEN, at one door;
and the DUKE OF AUMERLE at another
KING RICHARD.
We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?