The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)

by William Shakespeare

  It was noted. Cousin Aumerle,

  how far did you accompany high Hereford?

  AUMERLE.

  I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,

  But to the next high way, and there I left him.

  I took high Hereford, if that's what you call him,

  just to the next highway, and left him there.

  KING RICHARD.

  And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

  And tell me, how many tears were shed when you parted?

  AUMERLE.

  Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind,

  Which then blew bitterly against our faces,

  Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and so by chance

  Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

  I swear, none for me; except that the north-east wind,

  which was blowing bitterly in our faces,

  made our eyes water, and so perhaps that

  caused a tear at our empty farewell.

  KING RICHARD.

  What said our cousin when you parted with him?

  What did my cousin say when you left him?

  AUMERLE.

  'Farewell.'

  And, for my heart disdained that my tongue

  Should so profane the word, that taught me craft

  To counterfeit oppression of such grief

  That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.

  Marry, would the word 'farewell' have length'ned hours

  And added years to his short banishment,

  He should have had a volume of farewells;

  But since it would not, he had none of me.

  ‘Farewell.’

  And, as I didn't want to be so false

  as to use the word, I pretended

  that I was so overwhelmed with grief

  that I was unable to speak.

  Indeed, if the word ‘farewell’ could have extended time

  and added years to his short exile,

  I would have given him a thousand farewells;

  but since it wouldn't, he got none from me.

  KING RICHARD.

  He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt,

  When time shall call him home from banishment,

  Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.

  Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,

  Observ'd his courtship to the common people;

  How he did seem to dive into their hearts

  With humble and familiar courtesy;

  What reverence he did throw away on slaves,

  Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles

  And patient underbearing of his fortune,

  As 'twere to banish their affects with him.

  Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;

  A brace of draymen bid God speed him well

  And had the tribute of his supple knee,

  With 'Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends';

  As were our England in reversion his,

  And he our subjects' next degree in hope.

  He is my cousin, cousin; but it's doubtful,

  when the period of exile has expired,

  if our kinsman will come to see his friends.

  Bushy, Bagot here, Green, and myself

  noticed how he courted the common people;

  he seemed to insinuate himself into their hearts

  by pretending to be humble and friendly;

  how he seemed to worship slaves,

  wooing poor craftsmen with smiles

  and modest endurance of his fate,

  as if he wanted to carry their affection into exile with him.

  He tipped his hat to an oyster seller;

  a pair of carters wished him Godspeed

  and he bowed the knee to them,

  saying, ‘Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends’–

  as if my England really belonged to him,

  and he would be the next one to rule them.

  GREEN.

  Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts!

  Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland,

  Expedient manage must be made, my liege,

  Ere further leisure yicld them further means

  For their advantage and your Highness' loss.

  Well, he is gone; let those thoughts go with him!

  Now, we must formulate a plan for dealing with

  the rebels in Ireland, my lord,

  any delay will give them greater opportunities

  to take advantage and damage your Highness.

  KING RICHARD.

  We will ourself in person to this war;

  And, for our coffers, with too great a court

  And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,

  We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm;

  The revenue whereof shall furnish us

  For our affairs in hand. If that come short,

  Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;

  Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,

  They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,

  And send them after to supply our wants;

  For we will make for Ireland presently.

  Enter BUSHY

  Bushy, what news?

  I will go to this war myself in person;

  and as the Exchequer has become somewhat impoverished

  through keeping too large a court and being too generous

  I shall have to lease out the tax-raising rights;

  the income from that will give me enough

  to deal with the current business. If that's not enough,

  our stand-ins at home shall be given blank cheques,

  which they can make the richest men sign

  to provide us with large sums of gold,

  and they can send these on to us to supply our needs;

  I will go to Ireland at once.

  [Enter Bushy]

  Bushy, what news is there?

  BUSHY.

  Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,

  Suddenly taken; and hath sent poste-haste

  To entreat your Majesty to visit him.

  Old John of Gaunt is seriously ill, my lord,

  it came upon him suddenly; he has sent urgent messages

  begging your Majesty to visit him.

  KING RICHARD.

  Where lies he?

  Where is he?

  BUSHY.

  At Ely House.

  At Ely House.

  KING RICHARD.

  Now put it, God, in the physician's mind

  To help him to his grave immediately!

  The lining of his coffers shall make coats

  To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.

  Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him.

  Pray God we may make haste, and come too late!

  Now, God, put it in the doctor's mind

  to help him straight into his grave!

  The money from his estate will pay

  for the equipment of our soldiers in these Irish wars.

  Come, gentlemen, let's all go and visit him.

  May God speed us there, and may we be too late!

  ALL.

  Amen.

  Amen.

  Exeunt

  London. Ely House

  Enter JOHN OF GAUNT, sick, with the DUKE OF YORK, etc.

  GAUNT.

  Will the King come, that I may breathe my last

  In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

  Will the King come, so I may use my last breath

  to give sensible advice to this hotheaded youth?

  YORK.

  Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;

  For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

  Don't trouble yourself, or fight for breath;

  he doesn't listen to advice.

  GAUNT.

  O, but they say the tongues of dying men

  Enforce attention like deep harmony.
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  Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain;

  For they breathe truth that breathe their words -in pain.

  He that no more must say is listen'd more

  Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;

  More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before.

  The setting sun, and music at the close,

  As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,

  Writ in remembrance more than things long past.

  Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,

  My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

  Oh, but they say the speech of dying men

  holds the attention like great music.

  When you don't have many words, you don't waste them;

  those for whom it is painful to speak speak the truth.

  Someone whose time is running out is listened to more

  than someone whom youth and leisure has taught to speak smoothly;

  people take more note of a man's ending than his earlier life.

  The setting sun, the last phrase of a piece of music,

  the last taste of sweet things, stay sweetest the longest,

  stay in the memory longer than things long past.

  Though Richard wouldn't listen to my advice during my life,

  he might listen to what I have to say as I'm dying.

  YORK.

  No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,

  As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond,

  Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound

  The open ear of youth doth always listen;

  Report of fashions in proud Italy,

  Whose manners still our tardy apish nation

  Limps after in base imitation.

  Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity-

  So it be new, there's no respect how vile-

  That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?

  Then all too late comes counsel to be heard

  Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.

  Direct not him whose way himself will choose.

  'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

  No; his ears are blocked with other flattering voices,

  praises, which can make the sensible stupid,

  sexual verses, whose poisonous sound

  young men have always liked to listen to;

  reports of the fashions in great Italy,

  whose manners our backward copying nation

  limps after, making a poor imitation.

  What frivolous thing is there in the world–

  as long as it's new, he doesn't care how horrid–

  that isn't quickly brought to his attention?

  Then good advice comes all too late

  where reason is overcome by desire.

  Don't advise him, he does as he pleases.

  You are short of breath, advising him would be a waste of it.

  GAUNT.

  Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd,

  And thus expiring do foretell of him:

  His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,

  For violent fires soon burn out themselves;

  Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;

  He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;

  With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder;

  Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,

  Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

  This royal throne of kings, this scept'red isle,

  This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

  This other Eden, demi-paradise,

  This fortress built by Nature for herself

  Against infection and the hand of war,

  This happy breed of men, this little world,

  This precious stone set in the silver sea,

  Which serves it in the office of a wall,

  Or as a moat defensive to a house,

  Against the envy of less happier lands;

  This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

  This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,

  Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,

  Renowned for their deeds as far from home,

  For Christian service and true chivalry,

  As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry

  Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son;

  This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,

  Dear for her reputation through the world,

  Is now leas'd out-I die pronouncing it-

  Like to a tenement or pelting farm.

  England, bound in with the triumphant sea,

  Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege

  Of wat'ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,

  With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds;

  That England, that was wont to conquer others,

  Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

  Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,

  How happy then were my ensuing death!

  I feel like a prophet with new inspiration,

  and as I die I predict this of him:

  his foolish angry eruption cannot last,

  for raging fires soon burn themselves out;

  it can drizzle for hours, but sudden storms are quickly over;

  someone who rides too fast too early will tire themselves;

  if you eat too fast you will choke;

  such vanity is like the insatiable cormorant,

  which once it's eaten everything starts on itself.

  This royal seat of Kings, this ruling land,

  the home of Majesty, the throne of war,

  this other Eden, second paradise,

  this fortress built by nature for herself

  against infection and attacks, this fortunate race of men, this little world,

  this precious stone set in the silver sea,

  which serves as a defensive wall,

  or like a moat around the house,

  against the jealousy of less happy nations;

  this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

  this nurse, this breeding ground of royal kings,

  feared due to their ancestry, and famous for their parentage,

  celebrated for their deeds in faraway lands,

  for Christian service and true chivalry,

  as they showed in their efforts in Israel,

  recapturing the grave of Jesus;

  this land of such sweet souls, this dear dear land,

  loved for her reputation throughout the world,

  is now rented out–I announce it as I die–

  like a field or a smallholding.

  England, ringed round with the victorious sea,

  his rocky shore beats back the jealous attacks

  of the ocean, is now enslaved by shame,

  tied up with rotten inky documents;

  England, that used to conquer others,

  has shamefully conquered itself.

  Ah, I wish the scandal would vanish with my life,

  how happy I would be to die then!

  Enter KING and QUEEN, AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT,

  Ross, and WILLOUGHBY

  YORK.

  The King is come; deal mildly with his youth,

  For young hot colts being rag'd do rage the more.

  The King has come; treat him calmly, because

  rash young men answer anger with anger.

  QUEEN.

  How fares our noble uncle Lancaster?

  How is our noble uncle Lancaster?

  KING RICHARD.

  What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?

  What hope is there, man? How is old Gaunt?

  GAUNT.

  O, how that name befits my composition!

  Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old.

  Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;

  And who abstains from meat that is not g
aunt?

  For sleeping England long time have I watch'd;

  Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.

  The pleasure that some fathers feed upon

  Is my strict fast-I mean my children's looks;

  And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt.

  Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,

  Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

  Oh, how suited that name is to my constitution!

  Old Gaunt, indeed; and age has made me gaunt.

  Grief has kept me from eating;

  who can abstain from meat and not be gaunt?

  I have stayed awake for a long time guarding sleeping England;

  that makes you thin, and thinness makes you gaunt.

  The pleasure that some fathers feed themselves with,

  I abstain from–I mean looking at my children;

  starving me of that, you have made me gaunt.

  I am gaunt for the grave, gaunt as a grave,

  her hollow womb only accepts bones.

  KING RICHARD.

  Can sick men play so nicely with their names?

  Can a sick man make such good wordplay with his name?

  GAUNT.

  No, misery makes sport to mock itself:

  Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,

  I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.

  No, it's misery which enjoys mocking itself:

  since you have tried to end my family name,

  I mock it, great King, to flatter you.

  KING RICHARD.

  Should dying men flatter with those that live?

  Should dying men flatter those who are still alive?

  GAUNT.

  No, no; men living flatter those that die.

  No, no; living men flatter those who die.

  KING RICHARD.

  Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me.

  You, who are dying, say you are flattering me.

  GAUNT.

  O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.

  Oh no! You are dying, although I am sicker.