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

by William Shakespeare

  But that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging,

  Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

  I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.

  To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd,

  Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless.

  Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,

  Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem,

  Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.

  Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?

  It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen;

  Unless the adage must be verified,

  That beggars mounted run their horse to death.

  'T is beauty that doth oft make women proud;

  But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small.

  'T is virtue that doth make them most admir'd;

  The contrary doth make thee wond'red at.

  'T is government that makes them seem divine;

  The want thereof makes thee abominable.

  Thou art as opposite to every good

  As the Antipodes are unto us,

  Or as the south to the Septentrion.

  O tiger's heart wrapp'd in a woman's hide!

  How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,

  To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

  And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?

  Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

  Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

  Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:

  Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will;

  For raging wind blows up incessant showers,

  And when the rage allays the rain begins.

  These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies,

  And every drop cries vengeance for his death,

  'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman.

  She wolf of France, but worse than the wolves of France,

  whose tongue is more poisonous than the bite of an adder,

  how badly it suits your sex

  to gloat, like an Amazon slut,

  on those whom fortune has brought low!

  If it wasn't for the fact that your face is like a mask,

  made bold through repeated evil deeds,

  I would try, proud Queen, to make you blush.

  To tell you where you come from, your ancestry,

  would be shameful enough to make you ashamed, if you were not shameless.

  Your father carries the title of King of Naples,

  and also of Sicily and Jerusalem,

  but he doesn't have the wealth of an English farmer.

  Was it that poor king who taught you to be insulting?

  There is no need for it, and it doesn't suit you, proud queen;

  unless the old proverb is being proved true,

  that when beggars get a horse they ride it to death.

  Women are often arrogant when they are beautiful;

  but, God knows, you don't have much beauty.

  Virtue often makes them much admired;

  your lack of it amazes people.

  Self-control makes them seem heavenly;

  your lack of it makes you hellish.

  You are as far opposite every good thing

  as the Antipodes are to us,

  or the Northern regions are to the south.

  Oh, you tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's body!

  How could you spill the lifeblood of the child,

  and tell his father to dry his eyes with it,

  and yet still wear the face of a woman?

  Women are soft, gentle, pitiful and yielding;

  you are stern, stubborn, flinty, rough and remorseless.

  Are you telling me to be angry? Why, now you have your wish:

  do you want me to weep? Well, you've got it;

  for the raging wind always creates showers,

  and when the winds softens the rain begins.

  These tears are my memorials for my sweet Rutland,

  and every drop calls out for vengeance for his death,

  against you, evil Clifford, and you, false Frenchwoman.

  NORTHUMBERLAND.

  Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so

  That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

  Damn me, his passion is so moving

  that I can hardly keep from crying.

  YORK.

  That face of his the hungry cannibals

  Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood;

  But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,

  O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.

  See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears;

  This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy,

  And I with tears do wash the blood away.

  Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;

  And if thou tell'st the heavy story right,

  Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears,

  Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears

  And say 'Alas! it was a piteous deed!'--

  There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse;

  And in thy need such comfort come to thee

  As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!--

  Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world;

  My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!

  Hungry cannibals would not have touched his face,

  would not have stained it with blood;

  but you are more inhuman, less forgiving,

  oh, ten times less, than the tigers of Hyrcania.

  See, ruthless Queen, the tears of an unfortunate father;

  you dip this cloth into the blood of my sweet boy,

  and I wash the tears away with blood.

  You keep this handkerchief, and go and boast about this;

  and if you tell the sad story correctly,

  I swear, your listeners will cry,

  yes, even my enemies will shed swift tears

  and say, “Alas! This was a sorry deed!"

  There, take the crown, and take my curse with it;

  and may you find such comfort as you cruelly offer

  me in your hour of need!

  Hardhearted Clifford, take me away from the world;

  my soul is going to heaven, my blood is on your heads!

  NORTHUMBERLAND.

  Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,

  I should not, for my life, but weep with him,

  To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

  If he had slaughtered all my family,

  I couldn't help myself from crying with him,

  seeing how inner sorrow tears at his soul.

  QUEEN MARGARET.

  What! weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland?

  Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

  And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

  What! Ready to cry, my Lord Northumberland?

  Just think of all the wrongs that he did to us,

  and that will quickly dry those tears of yours.

  CLIFFORD.

  Here's for my oath, here's for my father's death.

  This is to settle my oath, this is for my father's death.

  [Stabbing him.]

  QUEEN MARGARET.

  And here's to right our gentle-hearted king.

  And this is to put our gentle hearted king in his rightful place.

  And and

  [Stabbing him.]

  YORK.

  Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!

  My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

  Open your gate of mercy, gracious God!

  My soul is flying out through these wounds to come and find you.

  [Dies.]

  QUEEN MARGARET.

  Off with his head, and set it on York gates;

  So York may overlook the town of York.

  Cut off his head, and put it on the
gates of York;

  so York can look over the town of York.

  [Flourish. Exeunt.]

  [A march. Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with their Power.]

  EDWARD.

  I wonder how our princely father scap'd,

  Or whether he be scap'd away or no

  From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit.

  Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;

  Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;

  Or had he scap'd, methinks we should have heard

  The happy tidings of his good escape.--

  How fares my brother? why is he so sad?

  I wonder how our princely father escaped,

  or indeed whether he did escape or not,

  from the clutches of Clifford and Northumberland.

  Had he been captured, we should have the news;

  had he been killed, we should have had the news;

  or if he had escaped, I think we would have heard

  the glad news of his lucky escape.

  How is my brother? Why is he so sad?

  RICHARD.

  I cannot joy until I be resolv'd

  Where our right valiant father is become.

  I saw him in the battle range about,

  And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth.

  Methought he bore him in the thickest troop

  As doth a lion in a herd of neat;

  Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs,

  Who having pinch'd a few and made them cry,

  The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.

  So far'd our father with his enemies;

  So fled his enemies my warlike father.

  Methinks 'tis pride enough to be his son.--

  See how the morning opes her golden gates

  And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.

  How well resembles it the prime of youth,

  Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love!

  I can't celebrate until I know

  what has become of our brave father.

  I saw him roaming around the battlefield,

  and saw how he picked out Clifford to fight.

  I thought he charged into the largest group of soldiers

  like a lion tearing into a herd of sheep;

  or like a bear, surrounded with dogs,

  who, when a few of them have been bitten and yelped,

  the rest all stand back and bark at him.

  That was what happened with our father and his enemies;

  so my warlike father fled from his enemies.

  Just being his son is enough to make me proud.

  See how the morning is opening her golden gates

  and saying farewell to the glorious sun.

  How much that looks like the prime of youth,

  like a young man dancing for his lover!

  EDWARD.

  Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

  Are my eyes dazzled, or can I see three suns?

  RICHARD.

  Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

  Not separated with the racking clouds,

  But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.

  See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

  As if they vow'd some league inviolable;

  Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.

  In this the heaven figures some event.

  Three glorious suns, each one perfect;

  not separated by the piled clouds,

  but sitting apart in a pale clear sky.

  Look, look! They join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

  as if they had made an unbreakable pact;

  now they are just one lamp, one light, one sun.

  The skies are telling us of some great happening.

  EDWARD.

  'T is wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

  I think it cites us, brother, to the field,

  That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,

  Each one already blazing by our meeds,

  Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,

  And overshine the earth, as this the world.

  Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

  Upon my target three fair shining suns.

  This is amazing, it's never been seen before.

  I think it is telling us, brother, to go to the battlefield,

  so that we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,

  each one already glorious in his own right,

  should, despite that, all join together,

  and shine over the earth, as these do the globe.

  Whatever it means, from now on I shall carry

  three fair shining suns upon on my shield.

  RICHARD.

  Nay, bear three daughters; by your leave I speak it,

  You love the breeder better than the male.--

  [Enter a Messenger.]

  But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell

  Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

  No, carry three daughters; I say it with your permission,

  you love women better than men–

  but who are you, whose grim looks signal

  that you have some terrible story to tell?

  MESSENGER.

  Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on

  When as the noble Duke of York was slain,

  Your princely father and my loving lord.

  Ah, I was a sad observer

  when the noble Duke of York was killed,

  your princely father and my loving lord.

  EDWARD.

  O, speak no more, for I have heard too much!

  Oh, say no more, I have heard too much!

  RICHARD.

  Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

  Describe his death, I want to hear it all.

  MESSENGER.

  Environed he was with many foes,

  And stood against them as the hope of Troy

  Against the Greeks that would have ent'red Troy.

  But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

  And many strokes, though with a little axe,

  Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.

  By many hands your father was subdu'd,

  But only slaught'red by the ireful arm

  Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,

  Who crown'd the gracious duke in high despite,

  Laugh'd in his face, and when with grief he wept

  The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks,

  A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

  Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain.

  And, after many scorns, many foul taunts,

  They took his head, and on the gates of York

  They set the same; and there it doth remain,

  The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.

  He was surrounded by many enemies,

  and resisted them like the hero of Troy

  resisted the Greeks who wanted to come in.

  But even Hercules must surrender to greater numbers;

  and a small axe can bring down the strongest oak

  if it is used to make many cuts.

  Your father was captured by many men,

  but only killed by the angry hands

  of unforgiving Clifford and the Queen,

  who mockingly crowned the gracious Duke,

  laughed in his face, and when he wept with grief

  the ruthless Queen gave him a napkin to dry

  his tears, soaked in the innocent blood of

  sweet young Rutland, who had been killed by rough Clifford.

  And, after much mockery, many foul taunts,

  they cut off his head, and they have put it

  on the gates of York; it's still there,

  the saddest sight I ever saw.

  EDWARD.

  Sweet Duke of York! our prop to lean upon,

  Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.

 
; O Clifford! boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain

  The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

  And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,

  For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.

  Now my soul's palace is become a prison.

  Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body

  Might in the ground be closed up in rest!

  For never henceforth shall I joy again,

  Never, O, never, shall I see more joy!

  Sweet Duke of York! The prop we leant upon,

  now you're gone, we have no stick, no support.

  O Clifford! Rough Clifford! You have killed

  the most chivalrous man in Europe;

  and you beat him through treachery,

  for he would have beaten you in hand-to-hand combat.

  Now my body has become a prison for my soul.

  I wish she would break out of here, so my body

  could be placed in the ground to rest!

  From now on I shall never be happy again,

  I shall never see any more happiness, never!

  RICHARD.

  I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture

  Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;

  Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burthen,

  For selfsame wind that I should speak withal

  Is kindling coals that fires all my breast

  And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.

  To weep is to make less the depth of grief;

  Tears, then, for babes, blows and revenge for me!--

  Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death,

  Or die renowned by attempting it.

  I cannot weep, for all the moisture in my body

  will hardly be able to calm my fiery heart;

  nor can my tongue say what my heart is feeling,

  for the same breath that I would use to speak

  is fanning the flames of the coals in my heart

  and burning me up with flames that tears would put out.

  To weep would be to lessen the depth of my grief;

  so tears are for babies, blows and revenge for me!

  Richard, I carry your name; I shall revenge your death,

  or die famous for the attempt.