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

by William Shakespeare

  in the same place I'm going to make you something

  I will destroy. So we begin our journey

  and leave it to the gods to see where it ends.

  PALAMON

  You speak well.

  Before I turn, let me embrace thee, cousin.

  They embrace.

  This I shall never do again.

  Well said.

  Before I turn away, let me embrace you, cousin.

  I shall never do this again.

  ARCITE

  One farewell.

  Let's wish each other farewell.

  PALAMON

  Why, let it be so; farewell, coz.

  Let it be; farewell, cousin.

  ARCITE

  Farewell, sir.

  Exeunt Palamon and his Knights.

  Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifices,

  True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you

  Expels the seeds of fear, and th’ apprehension

  Which still is farther off it, go with me

  Before the god of our profession. There

  Require of him the hearts of lions and

  The breath of tigers, yea, the fierceness too,

  Yea, the speed also—to go on, I mean,

  Else wish we to be snails. You know my prize

  Must be dragg’d out of blood; force and great feat

  Must put my garland on, where she sticks

  The queen of flowers. Our intercession then

  Must be to him that makes the camp a cestron

  Brimm’d with the blood of men. Give me your aid

  And bend your spirits towards him.

  They advance to the altar of Mars and fall on their faces; then kneel.

  Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turn’d

  Green Neptune into purple; whose approach

  Comets prewarn, whose havoc in vast field

  Unearthed skulls proclaim, whose breath blows down

  The teeming Ceres’ foison, who dost pluck

  With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds

  The mason’d turrets, that both mak’st and break’st

  The stony girths of cities: me thy pupil,

  Youngest follower of thy drum, instruct this day

  With military skill, that to thy laud

  I may advance my streamer, and by thee

  Be styl’d the lord o’ th’ day. Give me, great Mars,

  Some token of thy pleasure.

  Here they fall on their faces as formerly, and there is heard clanging of armor, with a short thunder, as the burst of a battle, whereupon they all rise and bow to the altar.

  O great corrector of enormous times,

  Shaker of o’er-rank states, thou grand decider

  Of dusty and old titles, that heal’st with blood

  The earth when it is sick, and cur’st the world

  O’ th’ plurisy of people! I do take

  Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name

  To my design march boldly.—Let us go.

  Farewell, sir.

  Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yes, my sacrifices,

  true worshippers of Mars, whose spirit

  drives fear out of you, and the dread

  which inspires it, come with me

  before the god of our profession.

  Ask him for the hearts of lions and

  the breath of tigers, yes, the fierceness too,

  and the speed–to go forward, I mean,

  otherwise ask that we can be snails. You know my prize

  can only be won with bloodshed; strength and skill

  must bring me the victor's crown of flowers.

  So we must pray to the one who makes the battlefield

  a tank brimming with men's blood. Help me

  by offering your prayers to him.

  You mighty one, whose power has turned

  the green sea into purple; whose coming

  is foretold by comets, whose chaos on the battlefield

  is shown by discovered skulls, whose breath blows down

  the growing crops, who reaches out with his

  powerful armoured hand from the blue clouds

  and pulls down the brick castles, makes and breaks

  the stone walls of cities: teach me today, your pupil,

  the youngest of your followers, to have

  military skill, so that I can praise you

  by raising my flag when I am crowned

  victorious by you. Give me, great Mars,

  some sign of your approval.

  Oh great corrector of disordered times,

  punisher of corrupt states, you great arbitrator

  of ancient titles, who heals the Earth with blood

  when it is sick, and rids the world of its

  superfluous population! I take your

  sign as offering good luck, and I march boldly

  to fulfil my plans in your name.–Let us go.

  Exeunt.

  Enter Palamon and his Knights, with the former observance.

  PALAMON

  Our stars must glister with new fire, or be

  Today extinct. Our argument is love,

  Which if the goddess of it grant, she gives

  Victory too. Then blend your spirits with mine,

  You whose free nobleness do make my cause

  Your personal hazard. To the goddess Venus

  Commend we our proceeding, and implore

  Her power unto our party.

  Here they advance to the altar of Venus, and fall on their faces; then kneel, as formerly.

  Hail, sovereign queen of secrets, who hast power

  To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage,

  And weep unto a girl; that hast the might,

  Even with an eye-glance, to choke Mars’s drum

  And turn th’ alarm to whispers; that canst make

  A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him

  Before Apollo; that mayst force the king

  To be his subject’s vassal, and induce

  Stale gravity to dance; the poll’d bachelor,

  Whose youth, like wanton boys through bonfires,

  Have skipp’d thy flame, at seventy thou canst catch,

  And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat,

  Abuse young lays of love. What godlike power

  Hast thou not power upon? To Phoebus thou

  Add’st flames, hotter than his; the heavenly fires

  Did scorch his mortal son, thine him. The huntress

  All moist and cold, some say, began to throw

  Her bow away, and sigh. Take to thy grace

  Me thy vow’d soldier, who do bear thy yoke

  As ’twere a wreath of roses, yet is heavier

  Than lead itself, stings more than nettles. I

  Have never been foul-mouth’d against thy law,

  Nev’r reveal’d secret, for I knew none—would not,

  Had I kenn’d all that were. I never practiced

  Upon man’s wife, nor would the libels read

  Of liberal wits. I never at great feasts

  Sought to betray a beauty, but have blush’d

  At simp’ring sirs that did. I have been harsh

  To large confessors, and have hotly ask’d them

  If they had mothers; I had one, a woman,

  And women ’twere they wrong’d. I knew a man

  Of eighty winters—this I told them—who

  A lass of fourteen brided. ’Twas thy power

  To put life into dust: the aged cramp

  Had screw’d his square foot round,

  The gout had knit his fingers into knots,

  Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes

  Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life

  In him seem’d torture. This anatomy

  Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I

  Believ’d it was his, for she swore it was,

  And who would not believe her? Brief, I am

  To thos
e that prate and have done, no companion;

  To those that boast and have not, a defier;

  To those that would and cannot, a rejoicer.

  Yea, him I do not love that tells close offices

  The foulest way, nor names concealments in

  The boldest language. Such a one I am,

  And vow that lover never yet made sigh

  Truer than I. O then, most soft sweet goddess,

  Give me the victory of this question, which

  Is true love’s merit, and bless me with a sign

  Of thy great pleasure.

  Here music is heard; doves are seen to flutter. They fall again upon their faces, then on their knees.

  O thou that from eleven to ninety reign’st

  In mortal bosoms, whose chase is this world,

  And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks

  For this fair token, which being laid unto

  Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance

  My body to this business.—Let us rise

  And bow before the goddess. Time comes on.

  Our stars must shine with a new light, or be

  put out today. We are fighting for love,

  and if the goddess of it gives you that, she gives you

  victory too. So join your spirits with mine,

  you noblemen who freely choose to risk yourselves

  for my sake. We offer our efforts to the goddess Venus,

  and beg her to give strength to our cause.

  Hail, Royal Queen of secrets, who has the power

  to calm down the fiercest tyrant and make him

  weep to a girl; who has the strength to muffle

  the drum of Mars with a glance,

  and make battle cries into whispers; who can

  make a cripple wave his crutch, and cure him

  before Apollo can; who can force the King

  to serve his subject, and make

  serious old men dance; the bald bachelor,

  who skipped through your flame in his youth like

  a reckless boy leaping a bonfire, you can catch

  him at seventy and make him torture to his sore throat

  singing the love songs of the young. What god

  is there whom you cannot master? You add flames

  to the sun, hotter than his; the heavenly fires

  burnt his mortal son, yours burned him. Diana,

  all moist and cold, some say, gave up in despair.

  Give your Grace to me, your sworn soldier, who carries

  your burden as if it were a bunch of roses, although it is heavier

  that led itself, and stings more than nettles. I

  have never blasphemed against your law,

  never revealed any of your secrets, for I knew none–

  but I would not, if I had known all there were. I never

  cheated with anyone's wife, or would read the lying

  gossip of licentious wits. I have never gone to

  great feasts and tried to lead a beauty astray,

  but have been embarrassed by the

  simpering men who did. I have been stern

  to those who bragged, and angrily asked them

  if they had mothers; I had one, who was a woman,

  and it was women they were insulting. I knew a man

  of eighty–this is what I told them–who

  married a lass of fourteen. It was your power

  that put life into dust: rheumatism

  had twisted his feet around,

  gout had tied his fingers in knots,

  his bulging eyes had almost been torn from their

  sockets by painful fits, so that life was

  a torture to him. This old body

  had a boy with this young beauty, and I

  believed it was his, for she swore it was,

  and who would not believe her? In short,

  I am no friend to those who do things and chatter about it;

  I reject those who brag about things they haven't done;

  I am with those who want to and cannot.

  I don't love the ones who reveal secrets

  in the foulest way, or who talks about private things in

  the filthiest language. This is who I am,

  and I swear that there was never a suffering lover

  as faithful as me. Oh then, softest sweetest goddess,

  let me be the victor in this argument,

  in which I represent true love, and bless me

  with a sign of your great goodwill.

  Oh you who lives in the hearts of all men

  from eleven to ninety, whose hunting ground is this world,

  with us as your prey, I give you thanks

  for this sweet sign, which I will clasp to

  my true innocent heart, it gives my body

  confidence in this business.–Let us rise

  and bow to the goddess. It's almost time.

  They bow. Exeunt.

  Still music of records. Enter Emilia in white, her hair about her shoulders, and wearing a wheaten wreath; one in white holding up her train, her hair stuck with flowers; one before her carrying a silver hind, in which is convey’d incense and sweet odors, which being set upon the altar of Diana, her maids standing aloof, she sets fire to it; then they curtsy and kneel.

  EMILIA

  O sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant queen,

  Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative,

  Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure

  As wind-fann’d snow, who to thy female knights

  Allow’st no more blood than will make a blush,

  Which is their order’s robe: I here, thy priest,

  Am humbled ’fore thine altar. O, vouchsafe,

  With that thy rare green eye—which never yet

  Beheld thing maculate—look on thy virgin,

  And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear

  (Which nev’r heard scurril term, into whose port

  Ne’er ent’red wanton sound) to my petition,

  Season’d with holy fear. This is my last

  Of vestal office; I am bride-habited,

  But maiden-hearted. A husband I have ’pointed,

  But do not know him. Out of two I should

  Choose one, and pray for his success, but I

  Am guiltless of election. Of mine eyes

  Were I to lose one, they are equal precious,

  I could doom neither; that which perish’d should

  Go to’t unsentenc’d. Therefore, most modest queen,

  He of the two pretenders that best loves me

  And has the truest title in’t, let him

  Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant

  The file and quality I hold I may

  Continue in thy band.

  Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the place ascends a rose tree, having one rose upon it.

  See what our general of ebbs and flows

  Out from the bowels of her holy altar

  With sacred act advances: but one rose!

  If well inspir’d, this battle shall confound

  Both these brave knights, and I, a virgin flow’r,

  Must grow alone, unpluck’d.

  Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments, and the rose falls from the tree, which vanishes under the altar.

  The flow’r is fall’n, the tree descends. O mistress,

  Thou here dischargest me. I shall be gather’d,

  I think so, but I know not thine own will:

  Unclasp thy mystery.—I hope she’s pleas’d,

  Her signs were gracious.

  O sacred, shadowy, cold and unchanging queen,

  who leaves the dance, silent, thoughtful,

  sweet, solitary, clean and white, and pure

  as the driven snow, who allows your female knights

  to have no more passion than blushing,

  which is the dress of their order: I, your priest,

  bows before your alta
r. Oh, grant my prayers,

  look on your virgin with your beautiful green eye,

  which has never looked on anything corrupt,

  and, holy silver mistress, lend your ear

  (which never heard any foul words

  or disgusting sounds) to my plea,

  which is touched with holy fear. This is my last

  service as your virgin; I am dressed as a bride,

  but have the heart of a virgin. I have chosen a husband,

  but don't know who he is. Of the two I ought to

  choose one, and pray for his success, but I

  cannot make the choice. They are like my eyes,

  the loss of either would be equally painful;

  I can't condemn either of them; the one who dies

  will not be sentenced to death by me. Therefore, most modest queen,

  let the one who loves me best and

  has the best rights to it, let him

  become my husband, or otherwise grant that I

  may keep my place amongst your virgins.

  See what comes from our actions,

  from the heart of her holy altar

  a sacred thing appears: just one rose!

  If I interpret this rightly, both these

  brave knights will lose this battle, and I,

  a virgin flower, must grow alone, unplucked.

  The flower has fallen, the tree disappears.

  O mistress, you're sending me away. I shall be married,

  I think so, but I don't know what you plan:

  reveal your mysteries–I hope she's pleased,

  her signs seem to say so.

  They curtsy and exeunt.

  A darkened room in the prison.

  (Doctor, Jailer, Wooer, Daughter, Maid, First Messenger)

  Enter Doctor, Jailer, and Wooer in habit of Palamon.

  DOCTOR

  Has this advice I told you done any good upon her?

  Has this advice I gave you done any good?

  WOOER

  O, very much; the maids that kept her company

  Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon.

  Within this half hour she came smiling to me,

  And ask’d me what I would eat, and when I would kiss her.

  I told her, presently, and kiss’d her twice.

  Oh, very much; the girls who are with her

  have got her halfway persuaded that I am Palamon.

  Within the last half-hour she came to me smiling