The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (267 page)

how many hours make a day,

how many days will make a year,

how many years a mortal man has to live.

When this is known, then one would divide up the times;

I must spend so many hours tending my flock;

so many hours resting;

so many hours thinking;

so many hours in exercise;

my ewes have been pregnant for so many years;

there are so many weeks before they will give birth;

so many years before I shear them.

So minutes, hours, days, months and years

would be spent in the way that one planned,

and eventually old age would reach a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life that would be! How sweet! How lovely!

Doesn't the hawthorn bush give a sweeter shade

to shepherds who are watching their silly sheep

than a rich embroidered canopy gives

to kings who are fearful of their subjects' treachery?

Oh, yes, it does; a thousand times it does!

To finish, the shepherd's humble meal,

his cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,

his usual sleep under the shade of a tree,

all of which he enjoys safely and sweetly,

is far better than the delicacies a prince has,

his refreshment sparkling in a golden cup,

his body sleeping on a strange bed,

with worry, mistrust and treason all around him.

[Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his father, bringing in the

dead body.]

SON.

Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,

May be possessed with some store of crowns;

And I, that haply take them from him now,

May yet ere night yield both my life and them

To some man else, as this dead man doth me.--

Who's this?--O God! it is my father's face,

Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd.

O heavy times, begetting such events!

From London by the king was I press'd forth;

My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,

Came on the part of York, press'd by his master;

And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,

Have by my hands of life bereaved him.--

Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did;--

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.--

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks,

And no more words till they have flow'd their fill.

It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

This man, whom I killed in hand-to-hand combat,

may have some money on him;

and I, who is lucky enough to take it from him now,

may still before nightfall give both it and my life

to some other man, as this dead man does to me.

Who is this? Oh God! This is my father's face,

I have killed him in this battle without knowing it.

What terrible times, that cause such events!

I was conscripted in the King's service at London;

my father, being a servant of the Earl of Warwick,

joined in on the side of York, conscripted by his master;

and I, who got my life from him,

have taken his life away from him.

Pardon me, God, I didn't know what I was doing;

and pardon me, father, I didn't know it was you.

My tears will wipe away these bloodstains,

and I shall say no more until they have stopped.

KING HENRY.

O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!

Whiles lions war and battle for their dens,

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.

Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee tear for tear;

And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war,

Be blind with tears and break o'ercharg'd with grief.

What a pitiful sight! What bloody times!

While  lions battle each other for their territory,

poor harmless lambs have to suffer as they fight.

Weep, wretched man, I will match you tear for tear;

and let our hearts and eyes, as if they were in a civil war,

be blind with tears and break from a surfeit of grief.

[Enter a Father who has killed his son, with the body in his

arms.]

FATHER.

Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold,

For I have bought it with an hundred blows.--

But let me see;--is this our foeman's face?

Ah, no, no, no! it is mine only son!--

Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eye; see, see what showers arise,

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,

Upon thy wounds that kill mine eye and heart!--

O, pity, God, this miserable age!--

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,

Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,

This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!--

O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

You who fought against me so strongly,

give me your gold, if you have any gold,

for I have paid for it with a hundred blows.

But let me see; is this the face of an enemy?

Ah, no, no, no! It is my only son!

Ah, boy, if there is any life left in you,

look up at me; look at these showers there are here,

blown up by the storms of my heart,

falling on your wounds that kill my eye and my heart!

Oh, God, have pity on this miserable time!

What terrible, evil, bloodthirsty,

wrong, disloyal and unnatural things

this deadly quarrel throws up every day!

Oh boy, your father gave you life too soon,

and has taken life away too late!

KING HENRY.

Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!

O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!--

O pity, pity! gentle heaven, pity!--

The red rose and the white are on his face,

The fatal colours of our striving houses;

The one his purple blood right well resembles,

The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth.

Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!

If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

Sorrow on top of sorrow! Grief worse than grief!

If only I could stop these awful acts with my death!

Oh pity, pity! Gentle heaven, take pity!

He has the red rose and the white on his face,

the fatal colours of our competing houses;

his purple blood resembles one

and I think his pale cheek another.

Let one rose wither, and the other flourish!

If you fight, a thousand must lose their lives.

SON.

How will my mother, for a father's death,

Take on with me and ne'er be satisfied!

To think how my mother will attack me for

my father's death, she will never stop!

FATHER.

How will my wife, for slaughter of my son,

Shed seas of tears and ne'er be satisfied!

To think how my wife, for the death of my son,

will shed seas of tears and never stop!

KING HENRY.

How will the country, for these woeful chances,

Misthink the king and not be satisfied!

To think how the country, due to these terrible happenings,

will misjudge the king and always hate him!

SON.

Was ever son so rued a father's death?

Did any son ever so regret the death of the father?

FATHER.

Was ever father so bemoan'd his son?

Did any father so mourn for his son?

KING HENRY.

Was ever king so griev'd for subjects' woe?

Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.

Was any king ever so sorrowful for his subjects' suffering?

Your sorrow is great, mine is ten times greater.

SON.

I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

I'll take you away, where I can weep my fill.

[Exit with the body.]

FATHER.

These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre,

For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go;

My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;

And so obsequious will thy father be,

Even for the loss of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant sons.

I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,

For I have murder'd where I should not kill.

These arms of mine shall be your shroud;

my heart, sweet boy, shall be your grave,

and the image of you shall never leave my heart;

my sighing chest shall be your funeral bell;

and your father will mourn as much

at the loss of you, having no others,

as Priam did for all his brave sons.

I'll take you away; let them fight if they want to,

I have murdered one I should not have killed.

[Exit with the body.]

KING HENRY.

Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,

Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

Sad hearted men, overthrown with care,

this king is even more sorrowful than you.

[Alarums. Excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET,

PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER.]

PRINCE.

Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.

Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

Run, father, run! All your friends have fled,

and Warwick is charging around like an angry bull.

Run! Death is chasing us.

QUEEN MARGARET.

Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain.

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds,

Having the fearful flying hare in sight,

With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,

And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands,

Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Get on your horse, my lord; ride straight towards Berwick.

Edward and Richard, like a pair of greyhounds

who have the terrified flying hare in view,

with fiery eyes, sparkling with anger,

and bloody weapons held in their angry hands,

are on our trail; so go there at once.

EXETER.

Away! for vengeance comes along with them.

Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed,

Or else come after; I'll away before.

Go! They are bringing vengeance with them.

No, don't stop to talk about it; hurry,

or otherwise, come after us; I'm going now.

KING HENRY.

Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter;

Not that I fear to stay, but love to go

Whither the queen intends. Forward! away!

No, take me with you, good sweet Exeter;

I'm not frightened to stay, but I love to go

wherever the Queen is going. Let's go!

[Exeunt.]