The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (36 page)

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.

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 gaunt?

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.