The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (704 page)

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 those 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 altar. 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

and asked what I wanted to eat, and when I would kiss her.

I told her, at once, and kissed her twice.

DOCTOR

’Twas well done. Twenty times had been far better,

For there the cure lies mainly.

That's good. Twenty times would have been far better,