Act 2, Scene 2

Original Text

SCENE II. The Same. A Room in the Castle. Enter Queen, Bushy and Bagot. BUSHY. Madam, your Majesty is too much sad. You promised, when you parted with the King, To lay aside life-harming heaviness And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Modern English

SCENE II. The same. A room in the castle. *The Queen enters with Bushy and Bagot.* BUSHY. Your Majesty, you're far too lost in sadness. You promised, when you said goodbye to the King, that you would put aside this crushing grief and keep yourself in better spirits.

Original Text

QUEEN. To please the King I did; to please myself I cannot do it. Yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard. Yet again methinks, Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb, Is coming towards me, and my inward soul With nothing trembles. At something it grieves More than with parting from my lord the King.

Modern English

QUEEN. I promised that to please him — I can't manage it for my own sake. And yet I have no reason I can name to welcome grief like this, beyond saying farewell to someone as dear as my sweet Richard. But even so, I feel some sorrow not yet born, ripening inside Fortune, coming toward me — and deep inside, my soul trembles at nothing at all. It aches at something beyond just parting from the King.

Original Text

BUSHY. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects, Like perspectives which, rightly gazed upon, Show nothing but confusion; eyed awry, Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty, Looking awry upon your lord’s departure, Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail, Which, looked on as it is, is naught but shadows Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen, More than your lord’s departure weep not. More is not seen, Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye, Which for things true weeps things imaginary.

Modern English

BUSHY. Every real grief casts twenty shadows — which look like grief, but aren't; because eyes swollen with tears split one thing into many, like those trick paintings that, viewed straight on, show nothing but a blur — but angled just right, reveal a clear shape. So your sweet Majesty, by looking sidewise at your lord's departure, finds more shapes of grief to mourn than really exist — shapes that, seen plainly, are nothing but shadows of something that isn't there. So, gracious Queen, don't weep for more than his departure. There's nothing else to see, or if there seems to be, it's only false grief's distortion, weeping over imagined things as though they were real.

Original Text

QUEEN. It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise. Howe’er it be, I cannot but be sad—so heavy sad As thought, in thinking, on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Modern English

QUEEN. Perhaps — but my soul keeps telling me otherwise. Whatever the cause, I can't help being sad — so deeply sad that my thoughts circle around emptiness, and yet that heaviness itself is enough to make me faint and shrink.

Original Text

BUSHY. ’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Modern English

BUSHY. It's nothing but your own imagination, my gracious lady.

Original Text

QUEEN. ’Tis nothing less. Conceit is still derived From some forefather grief. Mine is not so, For nothing hath begot my something grief, Or something hath the nothing that I grieve. ’Tis in reversion that I do possess, But what it is, that is not yet known what, I cannot name. ’Tis nameless woe, I wot. Enter Green.

Modern English

QUEEN. It's anything but that. Imagination always grows from some prior grief as its root. Mine is different — some nameless nothing has produced this very real sorrow, or something lurks inside the nothing that I dread. It's a grief I hold before the cause has arrived, but what exactly it is — what's coming — I cannot say. I can't name it. A nameless woe — I know that much. *Green enters.*

Original Text

GREEN. God save your majesty! And well met, gentlemen. I hope the King is not yet shipped for Ireland.

Modern English

GREEN. God save your Majesty! And well met, gentlemen. I hope the King hasn't yet set sail for Ireland.

Original Text

QUEEN. Why hop’st thou so? ’Tis better hope he is, For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope. Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipped?

Modern English

QUEEN. Why do you hope that? Better to hope he has — his plans demand speed, and speed demands hope. So why would you wish he hadn't sailed?

Original Text

GREEN. That he, our hope, might have retired his power, And driven into despair an enemy’s hope Who strongly hath set footing in this land. The banished Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arrived At Ravenspurgh.

Modern English

GREEN. So that he — our hope — might have pulled back his forces and crushed the hope of an enemy who has planted himself firmly on this soil. The banished Bolingbroke has recalled himself from exile and with armed men behind him has arrived safely at Ravenspurgh.

Original Text

QUEEN. Now God in heaven forbid!

Modern English

QUEEN. God in heaven — forbid it!

Original Text

GREEN. Ah, madam, ’tis too true; and that is worse, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Harry Percy, The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

Modern English

GREEN. I'm afraid it's true, my lady — and there's worse: Lord Northumberland, his son young Harry Percy, and the Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, with all their powerful allies, have fled to join him.

Original Text

BUSHY. Why have you not proclaimed Northumberland And all the rest revolted faction traitors?

Modern English

BUSHY. Why haven't you declared Northumberland and all the rest of those defectors as traitors?

Original Text

GREEN. We have, whereupon the Earl of Worcester Hath broken his staff, resigned his stewardship, And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke.

Modern English

GREEN. We have — and in response, the Earl of Worcester has broken his staff of office, resigned his stewardship, and the entire household staff has gone with him over to Bolingbroke.

Original Text

QUEEN. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe, And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir. Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy, And I, a gasping new-delivered mother, Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow joined.

Modern English

QUEEN. So, Green, you've served as midwife to my grief, and Bolingbroke is the grim heir my sorrow has delivered. My soul has finally brought forth what it carried — and I, like a gasping new mother, find one woe piled straight onto another.

Original Text

BUSHY. Despair not, madam.

Modern English

BUSHY. Don't give in to despair, your Majesty.

Original Text

QUEEN. Who shall hinder me? I will despair and be at enmity With cozening hope. He is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper-back of death, Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, Which false hope lingers in extremity. Enter York.

Modern English

QUEEN. Who's going to stop me? I will despair — and I'll be the sworn enemy of that deceiving thing called hope. Hope is a flatterer, a parasite, a gatekeeper that holds death back from someone whose life has already unraveled — false hope that keeps misery alive to the very end. *York enters.*

Original Text

GREEN. Here comes the Duke of York.

Modern English

GREEN. Here comes the Duke of York.

Original Text

QUEEN. With signs of war about his aged neck. O! full of careful business are his looks! Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words.

Modern English

QUEEN. With the marks of war hanging around his aged neck. His face is full of anxious, urgent business! Uncle — for God's sake, say something to comfort us.

Original Text

YORK. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts. Comfort’s in heaven, and we are on the earth, Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief. Your husband, he is gone to save far off, Whilst others come to make him lose at home. Here am I left to underprop his land, Who, weak with age, cannot support myself. Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made; Now shall he try his friends that flattered him. Enter a Servingman.

Modern English

YORK. If I did, I'd be lying to you. Comfort belongs in heaven — we are on the earth, where nothing grows but hardship, care, and grief. Your husband has gone abroad to save what's his, while others come here to take it from him. Here I'm left to prop up his kingdom — I, who at my age can barely hold myself up. Now comes the reckoning for his recklessness; now he'll find out which of his flatterers are real friends. *A Servingman enters.*

Original Text

SERVINGMAN. My lord, your son was gone before I came.

Modern English

SERVINGMAN. My lord, your son had already left before I arrived.

Original Text

YORK. He was? Why, so! Go all which way it will! The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side. Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester; Bid her send me presently a thousand pound. Hold, take my ring.

Modern English

YORK. He had? Well, then — let everything go where it will! The nobles have fled, the common people are cold and will, I fear, go over to Hereford's side. You — ride to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester. Tell her to send me a thousand pounds at once. Here, take my ring as proof.

Original Text

SERVINGMAN. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship: Today, as I came by, I called there— But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

Modern English

SERVINGMAN. My lord, I nearly forgot to tell you — I stopped there on my way here today — but I'm afraid what I have to report will grieve you.

Original Text

YORK. What is’t, knave? SERVINGMAN. An hour before I came, the Duchess died.

Modern English

YORK. What is it, man? SERVINGMAN. An hour before I arrived, the Duchess died.

Original Text

YORK. God for his mercy, what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do. I would to God, So my untruth had not provoked him to it, The King had cut off my head with my brother’s. What, are there no posts dispatched for Ireland? How shall we do for money for these wars? Come, sister—cousin, I would say, pray, pardon me. Go, fellow, get thee home; provide some carts And bring away the armour that is there. [_Exit Servingman._] Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus disorderly thrust into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen. Th’ one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; th’ other again Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wronged, Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I’ll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men, And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle. I should to Plashy too, But time will not permit. All is uneven, And everything is left at six and seven. [_Exeunt York and Queen._]

Modern English

YORK. God have mercy — what a flood of grief crashes down on this wretched land all at once! I don't know what to do. I could almost wish — if only my own faithlessness hadn't driven him to it — that the King had cut off my head along with my brother's. Are there no messengers dispatched for Ireland yet? And how are we to pay for these wars? Come, sister — cousin, I mean — pardon me, I'm scattered. Go, man, go home, get some carts, and bring back whatever arms are stored there. *[The Servingman exits.]* Gentlemen, will you go raise men? Whether I have any idea how to manage these affairs — thrown into my hands in such disorder — don't count on it. I'm torn between two kinsmen. One is my king, whom both my oath and my duty command me to defend; the other is my kinsman, whom the King has wronged — whom conscience and blood tell me I should help. Well, we must do something. Come, cousin, I'll see to you. Gentlemen, muster your men and meet me at Berkeley Castle without delay. I should go to Plashy too — but there's no time. Everything is in shambles and nothing is in any order. *[York and the Queen exit.]*

Original Text

BUSHY. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland, But none returns. For us to levy power Proportionable to the enemy Is all unpossible.

Modern English

BUSHY. The wind is favorable for news to reach Ireland, but nothing comes back. As for raising an army to match what Bolingbroke has — that's simply impossible.

Original Text

GREEN. Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King.

Modern English

GREEN. And our closeness to the King puts us squarely in the sights of those who hate him.

Original Text

BAGOT. And that is the wavering commons, for their love Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them, By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Modern English

BAGOT. Which means the fickle commons — their loyalty lives in their purses; whoever empties those fills their hearts with deadly hatred in return.

Original Text

BUSHY. Wherein the King stands generally condemned. BAGOT. If judgment lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the King.

Modern English

BUSHY. Which is exactly why the King is so widely condemned. BAGOT. And if that judgment falls on him, it falls on us — we've always been too close to him for it not to.

Original Text

GREEN. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol Castle. The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Modern English

GREEN. I'm heading straight to Bristol Castle for safety. The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Original Text

BUSHY. Thither will I with you, for little office Will the hateful commons perform for us, Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. Will you go along with us?

Modern English

BUSHY. I'll come with you — the hostile commons won't lift a finger for us, except to tear us apart like dogs. Will you come along?

Original Text

BAGOT. No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty. Farewell. If heart’s presages be not vain, We three here part that ne’er shall meet again.

Modern English

BAGOT. No — I'm going to Ireland to find his Majesty. Farewell. If the heart's premonitions mean anything, the three of us are parting here and will never meet again.

Original Text

BUSHY. That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Modern English

BUSHY. That depends on whether York manages to drive Bolingbroke back.

Original Text

GREEN. Alas, poor Duke! The task he undertakes Is numb’ring sands and drinking oceans dry. Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever.

Modern English

GREEN. Poor Duke — the task he's taken on is like counting grains of sand or drinking the ocean dry. For every man on his side, thousands will run. Farewell — once, for all, and forever.

Original Text

BUSHY. Well, we may meet again. BAGOT. I fear me, never. [_Exeunt._]

Modern English

BUSHY. Well — we may meet again. BAGOT. I'm afraid not. Never. *[They all exit.]*

Richard II

Act 2, Scene 2

Act 2, Scene 2