La tragédie de Richard III

Tomorrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword, despair and die.

Now is the winter of our discontent,
Made glorious summer by this son of York :
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Ah ! que ne peux-tu m’offrir une tombe aussi volontiers
Que tu m’accordes un siège de tristesse,
J’y cacherais mes os, au lieu de les reposer ici.
Ah ! qui donc à part nous a sujet de pleurer ?

VO :
Ah, that thou would'st as soon afford a grave
As thou canst yield a melancholy seat,
Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.
Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we?

Tant de misères ont éraillé ma voix
Que ma langue accablée de malheurs est immobile et muette.

VO :
So many miseries have craz'd my voice
That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.

Anne
Et toi tu n’es pas fait pour d’autre lieu que l’enfer.
Richard
Si, un autre encore, si vous voulez bien me l’entendre nommer.
Anne
Quelque cachot ?
Richard
Votre chambre à coucher.

VO :
Anne
And thou unfit for any place but hell.
Richard
Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.
Anne
Some dungeon.
Richard
Your bed-chamber.

Je verse le baume impuissant de mes pauvres yeux.
Oh ! maudite soit la main qui te fit ces trous,
Maudit le coeur qui eut le coeur de faire cela,
Maudit le sang qui fit couler ce sang.

VO :
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.
Oh, cursed be the hand that made these holes,
Cursed the heart, that had the heart to do it,
Cursed the blood, that let this blood from hence.

He hath no friends but what are friends for fear,
Which in his dearest need will fly from him.

Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.

But how long shall that title ever last ?

There is no other way,
Unless thou could'st put on some other shape,
And not be Richard, that hath done all this.