If you can Sob

If you have Tears

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E.
If you have Tears
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle. I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on. ’Twas on a summer’s evening in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through. See what a rent the envious Casca made. Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed, And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, As rushing out of doors to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all. For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart, And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey’s statue (Which all the while ran blood) great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I and you and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here, (Antony lifts Caesar’s cloak.) Here is himself, marred as you see with traitors.  
If you can Sob
If you can sob, stand by to do so now. You all do know this blouson: I look back to That first occasion Julius put it on: ‘Twas in July at twilight in his camp, That day of martial triumph by Namur…. Look at this gap that Cassius’ dirk ran through. Look what a gash invidious Casca dug; Through this, look! darling Brutus stuck his shiv, And, as his loathly sharp was drawn away, Mark you how Julius’ blood, pursuing it, Shot rushing out of doors, to find this out, If Brutus so unkindly rang, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Julius’crush: Quantify, O you gods, how fond of him Julius was. This was a cut unkind, And singularly so. As Julius, So upright, saw him stab, what got him down Was not just traitors’ arms. A total lack Of thankful thinking laid him low, and burst His mighty mainspring. Muffling up his phiz Within his coat, right by Sir Magnus’s Statuary, or its plinth, which ran throughout With blood, down Julius falls. O what a fall Was that, my good compatriots! You and I And all our crowd brought low, whilst riding high Was bloody traitors’ triumph, flourishing. O, now you sob; that’s how I know you got Struck hard by pity’s dint. What gracious drops! Kind souls, what, do you sob and only scan Wounds upon Julius' garb? Just look at this! (Antony lifts J.C.’s cloak.) It’s actually him, whom traitors hurt.
See also my Latin translation.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Ballad of the Moor who Lost Alhama

Romance del moro que perdió Alhama

Anon

Alhama was an outlying stronghold. To lose it was doom for the Moors in Granada.
Romance del moro que perdió Alhama
Paseábase el rey moro por la ciudad de Granada desde la puerta de Elvira hasta la de Vivarrambla. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Cartas le fueron venidas que Alhama era ganada. Las cartas echó en el fuego y al mensajero matara, —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Descabalga de una mula, y en un caballo cabalga; por el Zacatín arriba subido se había al Alhambra. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Como en el Alhambra estuvo, al mismo punto mandaba que se toquen sus trompetas, sus añafiles de plata. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Y que las cajas de guerra apriesa toquen el arma, porque lo oigan sus moros, los de la vega y Granada. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Los moros que el son oyeron que al sangriento Marte llama, uno a uno y dos a dos juntado se ha gran batalla. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Allí fabló un moro viejo, de esta manera fablara: —¿Para qué nos llamas, rey, para qué es esta llamada? —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— —Habéis de saber, amigos, una nueva desdichada: que cristianos de braveza ya nos han ganado Alhama. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Allí fabló un alfaquí de barba crecida y cana: —Bien se te emplea, buen rey, buen rey, bien se te empleara. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Mataste los Bencerrajes, que eran la flor de Granada, cogiste los tornadizos de Córdoba la nombrada. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Por eso mereces, rey, una pena muy doblada: que te pierdas tú y el reino, y aquí se pierda Granada. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Ballad of the Moor who Lost Alhama
The Moorish King was passing through the city of Granada From the gate of Elvira to that of Vivarrambla. To him had come despatches that Alhama had been taken. He threw them on the fire and put to death the bearer. Dismounting from the jenny and riding on a warhorse, Up through the Zacatín he came to the Alhambra. On reaching the Alhambra he straightway gave an order: He bade them sound the trumpets, the añafils of silver, To open up the war-chests and quickly arm for battle, That all the Moors should hear it in the plain and in Granada. The Moors who heard the tocsin that called to bloody combat One by one, two by two joined in a great battalion. An aged Moor gave voice and spoke up in this manner: ‘Why do you call us, King? What reason for the summons?’ ‘This you must know, my friends, new tidings of misfortune: That daring Christian men have taken our Alhama.’ Then spoke a learned doctor, his beard well-grown and hoary: ‘Good King, you are well served, good King, you are served fairly. ‘You slew the Abencerrajes, once the flower of Granada, You seized the renegades of Cordova the renowned. For this, King, you deserve a penalty redoubled: You and your kingdom lost, and lost alike Granada.’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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