Setting: A street in Rome.
Characters: Flavius, Marullus (tribunes), Commoners
[Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners]
Flavius:
Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home:
Is this a holiday? what! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring day without the sign
Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?
Translation:
Go home, you lazy people! Is today a holiday? Don’t you know that as workers, you shouldn’t be wandering around on a workday unless you’re showing what job you do? Tell me, what’s your job?
First Commoner:
Why, sir, a carpenter.
Translation:
I’m a carpenter, sir.
Marullus:
Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?
You, sir, what trade are you?
Translation:
Then where’s your work apron and measuring tool? Why are you wearing fancy clothes? And you, sir—what’s your job?
Second Commoner:
Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.
Translation:
Honestly, sir, compared to a skilled worker, I’m just a cobbler—a shoemaker.
Marullus:
But what trade art thou? answer me directly.
Translation:
Stop joking. Just tell me your job clearly.
Second Commoner:
A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.
Translation:
A job I can do with a clear conscience: I fix worn-out soles (a pun on “souls”).
Marullus:
What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?
Translation:
What job do you have, you rascal?
Second Commoner:
Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
Translation:
Please don’t be angry with me—but if you are, I can fix you (another pun: “out” as in angry, and “mend” as in repair shoes).
Marullus:
What meanest thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow!
Translation:
What do you mean by that? You’re saying you can fix me, you cheeky guy?
Second Commoner:
Why, sir, cobble you.
Translation:
Well, I’m a cobbler—I’d fix you like I fix shoes. (still punning)
Flavius:
Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
Translation:
So you really are a cobbler?
Second Commoner:
Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl:
I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but with awl.
I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them.
As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork.
Translation:
Yes, sir, I make my living with an awl (a tool for shoemaking). I don’t get involved in anyone else’s business—just shoemaking. I’m like a doctor for shoes: when they’re badly worn out, I fix them. Some of the best men have walked proudly in shoes I’ve made.
Flavius:
But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
Translation:
Then why aren’t you in your shop today? Why are you leading these men around the streets?
Second Commoner:
Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work.
But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.
Translation:
Honestly, sir, to help wear out their shoes so I get more business! But seriously, we’re celebrating Caesar’s return and victory.
Marullus:
Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
Translation:
Why are you celebrating? What great victory did Caesar bring back? Did he bring home prisoners and conquerors to display? You fools! You heartless people! Have you forgotten Pompey? You used to cheer for him, watching from rooftops and windows, holding your babies, just to see him march by!
Marullus:
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.
Translation:
And now you dress in your finest clothes? Now you choose to take a holiday? Now you throw flowers in the path of the man who returns victorious after defeating Pompey’s sons? Go away! Run home, fall to your knees, and pray to the gods to stop the punishment that your ungratefulness deserves.
Flavius:
Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,
Assemble all the poor men of your sort;
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
Translation:
Go, good citizens. And for this mistake, gather all the poor people like yourselves. Lead them to the Tiber River and cry so many tears that the water level rises to flood even the highest riverbanks.
Flavius:
See whether their basest metal be not moved:
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol;
This way will I: disrobe the images,
If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.
Translation:
Look how even their stubborn hearts are shaken — they’ve gone silent in shame. You go that way toward the Capitol, and I’ll go this way. Let’s remove the decorations from the statues — if we find them adorned for celebration.
Marullus:
May we do so?
You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
Translation:
Are we allowed to do that? Don’t forget — today is the Feast of Lupercal.
Flavius:
It is no matter; let no images
Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
Translation:
Doesn’t matter — Caesar’s trophies shouldn’t be hung on statues. I’ll go now and drive the common people off the streets. You do the same wherever you find crowds. If we pull out these growing feathers from Caesar’s wings (meaning: stop his support), he’ll fly at a normal height instead of rising too high and making everyone his slave.