Shakespeare with smilies
I'm sure this must have been done before. Still, can't find it anywhere, so I'll have a go.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and of fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and of fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
if that suppose to be a joke, that is a lame joke
and if we are joking, here you have the same thing but in Polish (without smile faces):
Być albo nie być- oto jest pytanie.
Kto postępuje godniej: ten, kto biernie
stoi pod gradem zajadłych strzał losu,
Czy ten, kto stawia opór morzu nieszczęść
I w walce kładzie im kres?
Umrzeć- usnąć- i nic poza tym- i przyjąć,
że śmierć uśmierza boleść serca i tysiące
Tych wstrząsów, które dostają się ciału
W spadku natury. O tak, taki koniec
Byłby czymś upragnionym. Umrzeć- usnąć-
Spać- i śnić może? Ha, tu się pojawia
Przeszkoda: jakie mogą nas nawiedzać
Sny w drzemce śmierci, gdy ścichnie za nami
Doczesny zamęt? Niepewni, wolimy
Wstrzymać tę chwilę. I z tych chwil urasta
Długie, potulnie przecierpiane życie.
Bo gdyby nie ten wzgląd, którz by chciał znosić
To, czym nas chłoszcze i znieważa czas:
Gwałty ciemiężców, nadętość pyszałków,
Męki wzgardzonych uczuć, opieszałość
Prawa, bezczelność władzy i kopniaki,
Którymi byle zero upokarza
Cierpliwą wartość? Któż by się z tym godził,
Gdyby był w stanie przekreślić rachunki
Nagim sztyletem? Któż by dźwigał brzemię
Życia, stękając i spływając potem,
Gdyby nam woli nie zbijała z tropu
Obawa przed tym, co będzie po śmierci,
Przed nieobecną w atlasach krainą,
Skąd żaden jeszcze odkrywca nie wrócił,
I gdyby lęk ten nie kazał nam raczej
Znosić zło znane niż rzucać się w nowe?
Tak to świadomość czyni nas tchórzami
I naturalne rumieńce porywu
Namysł rozcieńcza w chorbliwą bladość,
A naszym ważkim i szczytnym zamiarom
Refleksja plącze szyki, zanim któryś
Zdąży przerodzić się w czyn.
and if we are joking, here you have the same thing but in Polish (without smile faces):
Być albo nie być- oto jest pytanie.
Kto postępuje godniej: ten, kto biernie
stoi pod gradem zajadłych strzał losu,
Czy ten, kto stawia opór morzu nieszczęść
I w walce kładzie im kres?
Umrzeć- usnąć- i nic poza tym- i przyjąć,
że śmierć uśmierza boleść serca i tysiące
Tych wstrząsów, które dostają się ciału
W spadku natury. O tak, taki koniec
Byłby czymś upragnionym. Umrzeć- usnąć-
Spać- i śnić może? Ha, tu się pojawia
Przeszkoda: jakie mogą nas nawiedzać
Sny w drzemce śmierci, gdy ścichnie za nami
Doczesny zamęt? Niepewni, wolimy
Wstrzymać tę chwilę. I z tych chwil urasta
Długie, potulnie przecierpiane życie.
Bo gdyby nie ten wzgląd, którz by chciał znosić
To, czym nas chłoszcze i znieważa czas:
Gwałty ciemiężców, nadętość pyszałków,
Męki wzgardzonych uczuć, opieszałość
Prawa, bezczelność władzy i kopniaki,
Którymi byle zero upokarza
Cierpliwą wartość? Któż by się z tym godził,
Gdyby był w stanie przekreślić rachunki
Nagim sztyletem? Któż by dźwigał brzemię
Życia, stękając i spływając potem,
Gdyby nam woli nie zbijała z tropu
Obawa przed tym, co będzie po śmierci,
Przed nieobecną w atlasach krainą,
Skąd żaden jeszcze odkrywca nie wrócił,
I gdyby lęk ten nie kazał nam raczej
Znosić zło znane niż rzucać się w nowe?
Tak to świadomość czyni nas tchórzami
I naturalne rumieńce porywu
Namysł rozcieńcza w chorbliwą bladość,
A naszym ważkim i szczytnym zamiarom
Refleksja plącze szyki, zanim któryś
Zdąży przerodzić się w czyn.
True! Lots of lovely z's!barrie wrote:- You could get some record scrabble scores though!Warsaw. That's a tough gig.
Mak, I believe the Germans think that Shakespeare actually sounds better in German. (They would.) How does he sound in Polish?
Cheers
David
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Hey Mak - makes a lot of sense, which must be why the country is in such a mess . . . .
Is it the twin's fault, or the wind's fault? - that is the question
Is it the twin's fault, or the wind's fault? - that is the question
I'm sick of it, sick of it all. I know I'm right and I don't give a shit!
you are not up-to-date. twin's goverment lost the election. now we have a new one, and EURO 2012 with Ukraine. who knows, maybe in the same year there will be an Expo in Wroclaw, also in Poland.Hey Mak - makes a lot of sense, which must be why the country is in such a mess . . . .
Is it the twin's fault, or the wind's fault? - that is the question
and about Poland, let's just don't start that topic. why things looks like that in my country- is a matter of a long, complicated, tragic history.
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You don't need to, I know it (or a potted version of it). My thumbs are held in the hope things improve, Sir.and about Poland, let's just don't start that topic. why things looks like that in my country- is a matter of a long, complicated, tragic history
Well, Merl, I told you . . . . leave the spells alone mate, ahhhhh - remember that time you turned your schlong into Dobermann? Happy days.
I'm sick of it, sick of it all. I know I'm right and I don't give a shit!
Martin (as we must now know you), you seem like a pretty cool dude, much as Beau predicted - like a wind, my friend. everything in Polish sounds like a wind.
That's a great answer.
Here's another bit of Hamlet that just popped into my head:
He smote the sledded polacks on the ice.
How does that come out in Polish? Or do you change it to estonians or ukrainians or something?
Cheers
David
That's a great answer.
Here's another bit of Hamlet that just popped into my head:
He smote the sledded polacks on the ice.
How does that come out in Polish? Or do you change it to estonians or ukrainians or something?
Cheers
David
Act 1, Scene 1 - Horatio
As thou art to thyself:
Such was the very armour he had on
When he the ambitious Norway combated;
So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle,
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.
'Tis strange.
As thou art to thyself:
Such was the very armour he had on
When he the ambitious Norway combated;
So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle,
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.
'Tis strange.
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David
I really enjoyed this, found it suitably canon-firing.
I seem to remember hearing that the Nazis tried to say that the Earl of Southampton ( one of their candidates for the true identity of the Bard) was in fact, German.
dogged
I really enjoyed this, found it suitably canon-firing.
I seem to remember hearing that the Nazis tried to say that the Earl of Southampton ( one of their candidates for the true identity of the Bard) was in fact, German.
dogged
I never give explanations-Mary Poppins (Management in the NHS-rewritten by Nightingale F,. original by Hunt,.G)
That's a new one on me. The Schweinhunds!dogofdiogenes wrote:David
I really enjoyed this, found it suitably canon-firing.
I seem to remember hearing that the Nazis tried to say that the Earl of Southampton ( one of their candidates for the true identity of the Bard) was in fact, German.
dogged