Julius Caesar (1599)[kemmañ]
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.
- An dud aonik a varv meur a wech a-raok o marv
- An den kalonek ne dañva ar marv nemet ur wech
- Eus an holl varvailhoù am eus klevet betek-hen
- An iskisañ a gavan eo ar spont a zo en dud;
- Pa soñjer er marv, an diwezh ret
- A zeuio pa zeuio.
To be or not to be, — that is the question:- Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous 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 despis'd 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 these 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 naught 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.
- Bezañ pe na vezañ ken, setu aze ar goulenn Ha noploc'h d'ar spered eo gouzañv mein ha saezhioù an droukchañs Pe kemer armoù enep ur mor a drubuilhoù Ha dre enebiñ echuiñ anezho .Mervel, kousket, netra ken ... Ha gant ur c'housk lavarout ez echuomp gant ar ranngalon gag ar mil stroñs naturel a zo peadra ar c'hig
The Tempest, 1611[kemmañ]
- We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
- En hevelep danvez hag an hunvreoù omp graet hag en-dro d'hon buhezig emañ ar c'housked ...
- Yet doe I feare thy Nature, It is too full o' th' Milke of humane kindnesse."
- Ha koulskoude em eus aon rak ho Natur, Re leun eo a laezh Teneridigezh Mab-Den.