All language subtitles for Upstart Crow s03e04 Sigh No More.eng

Mr Shakespeare, sir, now that you
are made gentleman, sir,

you are become master
of the Stratford watch, sir.

As sergeant of the watch
and convener of the local militia,

I, Sergeant Dogberry, sir,

have the honour of presenting you,
sir, with, sir, your sword, sir.

Oh!

I've got a sword, Mary!
My very own sword!

For truth, for justice and for
shoving fair up every bastable

who's ever snooted his cock at us!

Oh, John! I'm so proud!

No longer be we pariahs in the town
but instead are posh,

and thus can shove it up
whomsoever we please.

Please, sir, are you a real soldier?

Oh, the bravest, lad.

I have slain a thousand Turks
in a single day

and faced down the hordes
of Muscovy.

How do you get to be a soldier?

By talking complete Bolingbrokes,
apparently.

The recruiting office is always
looking for smart lads, son.

Your Queen needs you.

I want to be a brave soldier,

like Sergeant Dogberry
and all the men at Agincourt

in Dad's brilliant new play.

Then you'll need a sword, son.

Can I have a hold of yours?

No, it's mine!

Bring ale! Bring pie!
Let all rejoice! Father is home.

I wasn't expecting you, love.
Good journey?

Astonishingly, no.

I had hoped to pass some of the long
hours of travel in quiet slumber.

Sadly, that small pleasure
was denied me,

our coach driver having been
afflicted

by a verbal version
of the liquid turding malady,

announcing every stop as we
approached,

cataloguing all those yet to come
as we departed,

begging we take care
as we disembarked,

reminding us to collect
our belongings,

assuring us at every juncture

that our comfort and safety
were his top priority,

hoping we'd had a good journey.

Eventually, I could stand
it no longer,

and in loud and manly voice
did I declaim,

"Well, I might have a good journey

"if you'd cease your fatuous
drivelling and let me sleep!"

Never heard another peep out of him.

Yeah, cos he chucked us off and we

had to walk from
Brightwell-cum-Sotwell.

A moral victory, nonetheless.

Not if you have to carry the bags.

You do not have to carry them,
Botsky. You are paid to carry them.

Anyway, home now
and I'm come in company.

Sweet Kate is with me,

and also the artist
formerly known as Marlowe.

And me! I'm here, too.

You do not get billing, Bottom.

You'll have noticed,
in my histories,

when Norfolk enters,
announcing he's come upon his hour

with Manchester,
Suffolk and Norwich,

adding that East Grinstead and
Billingsgate are expected shortly

with news of Slough,
he does not add,

"Plus the bloke who cooks my pie
and carries all my stuff."

Servants go in the stage directions,
I'm afraid,

along with minstrels, courtiers,
letter lords and the army of France.

Sorry, Botsky, but you are an
italic.

I resent that deeply.
I am English born and bred.

Never mind him, Bottom.
Everyone's welcome here.

You, too, Kate. And Mr Marlowe, RIP.

Also Messrs Burbage, Condell and
Kempe are come a-visiting.

Good day, Mrs Shakespeare, my lady.

Don't worry, we're not staying.
Just popped in to pay our respects.

Goodness! What's brought you all
to the country at once?

Sweet air, Mrs Shakespeare.
The London fog is foul just now.

So, we have accepted
some rural engagements to escape it.

Good to get out of town,
play to real people, yeah?

And I must write another play,

and the reek in town be so fetid,
it precludes all concentration.

Oysters be in season

and lord and man alike do blow wind
and crack their cheeks.

Tush, tush.

Then 'tis pity you have left town,
lady, for so foul be your temper,

it would make even the London air
seem sweet.

Fie, fie, sirrah. A sweet compliment
from a man so sour.

What's got into those two?

Isn't it fascinating that they're
both such proud, witty people

that the close proximity forced upon
them by Marlowe's fake death

has resulted in this endless,
hilarious sparring?

Not very hilarious, love.

Could get a bit irritating, in fact.

Ooh, I don't know, Dad.

Two warring wits exchanging
a constant stream of arch puns,

smug put-downs
and tortuously convoluted insults?

Hard to see
how that could ever get irritating.

Yes, didn't you do something similar
with your Shrew, Will,

between Petruchio and Katherine?

Which was very, very irritating.

Got some lovely letters.

From his mum.

Well, we must to the tavern
where we rest tonight,

for tomorrow, we play Birmingham.

Oh, I do love Birmingham.

Such a tiny, sweet,
fragrant little town.

Yes, with a particularly sensible,

efficient and user-friendly
road layout.

Let's hope that never changes.

Well, adieu, all. Adieu.

Well, it's lovely to have you all.

Hamnet, shift your arsington
and get your nose out of that play.

There's chores to be done.

He's reading your Henry V, son.
He loves it!

Him and all London, Mrs S.
Been an absolute megahit.

Tush, tush, sir.
State the obvious, why don't you?

Fie, fie, lady.
And 'tis obvious you are a pain.

- Tush, tush!
- Fie, fie!

I finally got around
to writing my Henry V.

Amazing how many hits
I've had called Henry.

Sort of spooky, when you think
of it. Six so far.

I mean, what were the odds?

Add two Richards and a John,

which were spin-offs,
and I've kind of...

I've kind of invented a franchise.

The Henry universe.

A fantasy universe, Mr Shakespeare.

Xenophobic, fake history
masquerading as truth.

Enjoy it while you can, because
I can't see people long suffering

such simplistic
and manipulative distortions

in place of complex,
properly researched argument.

Kind of think they might.

Tush, tush, lady. Someone's
swallowed some very big words.

Fie, fie, sirrah. I wish you would
swallow your tongue.

Tush, tush, lady.

Well, if you'd swallowed yours,
you would have a pain

as well as being a pain, for such a
diet would make anyone sick.

Fie, fie, sirrah!

I actually think
I may have to kill myself.

"Once more unto the breach,
dear friends, once more

"Or close the wall up
with our English dead."

I hate that line. It's horrible.

Hate it, my sweet?

Well, he's actually telling his men
to charge into a gap in the wall

and fill it up
with their slaughtered corpses.

I do understand the image, my love.

'Twas I who conjured it.

Well, it's a good job you do, son,

because when it comes to
your images,

you're the only one who does.

Well, that may be the case,
Father, but, weirdly,

I've found that people don't
actually need to understand

my images as they seem perfectly
happy just pretending to.

I can't go. I just cannot go.

I look completely
and utterly crapulous.

What's all this?

Sir Thomas Livesey's
giving a masked ball

for the young people
at the church hall tonight

and every maid and youth
must attend in disguise.

Ooh, it's so romantic.

I met your grandad
at just such a ball, Susanna.

Spotted him across the room.

Oh, a fearsome, ugly gargoyle face!

How was I to know he'd forgotten
his mask?

This was my chance
to go up to Claude,

who I really want to get with,

but I just can't now
cos my mask's too stupid.

Oh, but it isn't. It's a lovely
mask, Sue. Wonderful.

But perhaps if you let me make
a couple of tiny adjustments...

Sue really likes this boy Claude,
and she's hoping that,

from behind the
anonymity of her mask,

she'll pluck the courage to ask him
if he wants to get with her.

But I don't think even the mask will
help, because she's just too shy.

Here, Sue. Is this a bit better?

I mean, it's still mainly your work.

Kate, it is amazing.

You are so elegant and talented.

I bet you'd know how
to ask a boy out.

- Well, here's a thought. Why doesn't she?
- What?

Well, why doesn't Kate go
to the masked ball in your stead

and ask Claude
if he wants to get with her?

Claude would think it was you.

You see?

Absolutely identical.

Will you help me get with Claude,
Kate?

Well, gosh! I don't know.

We are talking about obtaining
sexual favours by deception here.

There are huge issues
of morality and legality.

I mean, if you get with him
having groomed him

using my image and personality
profile, it's actually assault.

Blimey, Kate! You're criminalising
half the plays I ever wrote.

Just saying.

But you will do it, though?
I mean, you are my mate?

Oh, goodness!

That is true, isn't it?
I am your mate, aren't I?

I've got a girlie mate. Ha!

Take that, Samantha, Ruby,
Deb, Cass, Gertrude, Pat

and all the other bitchingtons.

Who's Nelly No-Mates now?
Not me, because I've got one! Ha!

Of course I'll do it, Sue.

Impersonating one another at masked
balls is what mates are for.

There's Claude in the pink doublet.

Ain't he lush,
even with his mask on?

Who's that he's with, Sue?

That boy has a strange,
brooding and malevolent presence.

That's Moll John's boy, Donald.
Don John.

He hates to see anyone happy,

so me and Claude copping off
would get right on his tittlingtons.

Well, why does he wish you ill,
daughter?

Oh, it ain't just me.
He's just generally wicked.

Right, here I go.

Where's Sue, then, Margaret?

Oh, she's right lush, I reckon.
I wouldn't mind getting with her.

Why, Claude, do you deny me?

I am Susanna, come as promised.
Will you dance a little, sir?

Blimey, Sue! You do sound posh.

It don't half turn me on.

It's working perfectly, Sue.

Claude is clearly besotted
with Kate as you.

And next time, it will be you,
not Kate, with whom he dances.

[LAUGHTER]

Oh, Mum, it worked brilliantly!

Claude loves me
and he wants to get with me.

That's what he said to Kate
when he thought she me.

- Isn't that right, Kate?
- It certainly is.

The sweet, lovesick fellow
even so far forgot himself

as to inquire
if he could cop a bit of a feel-up.

Which, of course, with maidenly
blushes half hidden behind my mask,

I declined.

Actually, that could have given
you away,

cos I definitely would have let him.

Here's your mask.
A souvenir of your first love.

Tush, tush, madam.

You should wear it still,
for I venture it improves your face,

my dear Lady Disdain.

Is it possible disdain should die

when she hath such meet food
to feed it as Signor Marlowe?

I had rather hear my dog bark
at a crow.

Honestly, Will, you're going to have
to have a word with those two.

Why do they have to be so mean?

Methinks I see the reason, wife.

They're in love,
but do deny it even unto themselves.

In love? But they've been fighting.
They always do.

That's the point.

They be fiery, sparky opposites

ever in denial about
the true nature of their feelings.

All this verbal jousting
is just surrogate rumpy-pumpington.

Well, I wish they'd hurry up

and get to the real
rumpy-pumpington,

because it's getting on my nerves.

They need an intervention.

I've sorted out Sue and Claude.
Now I'll sort out Kate and Kit.

Husband, in the past, you said
you were against such a match.

Remember their Italian adventure?

And Marlowe's a shagsome,
bonking rodent...

..who, rumour has it,

prefers his maids with cod-dangles,
if you know what I mean.

'Tis true that,
like the restless pendulum

that marks the steps of Father Time,
Kit swingeth both ways.

But 'tis clear he loves Kate.

The problem is they're both
too proud to make the first move,

thus must I trick each into thinking
that the other doth love.

I shall bide my time.

Tell me more, Kate.
Was I really romantic?

Oh, yes, you were, Sue. So romantic.

And Claude confessed he was
proper gutted when I had to leave.

He made me promise to meet him
at the tavern for the after-ball.

Mum, I'm off to the tavern!

The tavern?! But you be but a maid!

I'm 16.

Juliet got married, consummated it
and killed herself by the time

she was 13.

Yeah, well, let's not dwell on that,
love, because, frankly,

I've always thought your father
making Juliet only 13

was a bit weird.

It was not weird.

I must say, it always bothered me
a bit, but I decided to ignore it.

I think that's what people will do -
cast older actresses

and probably cut the line
where it says about

Juliet not having seen her
14th summer,

because it really is a bit weird.

It's not weird.

It's a quite deliberately stylised
image of youth and innocence.

It would be different if Romeo
were a dirty old pervington,

but he's not, obviously.

Why obviously?

As I recall,
you never mention Romeo's age,

although I can't be sure because,
by the middle of Act II,

I was fast asleep.

He doesn't. Romeo's age
is never mentioned in the play.

What, so while Juliet
is definitely 13,

Romeo could be, like,
55 and really creepy?

No, he couldn't, Bottom.

When I came up with
Romeo And Juliet...

- Except you didn't come up with it, Mr Shakespeare.
- What?

At first I thought you did,

but then I read The Tragicall
Historye Of Romeus And Juliet,

written two years before you were
born, in 1562, by Arthur Brooke,

which is an almost identical
narrative to yours.

How can you say that?

Romeus is spelt completely
differently to Romeo, for a start.

- And there is one other difference.
- You see?

Brooke names Juliet as aged 16.

So, you specifically made her

younger than in your
source material?

Juliet's age was the
only thing you changed?

Now, that really is weird.

It is not weird!

Susanna was 13 when I wrote it

and I wanted to doubly emphasise
the nature of the generation gap

to make the innocent purity
ever more heartbreaking.

The point is, I'm blooming 16
and I'm going to the pub!

Kate's done the groundwork.
Now it's time to get stuck in.

And I'll be off on my night watch.

I might look in on you later, Sue.
You can buy me a pint.

Don't you dare talk to me.
I'll be copping off with Claude.

I don't want you spoiling it,

making me look all crappage
and common-like.

Well, now, perhaps after
all these distractions

and silly discussions,
I can get on with my writing.

After all, that is why I came here.

Hamnet, pluck me a quill
from Mistress Clucky's arsington.

'Tis time for another Henry.

[CLUCKING AND FLAPPING]

Is it going to be
full of battles again, Dad?

It certainly is.

If gentlemen in England now abed

think themselves accursed
that they missed Agincourt,

they're going to feel themselves
royally shafted

to have missed all the battles
I'm going to write about

in Henry V, Part II.

Words have consequences, Will.

Young men might die
because of your plays.

Only if they get bored to death.

- Right, I'm off on my night watch.
- My hero!

When I get back,
you might like to polish my weapon.

Oh!

Always happy to oblige a gentleman.

Mr Shakespeare,
the Battle of Agincourt was the peak

of Henry V's military career.

He had no great triumphs after that.

He will now.

Your histories
are not histories at all,

just laughable propaganda

designed to shore up the legitimacy
of the current monarchy.

Duh.

Tush, tush, lady.

If thy face were
as fine as thy speech,

it would be a pretty thing indeed.

Fie, fie, sirrah!

They're at it again
with the love jousting.

I think it's time to bring
them together

so that true love may blossom
and we can all have a bit of peace.

Well, I'm going to smoke a pipe.

I hope you have a tinder, sir,

for you have no spark of wit
to light it.

Tush, tush, lady.

Be it ever unlit,
it's still hotter than you.

Bottom, a word.

You know that Kate and Marlowe have,
of late,

taken to trading verbal blows
on a pretty much continuous basis?

Erm, yeah. It's doing my head in.

They're so sick of each other,
it's painful.

No, not surprisingly,
being a servant,

you have stupidly
misread the situation.

This trading of abuse
means not that they hate each other,

but that they love each other.

You're joking me. Why?

'Tis the nature
of the proud heart, Botsky.

But now 'tis time
to bring these two hearts together.

I intend to tell you,
in Marlowe's hearing,

that Kate doth love him.

You just go along
with whate'er I say.

[CLEARS HIS THROAT]

Gosh, Botsky!

Have you seen the way
our Kate's been ogling Mr Marlowe?

Oh, right. Yeah, absolutely.

And you'd hear her sigh that she
loves him full passionately?

Oh, yeah, I did. She sighed
big-time. Massive sighing.

Blimey, that's a shocker.
Kate sighs for me?

I thought she hated
my perky white arsington.

It's working. I can hear him
sucking his pipe

with gleeful eagerness.

Now must we serve Kate likewise.

Botsky, did you hear
how melancholy Mr Marlowe

was as he sucked his pipe?

So sadly did he suck.

Saddest sucking I ever heard.

He is a really sad sucker.

Then did he whisper soft
the name of his true love.

"Kate! Kate!" he quoth.

"I love thee, yet have not the
courage to tell thee."

Blimey, that's a shocker.
I thought he hated me.

Brilliant. Thus emboldened
by the promise of requited passion,

both will declare their love.

Job done. Can't fail.
Love be truly all around.

I feel it in my fingers.

I feel it in my toes.

Make way! Give air! Give air!
Make way!

Sir, what ails her?

Panic not, Mrs Shakespeare.
The maid hath but fainted.

Fainted? But why?

A dreadful confrontation in
the tavern, Mrs Shakespeare.

Susanna was making merry
with a group of young people

when a boy called Claude
did approach

and defame her most vilely,
calling her a tarting-slap.

My Sue, a tarting-slap?

Never!

Afraid so, Mrs S.

Seems she was seen
snogging some other bloke

and letting him cop a feel-up.

But I never done it, Mum. I swear!

Fear not, Susanna.

You have been the
victim of a foul plot,

which I, as master of the watch,
have uncovered.

Tell them everything you told me.
Omit nothing.

Omitting nothing, sir.

I said, "Hello, Master Shakespeare.
'Tis a bit of a chilly night."

You said, "Blooming chilly,
Master Dogberry.

"'Twould freeze the Bolingbrokes
off..."

When I said omit nothing,
I meant omit nothing important.

You are...a ass.

Permission to object, sir!
Dost thou not suspect my place?

Dost thou not suspect my years?

Suspect? He means respect!

What a hilarious confusion
of language.

I wish I'd written it.

I'm sure, in time, you will.

I was doing my watching.

I was watching here, I was watching
there, I was watching everywhere.

That be my job,
as we be called the watch.

And then you heard something.

I did, sir, which I hope
did not exceed my duties, sir,

being as how we be not called
the listen.

Tell them what you heard.

A very rogue and peasant knave
called Don John, sir,

boasting as how he had done a trick
by snogging up the sluttage Margaret

but telling Claude as how he'd been
snogging up the chaste Susanna.

I have him locked up, sir,

and the whole village
will know of his slander.

Thank you. You are dismissed.

Well, we must also take our leave.
Big show tomorrow.

It's so important to bring
arts to the regions.

It's very culturally divisive

that the entertainment industry
is so London-centric.

Yeah. Like, mad culturally divisive.

I agree.

Why should there not be a theatre
or production facility elsewhere?

The Lancashire village of Salford,
for example?

Except then we'd all be
horribly inconvenienced

whenever we wanted to work there.

Unless we moved, I suppose.

Went to live in the North.

Perhaps best left as it is.
So, we'll see you anon.

- Good e'en. Good e'en.
- Thank you so much, Mr Burbage.

Oh, well done, husband.
Brilliant police work.

A rogue unmasked
and Susanna's name be cleared.

And I can get my Claude back.

This Claude must be taught a lesson
before he be welcomed back

into the fold,
and I have a brilliant idea.

Oh, God!

We must tell him
that Sue did not faint, but died

of a broken heart.

Then will I, a stern father,
go to Claude and inform him that,

as penance, he must get with
my niece Pru instead.

Then, when Claude
comes here for Pru,

he will find this Pru
all veiled because...

- Bet you can't guess.
- It's me.

Oh, you did guess. Well, yes,
you will reveal yourself as Sue,

Claude will have been
taught his lesson,

you will take him back
and all will be love and joy.

I think you should sleep on it.

Come on, kids.
Judith, you shouldn't still be up.

And Hamnet. Hamnet!

Hamnet! Hamnet!

Hamnet's run away!

Boy missing?
This is a job for the watch.

He's not missing.
I know exactly where he's gone.

It's you and your stupid
blooming play, Will,

exciting the boy about war.

I'll be back.

Well, Master Shakespeare,
you have made your mark

that you will serve your Queen
for seven years.

Yes, sir.

Suspect, lad! Big suspect!

Hamnet, what are you doing here?

I'm going to be a soldier.
I want to die in the breach.

Last time you were in the breach,
it was me nearly died,

and I didn't go through
14 hours of labour

to have you throw your life away.

There's nothing to a battle, lad.
Just takes balls.

And when his have dropped,
I'll let you know.

Oh, Mum!

Don't dis-suspect me, madam.

I have fought with Frederick
in the German forests.

I doubt it.

But if you had, you would have seen
what a bear's prepared to do

to defend her young.

I'm mumma bear.

Right. Well, in that case,
run along, lad.

You, exit.

Pursued by bear.

[COCKEREL CROWS]

And if you ever risk your life
again, I'll blooming well kill you.

Such joy!

And look how pretty Susanna is

with Claude coming to collect her
for a gadsome datelington.

So romantic,

even if he does think he's coming
to collect

her fictitious cousin Pru.

It's all working perfectly, Anne.

And look-see
how my other romantic plan develops.

Kit and Kate do exchange shy glances
and winsome sighs.

Both seeking ways
of declaring their affection.

Soon, the bantering will be replaced
with sweet words of love.

[KNOCK ON DOOR]

Hello, Claude.

Hello, Mrs Shakespeare.
Hello, Mr Shakespeare.

Sorry about slagging off your Sue

and causing her to die
of shame and sadness, like.

Well, I'm surprised
you've got the Bolingbrokes

to show your face around here
at all.

Well, Mr Shakespeare said
I had to cop off with his niece Pru.

You, in.

And now will Sue reveal herself,
she and Claude will dance merrily,

Kit will reveal his love to Kate,
she to him,

and all will be love,
sweetness and light.

Pru, I'm Claude.

I've come to get with you
instead of dead Sue.

Hello, Claude.

Oh, my God. You're alive.

I can't believe it!

And you look really lush and all.
Can I get with you?

Come here!

Lovely. He'll be down on one knee
before you know it.

Or both knees, Dad.

[CLAUDE GROANS]

First, you call me a sluttage
in front of the whole town,

and now, with me only dead a day,
you want to cop off

with my fictitious cousin Pru!

I hate you, Claude. I thought I
loved you, but I hate you.

So, go and cop a feel off Margaret,
if she'll have you.

You're all blooming bonkers!

Plan going well so far, master?

Well, I admit that bit
didn't quite go as I imagined,

but love is still in the air.

- Kate?
- Yes, Mr Marlowe?

Thing is, I know.

I know, too, Mr Marlowe.
I overheard Mr Shakespeare.

Same, and what I'm trying to say is,
while I think you're very nice...

- I don't even think you're very nice.
- What?

I know you love me,
but I truly, deeply do not love you.

Hang on, I don't love you.

- Will said...
- But Mr Shakespeare...

Plan still going well,
is it, master?

But if you don't secretly
love each other,

why have you been trading
arch and impish insults

these many weeks?

Erm, because
we're really sick of each other.

Deeply irritated.

So, not to disguise
a secret love at all, then?

In what universe does
exchanging insults indicate

secret love, Mr Shakespeare?

Only in his tortuous
and convoluted one, dear.

It's why he's a genius.

I shan't write Henry V, Part II.

Having seen the way we nearly lost
our beloved Hamnet to be a soldier,

I have no stomach for plays
that speak of war and glory.

To be honest, I think
I'm pretty much done with histories.

I mean, if nothing else,
I'm almost out of Henrys.

Then what will you write, love?

Well, how about another
romantic comedy?

Well, people do love them.
But what plot will you use?

Why, the one that's been happening
all around us.

I shall use it all
just exactly as it happened,

right here in this house.

And at the end, will you have the
two bickering lovers

being revealed as actually being
genuinely sick of each other,

and the veiled girl knee her
ex-boyfriend in the scroting sack?

No, of course not.
They'll all get married, obviously.

[CHUCKLES]
You're the genius, love,

but it don't sound like
much of a play to me.

More like a load
of convoluted old Bolingbrokes.

Just much ado about nothing, really.

Boom! There's the title right there
-

A Load Of Convoluted Old
Bolingbrokes.

I feel another hit coming on.

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