He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner. When you sally upon
him, speak what terrible language you will; though you understand it
not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to understand him,
unless someone among us, whom we must produce for an interpreter.
He can only come this way through this hedge corner. When you attack him, speak whatever foreign language you want; though you don't actually understand it yourselves, it doesn't matter; we must pretend we don't understand him, unless someone among us, who we'll produce as an interpreter.
He can only come through this corner. When you jump him, just speak gibberish; it doesn't matter if you don't actually know the language; we just need to pretend we can't understand him unless our translator says we can.
hell come thru here speak gibberish when u grab him dont let him know we understand
Good captain, let me be th’ interpreter.
Good captain, let me be the interpreter.
Captain, let me be the translator.
i'll translate
Art not acquainted with him? Knows he not thy voice?
You don't know him? Doesn't he know your voice?
Do you know him? Won't he recognize your voice?
u know him? will he know ur voice?
No sir, I warrant you.
No sir, I promise you.
No, I guarantee it.
nope guaranteed
But what linsey-woolsey has thou to speak to us again?
But what kind of nonsense will you speak back to us?
But what gibberish are you gonna throw at us?
what nonsense will u speak?
E’en such as you speak to me.
The same kind you speak to me.
The same kind you're using.
the same u speak
He must think us some band of strangers i’ the adversary’s
entertainment. Now he hath a smack of all neighbouring languages,
therefore we must every one be a man of his own fancy; not to know what
we speak one to another, so we seem to know, is to know straight our
purpose: choughs’ language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you,
interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch, ho! Here he comes;
to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies
he forges.
He must think we're a band of foreigners working for the enemy. Now he knows a little of all neighboring languages, so each of us must speak his own made-up language; not knowing what we say to each other, yet seeming to know, is the key to our purpose: gibberish from crows is good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem very clever and official. But quiet now! Here he comes; to sleep two hours away, and then come back and lie about his lies.
He needs to think we're foreign soldiers. He picks up a few words from different languages, so we all just make stuff up; the idea is we act like we know what we're saying even though we don't—that's how we fool him: just random sounds work fine. You, translator, need to look smart and official. But shhh, here he comes; he'll sleep, then come back and make up a bunch of stories.
each speak gibberish act like u understand him but dont fool him into sleeping then hell make up lies
Ten o’clock. Within these three hours ’twill be time enough to go home.
What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausive invention that
carries it. They begin to smoke me, and disgraces have of late knock’d
too often at my door. I find my tongue is too foolhardy, but my heart
hath the fear of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the
reports of my tongue.
Ten o'clock. Within three hours it will be time to go home. What will I say I've done? It must be a really convincing story that works. They're starting to see through me, and disasters have been hitting me hard. My tongue is too bold, but my heart has the fear of Mars and his soldiers in it, afraid of the reports my tongue makes.
It's ten o'clock. In three hours I can go home. What am I gonna say I did? I need a really good story. People are catching on to me, I've had a lot of failures lately. My mouth is too loose, but my heart is scared—I'm afraid of what will actually happen because of all the lies I tell.
its 10 i need a good story theyre catching on my mouth is loose but im scared
The most unsettling thing about the soliloquy in this scene (4-1-010) is that Parolles is not self-deceived. Other Shakespearean braggarts — Falstaff especially — exist in a haze of performative delusion. Parolles is clear-eyed. He knows his tongue is 'too foolhardy.' He knows his heart has 'the fear of Mars.' He knows the drum mission was impossible. He knows he needs a convincing lie. This is not a man who believes his own press — it's a man who has been running a deliberate performance and is now calculating whether the fraud can still be sustained. It makes the collapse in 4-3 both more and less tragic. More: because he chose this. Less: because he'll survive it, and with something like wisdom. Watch for his speech at the end of 4-3 — the most honest thing he says in the entire play.
[_Aside._] This is the first truth that e’er thine own tongue was
guilty of.
This is the first truthful thing your tongue has ever said.
That's literally the first honest thing you've ever said.
finally telling the truth for once
What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum,
being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such
purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say I got them in exploit;
yet slight ones will not carry it. They will say “Came you off with so
little?” and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the
instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman’s mouth, and buy
myself another of Bajazet’s mule, if you prattle me into these perils.
Why would I want to try to get back a drum when I don't know if it's possible, and I know I never had that plan? I have to hurt myself and say I got them in battle; but small wounds won't work. They'll say "Did you escape with just minor injuries?" and big wounds I won't give myself. So what's the point? My tongue, I'll have to put you in a woman's mouth and buy myself another mouth like a beast, if you keep talking me into these dangers.
Why would I try to get a drum back when I know it's impossible and I never planned to do it? I'll have to hurt myself and claim I got injured in the fight; but small cuts won't work. They'll say "Is that all the damage?" and I can't give myself serious wounds. So what do I do? My mouth, I should give you away and get a new one if you keep dragging me into this mess.
why try to get the drum when its impossible i need good injuries to fake but cant hurt myself bad
[_Aside._] Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?
Is it possible that he both understands his true nature and actually is that way?
Does this guy actually know what he is, or does he have no idea?
how can he not get what he actually is
I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn, or the
breaking of my Spanish sword.
I wish I could tear my clothes up or break my sword and that would be enough.
I wish I could just rip my clothes or break my sword and call it good.
wish i could just tear my clothes & say thats proof
[_Aside._] We cannot afford you so.
We cannot allow you to do that.
We can't let you get away with that.
nope, not happening
Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem.
Or I could shave off my beard and claim it was a tactical move.
Or I could cut off my beard and say it was part of my disguise strategy.
shave my beard claim it was a tactical move
[_Aside._] ’Twould not do.
That would not work.
That won't work either.
that's not gonna work
Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.
Or throw my clothes in water and say I was stripped.
Or throw my clothes in the water and say I got stripped down.
or throw my clothes in water & say i got robbed
[_Aside._] Hardly serve.
That would barely be sufficient.
That barely counts as evidence.
that's a weak excuse
Though I swore I leap’d from the window of the citadel,—
Even though I swore I jumped from the castle window—
Even though I claimed I jumped from the fortress—
even if i said i jumped from the castle
The gibberish language Shakespeare invents for this scene — 'Throca movousus,' 'Boskos thromuldo,' 'Oscorbidulchos volivorco' — is not random. Editors have speculated that some syllables echo actual Slavic roots or Mediterranean trader pidgins, but the consensus is that Shakespeare was having fun inventing something that sounds just plausible enough to fool a wishful ear. For an Elizabethan audience, foreign languages were simultaneously exotic and comic — the English theatre had a tradition of mangling French, Spanish, and Italian for laughs. What makes this scene genius is that the fake language reveals a truth: Parolles' entire identity has always been built on sounding like something he's not. His capture by nonsense is perfectly appropriate.
[_Aside._] How deep?
How far down did you fall?
How far down is that exactly?
how high was that
Thirty fathom.
Thirty fathom.
thirty fathom.
Thirty fathom.
[_Aside._] Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.
Even three great oaths would barely make that believable.
Three massive lies still wouldn't make anyone believe a jump like that.
even huge lies can't sell that fall
I would I had any drum of the enemy’s; I would swear I recover’d it.
I wish I had any enemy drum; I would swear I recovered it.
I wish I had an enemy's drum; I'd swear I got it back.
if only i had an enemy drum id say i stole it
[_Aside._] You shall hear one anon.
You will hear one shortly.
You're going to hear one very soon.
you'll hear one soon
A drum now of the enemy’s!
A drum from the enemy now!
Just one enemy drum!
i need an enemy drum
_Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo._
(Speaking in mock foreign language) Throaca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.
(Gibberish foreign accent) Throaca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.
throaca movousus cargo cargo cargo
_Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo._
(All speaking gibberish) Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.
(Everyone speaking gibberish) Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.
all speaking fake foreign gibberish
During Parolles' soliloquy, the First Lord and soldiers are hidden, watching — and the First Lord keeps interjecting asides to the audience. When Parolles proposes jumping from a thirty-fathom window, the Lord mutters 'How deep?' When Parolles claims he'd swear to it with oaths, the Lord says 'Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.' The Lord is doing exactly what the audience is doing: rating each implausible plan, awarding it a score for hopelessness. This meta-theatrical structure — a character within the play commenting on another character's performance within the play — is very typical of All's Well. The play is obsessed with the gap between performance and reality, and here Shakespeare literalizes it: a man monologue-ing his own fraud, with a live critic in the wings.
O, ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes.
Oh, ransom, ransom! Don't cover my eyes.
Oh no, please ransom me! Don't blindfold me.
ransom! dont blindfold me!
_Boskos thromuldo boskos._
_Boskos thromuldo boskos._
_boskos thromuldo boskos._
_Boskos thromuldo boskos._
I know you are the Muskos’ regiment,
And I shall lose my life for want of language.
If there be here German, or Dane, Low Dutch,
Italian, or French, let him speak to me,
I’ll discover that which shall undo the Florentine.
I know you are the enemy regiment, and I will lose my life because I don't speak your language. If there's anyone here who speaks German, or Danish, Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speak to me, I'll reveal information that will destroy the Florentine commander.
I know you're the enemy army, and I'm done for because I can't speak your language. If anyone here speaks German, Danish, Dutch, Italian, or French, talk to me, I'll tell you everything about the Florentine leader.
i know ur enemy army if u speak german dutch italian or french ill tell u everything
_Boskos vauvado._ I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue.
_Kerelybonto._ Sir, Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards
are at thy bosom.
(Speaking in gibberish) Boskos vauvado. I understand you and can speak your language. (More gibberish) Kerelybonto. Sir, give yourself to your faith, because seventeen swords are at your chest.
(Gibberish) Boskos vauvado. I get you and can speak your language. (Gibberish) Kerelybonto. Buddy, you better pray, because seventeen blades are pointing at you.
boskos vauvado i speak ur language seventeen swords at ur chest
O!
O!
o!
O!
O, pray, pray, pray!
_Manka revania dulche._
Oh, beg, beg, beg! (Speaking in foreign gibberish) Manka revania dulche.
Oh please, please, please! (Gibberish) Manka revania dulche.
please please please manka revania dulche
_Oscorbidulchos volivorco._
_Oscorbidulchos volivorco._
_oscorbidulchos volivorco._
_Oscorbidulchos volivorco._
The General is content to spare thee yet;
And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on
To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst inform
Something to save thy life.
The general will let you live for now; and though you're blindfolded, will lead you to gather information from you. Maybe you can give us something to save your life.
The commander will let you live; and even blindfolded, we'll get you to tell us stuff. Maybe you can save yourself by giving us information.
the general lets u live well question u blindfolded maybe u can save urself
O, let me live,
And all the secrets of our camp I’ll show,
Their force, their purposes; nay, I’ll speak that
Which you will wonder at.
Oh, let me live, and I'll show you all the secrets of our camp, their forces, their plans; yes, I'll say things that will amaze you.
Let me live, and I'll tell you everything about our camp, our troops, our strategies; I'll say things that'll blow your mind.
let me live ill tell u everything about our camp & troops
But wilt thou faithfully?
But will you do it honestly?
But will you actually do it?
u swear u will?
The drum Parolles was sent to recover wasn't just a musical instrument — military drums were command-and-control technology. In Elizabethan warfare, drum patterns signaled advances, retreats, formations. Losing a regimental drum to the enemy was a genuine disgrace, because the enemy could then give false orders to your troops in battle. It was also a potent symbol of martial honor — the drum was literally the voice of the regiment. Bertram sending Parolles to retrieve it was already a questionable assignment for a man of Parolles' actual capabilities. Parolles knowing it was impossible and volunteering anyway tells you everything about his relationship with Bertram: it's built on performance and proximity to status, not genuine service.
If I do not, damn me.
If I don't, damn me.
If I don't, screw me.
if i dont im damned
_Acordo linta._
Come on; thou art granted space.
(Speaking in gibberish) Acordo linta. Go on; you have the space to speak.
(Gibberish) Acordo linta. Go ahead; you can talk now.
acordo linta go ahead talk
A short alarum within.
A brief alarm sounds offstage.
A short alarm sounds from somewhere offstage.
brief alarm sound
Go tell the Count Rossillon and my brother
We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled
Till we do hear from them.
Go tell Count Rossillon and my brother we've caught the fool, and will keep him blindfolded until we hear from them.
Go tell the Count and my brother we've got the idiot, and we'll keep him blindfolded until they say otherwise.
tell count & ur brother we got him blindfolded til they say so
Captain, I will.
Captain, I will.
captain, i will.
Captain, I will.
’A will betray us all unto ourselves;
Inform on that.
He will betray us all to ourselves; go report that.
He's going to end up revealing everything about us to our own side. Go tell the Count.
he'll betray us to ourselves go report it
So I will, sir.
I will, sir.
Will do, sir.
will do
Till then I’ll keep him dark, and safely lock’d.
Until then I'll keep him in darkness and locked up safely.
Until then I'll keep him in the dark and locked up.
ill keep him locked up til then
The Reckoning
This is the scene everyone in the audience has been waiting for: the unmasking of Parolles, the great braggart and coward. What makes it funnier and darker than you expect is how fast it happens — within three lines of capture, Parolles is offering to sell out the entire Florentine army. The First Lord's running aside commentary turns the audience into co-conspirators, relishing every word. We leave the scene feeling both the sting of comedy and something more uncomfortable: what does it mean that the man was apparently self-aware the whole time?
If this happened today…
A tech startup's 'Chief Strategy Officer' has been bluffing his way through board meetings for two years. The founders have him shadowed by consultants who speak total nonsense — a fake language composed of random syllables and conference buzzwords. He's captured in the parking garage. Within thirty seconds, still blindfolded, he's offering to forward-slash the competitor's product roadmap, cc the venture capitalist's private emails, and 'share some insights' about his own CEO. The consultants exchange glances. This is going to be a long deposition.