No More Learning

Chimene, your grief was only too visible.

Chimene
Sire, make this the culmination to my woe
And call it grief then, if you wish it so.
A deep displeasure overcame my feelings;
His death destroyed the object I was seeking.
If he had died of wounds for his country
Vengeance was thwarted, and my plans awry:
So fine an end would only injure me
Who ask his death, but not a death in glory,
No great acclaim to raise him up on high,
On a scaffold, not in honour, he must die;
For my father not his country, diminished,
Let his name be sullied, memory tarnished.
To die for one's country is no sad fate;
Such a death sets one among the great.
I love his victory: for that's no sin.
The State, secure now, returns my victim.
Noble, then, famous among warriors,
A leader crowned with laurel not with flowers,
To say it in a word, I find him, his blade,
Worthy of sacrifice to my father's shade. . .
Such vain hopes I allowed myself to feel!
Rodrigue has naught to fear from my steel;
What use are my scorned tears against him?
Your whole empire now lies open to him;
There all's allowed him, beneath your sway;
He triumphs over me, as the Moors today.
His enemies' spilt blood drowns out justice,
As a new trophy for his crimes does service;
We swell the pomp, and scornful of the law,
Follow his chariot, with two kings before.

King
Daughter, your words show too much violence.
In rendering justice, set all in the balance:
Your father died, yet he was the aggressor;
Justice itself commands me to be fairer.
Before you accuse my judgement further
Consult your heart: Rodrigue is its master.
Love, in secret, thanks your King moreover,
For the favour that grants you such a lover.

Chimene
Grants me! My foe! Object of my anger!
Source of my woes! Murderer of my father!
To my just cause you give so little weight,
You will not even hear the wrongs I state!
Since you refuse justice to all my claims,
Sire, let me have my recourse to weapons;
That's how he perpetrated his offence,
And that is how I now seek vengeance.
I ask his head of all your warriors, now;
Let one bring it, I'll be his prize, I vow.
Let combat begin, Sire, combat finished,
I'll wed the man, if Rodrigue is punished.
Let them proclaim this on your authority.

King
This custom here, of ancient pedigree,
As means to punish an unjust assault,
Robs the State of its finest men, the fault
This sad abuse creates if it finds success
Protects the criminal, attacks the guiltless.
I exempt Rodrigue: he's far too valuable
To expose to such a fate, unjust and fickle;
Whatever blood that noble heart has spilt,
The Moors in fleeing bore away his guilt.

Diegue
What, Sire!