No More Learning

Chimene, I share in all your misery;
My soul is now marked by a like taint.

(To Don Diegue)

You may speak next, I sanction her complaint.

Chimene
Sire, my father is dead; and as he died
I saw the blood pour from his noble side;
That blood which often preserved your walls,
That blood which often won your royal wars,
That blood, which shed still smokes in anger,
At being lost, not for you but another.
What in the midst of flame war did not dare
To shed, Rodrigue has, on the courtyard stair.
I ran to the place, drained of strength and colour,
And found him lifeless. Forgive my pallor,
Sire, my voice fails me in this tale, oppressed;
My tears and sighs should rather speak the rest.

King
Courage, my child, and know this very day
Your king shall act the father in his place.

Chimene
Sire, honour too great attends my distress.
As I have said, I found him there, lifeless;
His side was pierced, and to rouse me truly
His blood in the dust inscribed my duty;
Or rather his valour, reduced to such a state,
Spoke to me through his wounds, urging haste;
And, to be heard by the most just of kings,
Lends me the voice of those sad openings.
Sire, do not permit such wilful licence
To rule where you reign so in eminence.
Or allow the bravest, with impunity,
To be exposed to the blows of temerity;
A bold youth to triumph over his glory,
Bathe in his blood, defy his memory.
So valiant a warrior snatched from you,
Un-avenged, kills the wish to serve you.
My father is dead, and I ask vengeance,
For your interest not mine in this instance,
You lose by a death one of noble breath;
Avenge it by another, death for death.
Slay him, not for me, but for your crown,
For your grandeur, for your own renown;
Slay him, I say, Sire, for the royal good,
A man so proud of spilling noble blood.

King
Diegue, reply.
Diegue
How enviable, yes,
On losing strength to swiftly meet with death,
See how old age prepares for noble spirits
After long careers, miserable exits!
I, whose great labours had acquired glory,
I, who was ever pursued by victory,
Find that having lived far too long
I must rest un-avenged for a wrong.
What combat, siege, ambush could not farther
Nor Aragon indeed, nor Grenada,
Neither your foes, nor yet the envious,
The Count has perpetrated on us,
Hating your choice, proud of the advantage
Granted him by my weakness at my age.
Sire, thus these hairs whitened in harness,
This blood of mine poured out in such excess,
This arm once dreaded by your enemies,
Would have perished, lost to infamy,
If I had not produced a worthy son,
Worthy of his land, and of your person.
He lent me strength, killed the Count this day;
Preserved my honour, washing shame away.
If to display courage in resentment,
If to avenge a wrong, earns punishment,
The tempest's wrath should fall on me instead:
When the arm errs, one punishes the head.
Whether you call our quarrel's cause a crime,
Sire, I am the head, he but an arm of mine.
Chimene complains he has killed her father,
Yet I'd have done so, if I'd been younger.
Take this head the years have aged: preserve
A younger arm which will remain to serve.
By shedding my blood, appease Chimene:
I'll not resist, I consent to every pain;
With no complaint of harshness, I'll yet
Die without dishonour, without regret.

King
The matter's vital, the case put well,
And it merits debate in open council.
Escort Chimene to her house, Don Sanche.
Your bounds are my court, your word, Diegue.
Bring me the son. I will mete out justice.

Chimene
It is just, great King, that a murderer perish.