No More Learning

King
Yet Love, far from registering this protest,
If Rodrigue wins, true justice will attest.
Cease to murmur against laws so sweet;
Whoever wins, will yet fall at your feet.

End of Act IV

Act V Scene I (Rodrigue, Chimene)

Chimene
Rodrigue, and here! Whence your audacity?
Go, you harm my honour now; please leave me.

Rodrigue
I go to die, Madame, yet come to you,
Before my death, to say a last adieu.
Eternal love that binds me to your laws
Accepts my life in homage thus to yours.

Chimene
You go to die!

Rodrigue
I haste towards that hour
That yields my being to your vengeful power.

Chimene
You go to die! Has Sanche's blade such art
It works on your indomitable heart?
What makes you so weak, and him so strong?
Rodrigue, about to fight, sings his swan-song!
He who feared not my father, or the Moors,
Off to fight Sanche, thinks it a lost cause!
In time of need your courage is all spent?
Rodrigue
I go not to a duel, but punishment;
My faithful ardour deprives me of desire
To defend myself, since you light the pyre.
My heart's the same; my arm loses strength
When it seeks to protect what you condemn;
Last night would have yet proved fatal
If I'd fought only in my own quarrel;
But defending my people, king and country,
Only a traitor would have dared fight badly.
My heart does not detest life so utterly
As to wish to lose it through disloyalty.
Now fighting solely in my own cause,
You ask my death and I accept your laws.
Vengeance chooses another hand's force
(I was not worthy of dying at yours):
None will see me resist what must ensue;
I owe respect to one who fights for you,
I will yield him my naked chest bravely,
Adoring your hand, in that which slays me.

Chimene
If the force of justice and sad duty
Urging me on, pursuing victory,
Prescribes for you so harsh a law
It renders you defenceless, all the more
Be mindful in that act of blindness
That your honour is at stake, no less
Than your life, and your living glory
If you die, will be one more past story.
Your honour's dearer to you than I am,
Since with a father's blood it stained your hand,
And made you renounce, despite your passion
Your sweetest hope, that of my possession:
Yet I see you treat it now so lightly,
That you would be vanquished easily.
Your honour's plagued by inconsistency.
Why is it now not as it seemed to be?
Is your sole virtue committing outrage?
Except for insults, do you lack courage?
Did you show such harshness to my father
That conquered you might know your conqueror?
Go, without seeking death: let me pursue you,
Defend your honour, though you've no wish to.

Rodrigue
After the Count's death, the Moors defeat,
Is this honour of mine not yet replete?
It should disdain the need for self-defence;
They know my courage dares all attempts,
My valour is high, and beneath the heavens
As for my honour, nothing is more precious.
No, no, think as you wish, in this story
Rodrigue may die without losing glory,
Without being accused of lacking honour,
Unconquered, free of any conqueror.