No More Learning

Chimene
If I should gain the verdict, then I swear
Not to survive you for a moment there.
Adieu; leave, and be careful no one sees.

Elvire
Madame, some trials that Heaven is pleased. . .

Chimene
Trouble me not, but leave me here to sigh
Silence I seek, and night, in which to cry.


Act III Scene V (Don Diegue)

Diegue
Never do we find perfect happiness:
Our sweetest days are tinged with sadness.
Always some fresh care, some event,
Troubles the purity of our content.
In the midst of pleasure my soul suffers:
I drown in joy, and tremble with my fears.
I have seen the corpse of my enemy
Yet cannot find the hand that avenged me.
In vain I labour, worry uselessly,
Aged as I am, search through the city:
What little my years have left me of vigour,
Consumes itself in seeking for the victor.
At every instant, through this night of sorrow,
I thought to clasp him, but clasped a shadow;
And my love, tricked by these deceptions,
Doubling my dread yields to new suspicions.
I can find no traces of his passage;
I fear the Count's friends and entourage;
Their numbers daze my mind and reason.
Rodrigue is dead, or languishing in prison.
Just Heavens!
Am I deceived once more,
Or is this my last hope I stand before?
Without doubt it's he; my prayers are answered,
My fears are over now, my cares are ended.


Act III Scene VI (Don Diegue, Don Rodrigue)

Diegue
Rodrigue, Heaven sends you to me, my boy!

Rodrigue
Alas!

Diegue
Do not blend your sighs with my joy;
Let me take breath before I praise you.
My valour has no cause to disown you;
You've emulated it, your great daring
Shows our heroic race is still breathing.
You descend from them, you are my issue;
Your first sword-thrust equalled mine too;
And with fine ardour your lively youth
Attains my fame with this single proof.
Prop of my old age, crown of my delight,
Clasp what you've honoured, this head all white,
Come, kiss this cheek, and so kiss the place
Where the wrong fell your courage did efface.

Rodrigue
The honour is yours; I could do no less
Born of our race, nurtured at its breast.
I count myself happy if it brings delight,
My trial stroke pleasing him who gave me life;
But be not jealous, now, of joy's faction,
If I in turn choose to seek satisfaction.
Let my despair burst forth, at liberty,
Your speech has now too long restrained me.
I am not sorry to have served so nobly;
But return the good this blade stole from me.
My arm, to avenge you, raised against my love
Deprived me of my soul, by the strokes I wove.
Speak nothing more; through you I am dismayed:
What I owed you, I've generously paid.

Diegue
Bear more nobly this fruit of victory:
I gave you life and you return me glory;
Since dearer to me than life is honour,
So in return I owe you all the more.
Yet from a true heart drive all weaknesses,
We've but one honour, many mistresses!