No More Learning

If he defeats the Count, there's endless fame.
I dare to imagine that his slightest deeds
Will bring entire kingdoms to their knees;
And then love's flattery persuades, I own,
That he shall occupy Grenada's throne,
The Moors defeated, trembling and adoring,
Aragon open to its conqueror, welcoming,
Portugal yielding, and his noble gaze
Bearing his destiny beyond the wave,
The blood of Africa drenching his laurels;
And everything writ of famous mortals
I'll expect of my Rodrigue in victory,
Making his love a subject for my glory.

Leonor
But Madame, how far your thoughts leap apace
From a duel which perhaps may not take place.

Infanta
Rodrigue the offended, the Count the offender;
What more is needed? They have left together.

Leonor
Well! Let them fight, as you wish: but then,
Will Rodrigue be as you've imagined him?

Infanta
What would you have? I'm mad, my mind strays;
You see with what ills love will fill my days.
Come to my room, console me within;
Don't leave me in the misery I'm in.


Act II Scene VI (King Ferdinand, Don Arias, Don Sanche)

King
The Count then is still proud, unreasonable!
Does he still think his error pardonable?

Arias
I addressed him from you, about the insult.
I did what I could, Sire, with no result.

King
Heavens!
Is this how the presumptuous subject
Shows his consideration, and respect?
He scorns his king, insults Diegue, I see!
Before my court lays down the law to me!
Brave soldier and great general he may be,
But I've the means to lower pride so lofty;
Were he valour itself, the god of war,
He shall know the full weight of my law.
Despite the punishment for insolence,
I had at first voted for lenience;
But since he abuses it, go, today,
Whether he resists or not, lock him away.

Sanche
Time may make him less of a rebel;
He was still heated from his quarrel;
Sire, in the first glow of such anger
To calm so noble a heart takes longer.
He knows he's wrong, but his proud spirit
Won't let him confess his error, as yet.

King
Sanche, be silent now, and be advised
To take his part's a crime to my eyes.

Sanche
I obey and am silent: yet Sire, mercy,
One word in his defence.

King
What may that be?

Sanche
That a spirit accustomed to great action
Cannot bow readily in submission:
It cannot see what justifies such shame:
The word alone the Count resists, I say.
He found this duty too harsh, in truth,
If he had less heart, he'd bow to you.
Command his arm, strengthened in battle
To repair the injury and fight his duel;
He will give satisfaction; come what may,
He expects to hear, this answers him I say.

King
You lack respect; I'll allow for your age,
Excuse the ardour of your youthful courage.
A king, whose prudence has finer objects,
Takes care to save the blood of his subjects.
I guard my people, my thought preserves them,
As the head cares for the limbs its servants.