No More Learning

What? To avenge a father are we free
To deliver our country to the enemy?
Is your cause against us legitimate?
Are we part of his crime, to share his fate?
After all you are not obliged to marry
Him whom a father forces you to harry:
I'll help you quench your desire, this strife,
Erase your love, but leave us yet his life.

Chimene
Oh! I am not worthy of such kindness;
This duty that embitters is limitless.
Though I still feel love for the conqueror,
Though the King may flatter, crowds adore,
Though he's among others born to quarrel,
Beneath my cypress I'll go scorn his laurel.

Infanta
It is noble, to avenge a father,
Attacking, out of duty, one so dear;
But it's a deed of a higher order
To put the public good before a father.
Believe me, it's enough to quench your fires:
He's punished who loses what he desires.
Let the good of the country be your law:
Besides can the King now grant you more?

Chimene
Though he refuses, I will not stay silent.

Infanta
Think carefully, Chimene, of your intent.
Adieu: alone you may reflect at leisure.

Chimene
I've no choice, on the death of a father.
Act IV Scene III (The King, Diegue, Arias, Rodrigue, Sanche)

King
Noble heir of an illustrious family
Ever Castille's pillar and its glory,
Race of ancestors of signal valour,
Whom by these deeds of yours you honour,
My power to recompense you now is slight;
You show greater merit than I have might. . .
The country saved from a cruel enemy,
Your hand securing the sceptre firmly,
The Moors defeated, before our alarms
Secured the orders to repulse their arms,
These are exploits that deny your King
The means of just reward for anything.
But your two captive kings make recompense,
Both naming you their Cid in my presence.
Since Cid in their language is lord in ours,
I'll not begrudge you all such honours.
So, be the Cid: and let your name below
Strike with fear Granada and Toledo;
To all beneath my law now may it show,
What you are worth to me, and what I owe.

Rodrigue
May your Majesty, Sire, spare my blushes!
It takes too much account of meagre service,
And makes me now ashamed before the King,
Such great honour: so little meriting.
I know, to the security your realms give
I owe my heart's blood, the air I breathe;
And if I lose them for some noble object,
I'd simply be acting as a loyal subject.

King
Yet, all who in my service so engage
Do not acquit themselves with such courage;
And valour that is not born of excess
Seldom achieves comparable success.
Allow our praise then, tell the history
At greater length of all this victory.

Rodrigue
Sire, you know that finding pressing danger
Had filled the whole city with its terror,
A group of friends, my father assembled,
Solicited my help, though I was troubled. . .
Yet, Sire, you'll pardon my temerity
If I commanded without authority.