No More Learning

Count
Perhaps.

Rodrigue
The ardour in my gaze you see,
Is of his blood, that too?

Count
What's that to me?

Rodrigue
Take four paces from here, and you will know.

Count
Presumptuous youth!

Rodrigue
Ah, have no fear, though.
Young I may be; but in the noble heart
Valour's no need of years, a thing apart.

Count
Against me, you'd measure your mettle,
You who have never even seen a battle?

Rodrigue
We never need testing twice, men like me,
Our trial strokes are masterstrokes, you see.

Count
Do you know who I am?

Rodrigue
Yes; another
At the mere sound of your name might quiver.
The laurels with which your head is wreathed
Might seem to give warning of my defeat.
I attack an arm that was made to conquer,
But given courage, I will find the power.
To vengeance, nothing proves impossible.
Your arm's unconquered, not invincible.
Count
That courage which shines out in your speech
And your eyes, each day, my eyes did reach;
Believing in you I saw Castile's honour,
My soul destined you for my daughter.
I know your love, and am pleased to see
All its force yield to the force of duty.
It has not weakened your noble ardour;
And your great virtue inspires my favour;
Wishing a perfect warrior for my son,
I made no error in thus choosing one.
But now my pity is involved, in truth,
I admire your courage, but regret your youth.
Do not attempt this fateful trial;
Spare my courage an unequal battle:
There is no honour for me in victory:
The lack of risk will deny me glory.
Men will know I conquered easily;
And only my regret would be left me.

Rodrigue
Your boldness is followed by ignoble pity:
You'll steal my honour yet fear to kill me!

Count
Withdraw from here.

Rodrigue
Come then, without speaking.

Count
So tired of life?

Rodrigue
So afraid of dying?

Count
Well, do your duty, the son proves lesser
Who seeks to outlast his father's honour.


Act II Scene III (The Infanta, Chimene, Leonor)

Infanta
Be calm, Chimene, calm your mind's disturbance,
Be steadfast in the face of this mischance,
You'll find fresh peace after this brief storm,
Over your joy light cloud has merely formed,
You will lose naught if joy must be deferred.

Chimene
My troubled mind dares hope for nothing there.
So swift a tempest stirring a calm sea
Threatens to bring on sure catastrophe:
I doubt it not, I perish in the harbour.
I loved, was loved, agreed were both our fathers;
I was telling you the delightful news
At the sad moment when they quarrelled too,
Which fatal telling, as soon as it was done,
Ruined all hope of its consummation.