Sucks up its murky nurture from the earth,
             So draws the trunk called wisdom, which indeed
             Belongs to heaven itself in towering branch,
             Its strength and being from the murky soil
             Of our mortality-allied to sin. 
             Was ever a just man who ne’er was hard? 
             And who is mild, is oft not strong enough. 
             The brave become too venturesome in war. 
             What we call virtue is but conquered sin,
             And where no struggle was, there is no power. 
             But as for me, no time was given to err,
             A child—­the helm upon my puny head,
             A youth—­with lance, high on my steed I sat,
             My eye turned ever to some threat’ning foe,
             Unmindful of the joys and sweets of life,
             And far and strange lay all that charms and lures. 
             That there are women, first I learned to know
             When in the church my wife was given me,
             She, truly faultless if a human is,
             And whom, I frankly say, I’d warmer love
             If sometimes need to pardon were, not praise.

(To the QUEEN.)

Nay, nay, fear not, I said it but in jest! 
The outcome we must all await-nor paint
The devil on the wall, lest he appear. 
But now, what little respite we may have,
Let us not waste in idle argument. 
The feuds within our land are stilled, although
They say the Moor will soon renew the fight,
And hopes from Africa his kinsman’s aid,
Ben Jussuf and his army, bred in strife. 
And war renewed will bring distress anew. 
Till then we’ll open this our breast to peace,
And take deep breath of unaccustomed joy. 
Is there no news?—­But did I then forget? 
You do not look about you, Leonore,
To see what we have done to please you here.

QUEEN.  What ought I see?

KING.  Alas, O Almirante! 
             We have not hit upon it, though we tried. 
             For days, for weeks, we dig and dig and dig,
             And hope that we could so transform this spot,
             This orange-bearing, shaded garden grove,
             To have it seem like such as England loves,
             The austere country of my austere wife. 
             And she but smiles and smiling says me nay! 
             Thus are they all, Britannia’s children, all;
             If any custom is not quite their own,
             They stare, and smile, and will have none of it. 
             Th’ intention, Leonore, was good, at least,
             So give these worthy men a word of thanks;
             God knows how long they may have toiled for us.

QUEEN.  I thank you, noble sirs.