Don Rodrigo. After the death of the count and the defeat of the Moors, will my renown still require other achievements?  That [glory] may scorn the care of defending myself; it is known that my courage dares to attempt all, that my valor can accomplish all, and that, here below [lit. under the heavens], in comparison with mine honor, nothing is precious to me.  No! no! in this combat, whatever thou may’st please to think, Rodrigo may die without risking his renown:  without men daring to accuse him of having wanted spirit:  without being considered as conquered, without enduring a conqueror.  They will say only:  “He adored Chimene; he would not live and merit her hatred; he yielded himself to the severity of his fate, which compelled his mistress to seek his death; she wished for his life [lit. head], and his magnanimous heart, had that been refused to her, would have considered it a crime.  To avenge his honor, he lost his love; to avenge his mistress, he forsook life, preferring (whatever hope may have enslaved his soul) his honor to Chimene, and Chimene to his existence.”  Thus, then, you will see that my death in this conflict, far from obscuring my glory, will increase its value; and this honor will follow my voluntary death, that no other than myself could have satisfied you [for the death of your father].

Chimene. Since, to prevent thee from rushing to destruction, thy life and thine honor are [but] feeble inducements, if ever I loved thee, dear Rodrigo, in return [for that love], defend thyself now, to rescue me from Don Sancho.  Fight, to release me from a compact which delivers me to the object of my aversion.  Shall I say more to thee?  Go, think of thy defence, to overcome my sense of duty, to impose on me silence; and if thou feelest thine heart still enamored for me, come forth, as a conqueror, from a combat of which Chimene is the reward.  Adieu; this thoughtlessly uttered [lit. let slip] word causes me to blush for shame!

[Exit Chimene.]

Don Rodrigo. Where is the foe I could not now subdue?  Come forth, [warriors] of Navarre, Morocco, and Castile! and all the heroes that Spain has produced; unite together and form an army, to contend against one hand thus nerved [to action].  Unite all your efforts against a hope so sweet—­you have too little power to succeed in destroying it!

Scene II.—­THE INFANTA.

Shall I listen to thee still, pride of my birth, that makest a crime out of my passions?  Shall I listen to thee, love, whose delicious power causes my desires to rebel against this proud tyrant?  Poor princess! to which of the two oughtest thou to yield obedience?  Rodrigo, thy valor renders thee worthy of me; but although thou art valiant, thou art not the son of a king.

Pitiless fate, whose severity separates my glory and my desires!  Is it decreed [lit. said], that the choice of [a warrior of] such rare merit should cost my passion such great anguish?  O heaven! for how many sorrows [lit. sighs] must my heart prepare itself, if, after such a long, painful struggle, it never succeeds in either extinguishing the love, or accepting the lover!