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 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!
But there are too many scruples, and my reason is alarmed at the contempt of a choice so worthy; although to monarchs only my [proud] birth may assign me, Rodrigo, with honor I shall live under thy laws. After having conquered two kings, couldst thou fail in obtaining a crown? And this great name of Cid, which thou hast just now won—does it not show too clearly over whom thou art destined to reign?
He is worthy of me, but he belongs to Chimène; the present which I made of him [to her], injures me. Between them, the death of a father has interposed so little hatred, that the duty of blood with regret pursues him. Thus let us hope for no advantage, either from his transgression or from my grief, since, to punish me, destiny has allowed that love should continue even between two enemies.
Scene III.—The Infanta and Leonora.
Infanta. Whence [i.e. for what purpose] comest thou, Leonora?
Leonora. To congratulate you, dear lady, on the tranquillity which at last your soul has recovered.
Infanta. From what quarter can tranquillity come [lit. whence should this tranquillity come], in an accumulation of sorrow?