Before the palace turrets that Toledo's rampart crown.
With anger glows the maiden's mind, "Now get thee gone," she cries,
"For can it be that love of me in blood like thine can rise?
I sicken at the very thought; thy locks, old man, are gray,
Thy baldness and thy trembling hand a doting age betray.
Ah, little must thou count my years of beauty and of bloom,
If thou wouldst wed them with a life thus tottering to the tomb,
Decrepitude is now thy lot, and wherefore canst thou dare
To ask that youthful charms these vile infirmities should share?"
And Moorish Reduan heard her words, and saw the meaning plain.