The Cid A Tragicomedy |
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| 3. | SCENE III. |
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 | The Cid |  |
SCENE III.
Infanta. Leonora. Page.Infanta.
Goe boy, looke out Cimena, and from me
Tell her, her presence was expected sooner,
My friendship must complaine of this her sloth.
I perceive, Madame, that all dayes alike
You're sad and pensive, and the same desire
To know how her love goes, still presses you.
Infanta.
How should it not? when I my selfe have made her
Receive the hurt wherewith her soule is wounded,
She loves Don Roderigo by my meanes,
And by my meanes he has vanquisht her disdaine,
Then since to take 'um I have laid the snare,
To free 'um unto me belongs the care.
Leonora.
And yet i'th midst of all their good successe
One may perceive in you a kinde of sorrow;
Why should that love which lifts them up with joy
Weigh your great heart downe with a heavie sadnesse,
And th'interest which you have in their love,
Make you unhappy, when themselves are blest?
But I'me too forward, and grow indiscreet.
Infanta.
To stifle it increases more my griefe!
Leonora, thou shalt know it, and now heare
What a strange conflict I have had within me,
And when th'hast heard it, pittying my weaknesse,
Admire my vertue, love is such a Tyrant
As will spare none, this Gentleman, this lover
Which I've bestow'd on her, I love my selfe.
Leonora.
You Madame?
Infanta.
Lay thy hand upon my heart
And feele now how it pants at th'hearing of
The name of its owne Conquerour.
Leonora.
Pardon me, Madam,
If blaming of your love, I doe forget
A private Gentleman? can you a Princesse
In a point of such consequence forget
Whose child you are? what will the King say, think you?
Doe you remember, Madam, whose you are?
Infanta.
Yes, yes, Leonora, and will rather die
Than doe a thing unworthy of my birth:
Though I could tell thee that in noble soules
Merit alone ought to produce true love,
And if my passion would flie to excuses,
Many examples might authorize it,
Yet I'le not follow that in which my honour
Must be ingag'd. If I have much of love,
I have much more of courage, and me thinks
A noble true disdaine tels me than I,
The daughter of a King, should deeme all others
Below my love, unlesse it were a Monarch:
But when I see my heart is not of force
To make its owne defence, I give away
That which I dare not take: 'stead of my selfe
I put Cimena fast into his fetters,
And kindle their fire to put out mine owne.
Be not amaz'd then, if with distraction
I still expect their marriage; you see
All my repose onely depends on it,
If love doe live on hope, it dies with it;
'Tis a fire, that not nourish'd will goe out,
And spight of my ill fortune, if Cimena
Marry Don Roderigo, my long hopes
Dying, my minde will be at ease; till then
I'me still in torment; till his day of marriage
Roderigo is my love, whom though I labour
To lose, I cannot chuse but grieve to lose him;
I finde my soule divided in two parts,
My heart with honour fir'd as well as love:
Nor can I hope for any perfect joy,
Since whether he obtaine his love, or no,
So many baits my love and honour have,
In stead of comfort I must finde a grave.
Leonora.
After this, Madam, I have nought to say,
Unlesse it be to grieve for your misfortunes,
Before I blam'd you, now I pitty you:
But since your vertue has made good it selfe,
So strongly 'gainst the powerfull charmes and force
Of love and honour, and beat backe th'assault
Of this, and bait of that, in a short time
'Twill give you ease of all, in the meane while
Cast your firm hope on heaven, which has more justice
Than to let virtue be a sufferer long.
Infanta.
My best of hopes is to cast off all hope.
Page.
Madam, Cimena's come, as you commanded.
Infanta.
Goe, entertaine her in the Gallery.
Leonora.
But will you still remaine in these sad fancies.
Infanta.
No, I will 'spight of all my griefe, put on
A face of gladnesse. Goe, I'le follow you
Just heaven, from whence I doe expect my aid,
Put now at length some period to my evils;
Assure mine honour with some ease of love,
I seeke my happinesse in anothers blisse,
To which give speed good heaven, or more strength
To my yet feeble soule, which n'ere can be
(Till Hymen have bound them) at liberty.
| The Cid | |