 | The Cid |  |
SCENE III.
Cimena. Elvira.CIMENA.
What shall I doe Elvira? all my hopes
Are lost, and I have nothing left but feares,
I dare not give consent to my owne wishes,
I've caus'd two Rivals to take armes for me,
What ever happens. Sorrow is my lot;
For thinke the best, I can of fate obtaine,
My Father's unreveng'd or lover slaine.
ELVIRA.
From both sides you will find reason of comfort,
Either you have revenge or Roderigo
How ever destiny disposes of you
It saves your honour, and provides y'a husband.
CIMENA.
What? the object of my hate, or of my anger?
Roderigo's, or my Father's murderer,
From this or that, I must expect a husband
Dy'd in the bloud of him I held most deare,
I feare the issue worse than any death.
Thou hast not sweets I'me sure to make me amends,
And thou the powerfull mover of that fate
Which does me all this violence, determine
This Combat equally, without advantage,
That neither be the Victor, or the Vanquisht.
ELVIRA.
That were to handle you with too much cruelty,
If when the fight were done, you should be bound
A new to demand justice, and neare leave,
With rigour to pursue the man you love.
No, it were better that his unmatch'd valour
Should get him victory, and silence you,
And that the King, according to his law
Should force you to comply with your owne wishes.
CIMENA.
Doest thinke though he be Conquerour that I will
Yeeld my selfe his? my duty is too strong,
And my losse over great. He may o'recome
Don Sancho easily, but not so soone
The glory of Cimena. Though a Monarch
Have promis'd me unto his victory
Mine honour, (rather than I'le be his prize)
Shall raise him up a thousand enemies.
ELVIRA.
Take heed, lest heav'n for this strange pride of yours
Suffer you not to be reveng'd at all.
What? meane you to refuse this happinesse
That you may when you please sit down with honour?
What is't you would pretend? what can you hope?
Will your Lovers death restore your Father to you
Or is your Fathers death so small a mischiefe,
That you'd heape up losse on losse, griefe upon griefe.
Well, doe, continue in this stubborne humour.
You scarce deserve the man they 'ave destin'd for ye
And heaven being weary of its too much favour,
CIMENA.
The griefes Elvira, I sustaine already,
Need not thy fatall augury to augment 'um,
I would, if possible, avoid them both,
If not, Roderigo has my best of wishes.
Not that my love inclines me more to him,
But lest he fayling, I should be Don Sancho's.
The thought of that, makes me to wish him well.
What's this Elvira? See 'tis done already.
| The Cid | |