 | The Cid |  |
SCENE II.
RODERIGO. COUNT de GORMAS.RODERIGO.
My Lord a word.
COUNT.
Speake.
RODERIGO.
Resolve me of a doubt, doe you know
Don Diego well?
COUNT.
I doe.
RODERIGO.
And that he was
The spirit and the glory of his time,
Doe you know this?
COUNT.
Perhaps he might be so.
RODERIGO.
And that this ardor which mine eyes doe beare,
Doe you know it is his bloud it represents?
COUNT.
What's that to me?
RODERIGO.
Some distance from this place
I'le make you know it.
Presumptuous boy!
RODERIGO.
Be not so hot, I know I'me young, but you
In noble soules, valour prevents their yeares?
COUNT.
But who has led thee to that vanity?
To set thee upon me, thou that did'st never
Beare armes, perhaps thou know'st not who I am.
RODERIGO.
Yes: and I know a stouter man than I
Would tremble at the hearing of thy name
Thy head is cover'd o're with lawrels, where
Victory perches, and from thence reads to me
The fate of my destruction: I doe challenge
Like a rash youth, a man inur'd to conquest,
Yet having heart enough, I shan't want strength,
Or if I should, wearing my fathers cause
Upon my sword and arme, they cannot faile me.
COUNT.
This courage which appeares in thy discourse,
I have beene long acquainted with, and hoping
To see the honour of Castile in thee,
'Twas in my thoughts to give my daughter to thee,
I know thy love, and am amaz'd to see
It's motions to give place unto thy honour,
And meaning to finde out a perfect man,
And compleat Cavalier for my sonne in law,
I'me not mistaken in the choice I've made.
But here my pitty intervenes, and though
I wonder at thy courage, yet I grieve
To see thy rashnesse: doe not seeke thy death,
Prethee excuse my valour from a combat
So farre unequall. If thou fall'st by me,
'Twill be no honour to me. To o'recome
Where there's no glory: for thou wilt be thought
To have with ease beene ruin'd, and my selfe
Shall alone feele the griefe that I have done it.
RODERIGO.
Th'hast seconded th'affront thou gav'st my father,
With a pity worse than that, dar'st thou deprive me
Of my honour, and yet fear'st to take my life?
COUNT.
Leave me good youth.
RODERIGO.
Let's goe, and talke no more on't.
COUNT.
Art thou so weary of thy life?
RODERIGO.
Art thou
So afraid to die?
COUNT.
Come then, thou do'st no more
Than is'thy duty, he's a degenerate sonne
That will out-live one jot his fathers honour.
| The Cid | |