_Chimene._ Sire, my anguish is attended with too much [unavailing] horror! I found him, I have already said, bereft of life; his breast was pierced [_lit._ open], and his blood upon the [surrounding] dust dictated [_lit._ wrote] my duty; or rather his valor, reduced to this condition, spoke to me through his wound, and urged me to claim redress; and to make itself heard by the most just of kings, by these sad lips, it borrowed my voice. Sire, do not permit that, under your sway, such license should reign before your [very] eyes; that the most valiant with impunity should be exposed to the thrusts of rashness; that a presumptuous youth should triumph over their glory, should imbrue himself with their blood, and scoff at their memory! If the valiant warrior who has just been torn from you be not avenged, the ardor for serving you becomes extinguished. In fine, my father is dead, and I demand vengeance more for your interest than for my consolation. You are a loser in the death of a man of his position. Avenge it by another's, and [have] blood for blood! Sacrifice [the victim] not to me, but to your crown, to your greatness, to yourself! Sacrifice, I say, sire, to the good of the state, all those whom such a daring deed would inflate with pride. _Don Fernando._ Don Diego, reply. _Don Diego._ How worthy of envy is he who, in losing [life's] vigor, loses life also! And how a long life brings to nobly minded men, at the close of their career, an unhappy destiny! I, whose long labors have gained such great renown--I, whom hitherto everywhere victory has followed--I see myself to-day, in consequence of having lived too long, receiving an insult, and living vanquished. That which never battle, siege, or ambuscade could [do]--that which Arragon or Granada never could [effect], nor all your enemies, nor all my jealous [rivals], the Count has done in your palace, almost before your eyes, [being] jealous of your choice, and proud of the advantage which the impotence of age gave him over me. Sire, thus these hairs, grown grey in harness [i.e. toils of war]--this blood, so often shed to serve you--this arm, formerly the terror of a hostile army, would have sunk into the grave, burdened with disgrace, if I had not begotten a son worthy of me, worthy of his country, and worthy of his king! He has lent me his hand--he has slain the Count--he has restored my honor--he has washed away my shame! If the displaying of courage and resentment, if the avenging of a blow deserves chastisement, upon me alone should fall the fury of the storm. When the arm has failed, the head is punished for it. Whether men call this a crime or not requires no discussion. Sire, I am the head, he is the arm only. If Chimene complains that he has slain her father, he never would have done that [deed] if I could have done it [myself]. Sacrifice, then, this head, which years will soon remove, and preserve for yourself the arm which can serve you. At the cost of my blood satisfy Chimene.