English

ACT SECOND

E STEBAN . Better touch the reserve no further. The year bodes ill with threat of foul weather, so let the grain be impounded though there be mutiny among the people.
R EGIDOR . I am of your mind if the village may be governed in peace.
E STEBAN . Then speak to Fernan Gomez. These astrologers with their harangues pretend they know secrets God only knows. Not a scrap can they read of the future, unholy fabricators of what was and what shall be, when to their eyes even the present is blank,
For their ignorance is rank.

Commander . Does the Master know I have come to town?
F LORES . He does, sir.
O RTUÑO . The years will bring discretion.
Commander . I am Fernan Gomez de Guzman.
F LORES . To-day youth may serve as his excuse.
Commander . If he is ignorant of my name, let him respect the dignity of the High Commander.
O RTUÑO . He were ill advised to fail in courtesy.
Commander . Or he will gain little love. Courtesy is the key to favor while discourtesy is stupidity that breeds enmity.

T EODORA. These flowers that I sell
Among ribbons and lace
Are not flowers of false feigning,
Though I feign in my face.
They are falsehoods to see you,
They are truths for your ear
From one whom love has held dear
And who falters to free you.
D OÑA J UANA. But then you are no flower girl?
T EODORA. No, sweet lady.
The Count drags out the day, hid in my house,
And sends this message hoping to persuade you.
Ramiro fears the King and does not dare

ACT SECOND

A DELANTADO. The dearest thing in this our martial life
That thirst for glory grants to mortal man
Is love of country, set above the strife
By happy victory in fortune's span.
To issue from the sea, misfortune rife,
Or to one's friends recount the scope and plan
Of bondage, these things can never be the same
As hanging banners in the halls of fame.

We have outworn a barren, luckless age
Thanks to the fair La Cava, since the time
Of Roderick, and enemies engage

Don E NRIQUE . Beautiful shore!
R AMIRO . A thousand sportive nymphs
Consort upon the strand.
Don E NRIQUE . This is the night
And festival of our good patron John,
Fiesta of Sevilla. All the city
Is of a rare and most extreme perfection.
R AMIRO . And all this good attends upon your will;
For where good is, 'tis good to be, sir, still.
Don E NRIQUE . Come give a share to love by whom we live.
Singing, playing and dancing within.
R AMIRO . Soft voices call.
Don E NRIQUE . And here is dancing, too.

Then sent the King Constantine
Sendmen til his moder Eline,
For to do seke withouten hon
The cros that Crist was on don,
To find that haly tree sumquar,
And do a kirc be raised thar.
Benciras and Ansiers,
Thir twa men war messagers;
Thay war sent to the queen fra Rome —
But herkens hider how thay gave dome.
This levedy had that day hir with
A Cristen man was good goldsmith:
Quat thing that sho wald him mouth
At mak til hir ful wel he couth.
But pour he was, of littel aght,

In a castel semly sett,
Strenthed wele widuten lett
þis castel es of love and grace.
Both of socure and of solace;
Apon þe marche it standes traist,
Of enmye dredis it na fraist,
It es hy sett apon a cragg,
Gray and hard, widuten hagg.
Dounward es it polischt bright,
þat it may neyhe na warid wiht,
Ne na maner gin of were
May cast þartill it forto dere,
Wid wallis closid four of stan,
þat fayrer in þis world es nan.
Baylis has þis castel thre,
Wid wallis thrinne, semly to se,

ROBYN HODE

Now stand ye forth, my mery men all,
And harke what I shall say;
Of an adventure I shal you tell,
The which befell this other day.
As I went by the hygh way,
With a stout frere I met,
And a quarter-staffe in his hande.
Lyghtely to me he lept,
And styll he bade me stande.
There were strypes two or three,
But I cannot tell who had the worse,
But well I wote the horeson lept within me,
And fro me he toke my purse.
Is there any of my mery men all

ROBYN HODE

Lysten, to [me], my mery men all,
And harke what I shall say;
Of an adventure I shall you tell,
That befell this other daye.
With a proude potter I met,
And a rose-garlande on his head,
The floures of it shone marvaylous freshe;
This seven yere and more he hath used this waye,
Yet was he never so curteyse a potter
As one peny passage to paye.
Is there any of my mery men all
That dare be so bolde
To make the potter paie passage,
Either silver or golde?

Nagoy. O Tsar! one drop of wine thou 'lt drink,
One drop refuse not. Thou these many days
Dost wear thyself out. All this time thy lips
Have nothing touched.
Ivan. The body needs no food
When the soul is fed on anguish. Henceforth
Remorse shall be my food.
Nagoy. O mighty Tsar!
Is 't true thou wouldst forsake us? How will it
With the Tsaritsa be? with the Tsarevich
Thy Dimitri?
Ivan. God will not forsake them.