Chapter 5

O rage! O despair! O inimical old age! Have I then lived so long only for this disgrace? And have I grown grey in warlike toils, only to see in one day so many of my laurels wither? Does my arm [i.e. my valor], which all Spain admires and looks up to [_lit._ with respect]--[does] my arm, which has so often saved this empire, and so often strengthened anew the throne of its king, now [_lit._ then] betray my cause, and do nothing for me? O cruel remembrance of my bygone glory! O work of a lifetime [_lit._ so many days] effaced in a day! new dignity fatal to my happiness! lofty precipice from which mine honor falls! must I see the count triumph over your splendor, and die without vengeance, or live in shame? Count, be now the instructor of my prince! This high rank becomes [_lit._ admits] no man without honor, and thy jealous pride, by this foul [_lit._ remarkable] insult, in spite of the choice of the king, has contrived [_lit._ has known how] to render me unworthy of it. And thou, glorious instrument of my exploits, but yet a useless ornament of an enfeebled body numbed by age [_lit._ all of ice], thou sword, hitherto to be feared, and which in this insult has served me for show, and not for defence, go, abandon henceforth the most dishonored [_lit._ the last] of his race; pass, to avenge me, into better hands!