No victory, No joy of triumph doth the faint heart know; Unblest is he That a bold front to Fortune dares not show, But soul and sense In bondage yieldeth up to indolence. If Love his wares Do dearly sell, his right must be contest; What gold compares With that whereon his stamp he hath imprest? And all men know What costeth little that we rate but low. Love resolute Knows not the word “impossibility;” And though my suit Beset by endless obstacles I see, Yet no despair Shall hold me bound to earth while heaven is there.
Here the voice ceased and Clara’s sobs began afresh, all which excited Dorothea’s curiosity to know what could be the cause of singing so sweet and weeping so bitter, so she again asked her what it was she was going to say before. On this Clara, afraid that Luscinda might overhear her, winding her arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to her ear that she could speak without fear of being heard by anyone else, and said:
“This singer, dear señora, is the son of a gentleman of Aragón, lord of two villages, who lives opposite my father’s house at Madrid; and though my father had curtains to the windows of his house in winter, and latticework in summer, in some way—I know not how—this gentleman, who was pursuing his studies, saw me, whether in church or elsewhere, I cannot tell, and, in fact, fell in love with me, and gave me to know it from the windows of his house, with so many signs and tears that I was forced to believe him, and even to love him, without knowing what it was he wanted of me. One of the signs he used to make me was to link one hand in the other, to show me he wished to marry me; and though I should have been glad if that could be, being alone and motherless I knew not