The Life and Notable Adventures of that Renown'd Knight, Don Quixote De la Mancha ::

Of the Knight's House, himself and Niece,
His way of Living, and his Dress;
Of Books that did his Wits Confound,
And of his Man, Maid, Horse and Hound.

In Jealous Regions where the Heat
Makes all Men Cuckolds in Conceit,
Who in their stately Strides express
Their Stubborn Sloth and Laziness;

Where Farriers scorn to Shooe their Horses
Without their Spado's at their Arses,
And sweating Moors in sultry Weather,
Most proudly thrash in Cloaks together;
Where Women Veil their handsome Faces
At Windows and in Publick Places;
Yet never baulk an Am'rous proffer,
When Opportunity shall offer.

There at a Village in La Mancha,
Fam'd for the Birth of Sancho Panca,
As well as that Illustrious Knight,
Who taught the sturdy Clown to fight,
A Crazy Mansion leaning stood,
Built Ages since of Lime and Wood,
Whose Ancient Walls in time had got,
More Patches than a Mumpers Coat,
And tatter'd Roof was cover'd close,
With cooling Houseleek and with Moss;
Whilst o'er the Porch a spreading Vine,
Did with the Fruitful Fig-tree joyn,

Whose lushious Products charm'd the Eye,
And tempted all that travell'd by:
About the Tott'ring Fabrick lay,
Neglected Gardens e'ery way;
Where Nature did herself exert,
Above the Old Remains of Art,
And choak'd with Grass and stinking Weeds,
The Gravel-Walks and Flowry Beds,
Which thro' much want of needful Care,
With Frogs and Toads infested were.

The Stable Walls were much decay'd,
Like Houses long untenanted,
The Roof unable to sustain,
The force of either Wind or Rain,
But was for want of due repair,
To both a Common Thorow-fare.
And look'd as if old Hags or Devils,
Within at Midnight kept their Revels.

Upon the Right there chanc'd to be
An Av'ry, call'd a Rookery;

Where Ancient Trees of wondrous hight,
Shaded the humbler Earth from light;
Whilst croaking Swarms their Dung would throw
On Lovers Heads that walk'd below,
That those who had the Luck might try,
The Proverb's verity thereby.

To th' Left within a Dirty Yard,
Stood an old Dove-house much impair'd,
Frequented by no other Fowls,
Than frightful Bats and Hooting Owls,
Who there sat undisturb'd by Day,
And fled Abroad at Night to prey.

Not far from hence some Ponds were seated
Where Fish long since were nurs'd and fatted
Till Sluices out of all repair,
And Flags and Weeds for want of Care,
Had choak'd and fill'd each muddy Trench
Instead of well-fed Carp and Tench.

Thus all look'd Aged and neglected,
Like an old Rural Seat rejected
By some Rich Blockhead doom'd to squander
His Wealth in Town, and then to wander
About the World in Rags and Lice,
Repenting of his Whores and Dice.

Without this Rusty Mansion dwelt,
A DON whom Age had almost gelt,
Whose Weapons, Furniture and Plate,
Appear'd of very Ancient date,
And shew'd the Family to be,
Of wonderful Antiquity.

To grace the lofty spacious Hall,
Bucks Heads were nail'd against the Wall,
Where Cloaks were hung upon occasion,
According to the Good Old Fashion:
Upon a Rack on to'ther side,
A Lance that often had been try'd,
Fit only for an Arm of Strength,
Like Kitchen Spit, was laid at length;

Hard by, a Warrier's Iron Coat,
Or Shell, hung up not worth a Groat,
A Batter'd Helmet, Sword and Spurs,
As Ancient as the Trojan Wars;
A Rusty Gun and Quarter-Staff,
To keep the Family more safe,
And to Compleat the Warlike Show,
A Target, Quiver and a Bow.

These were the Arms the doubty Don
Took great delight to gaze upon,
As if he in their Rust could see,
His Grandsire's Strength and Bravery.
A good Old Steed he also kept,
That only Farted, Eat and Slept,
Who would sometimes, when Hay was scarce,
Upon the Manger turn his Arse,
And on his Wet and Pissburnt Litter,
Make a good Meal for want of better:
Barring Old Age, he had no fault,
Except to Stumble and to halt;

'Tis true much Fat he ne'er could boast,
'Cause fed, poor Jade, at little Cost,
Not pamper'd up like Brewers Horse,
Wh' in loaded Dray exerts his force
With Twenty Barrels at his Arse;
But kept so fine that e'ery Bone,
Appear'd like those of Skeleton,
Yet sound as any Roach at heart,
And fit for Saddle, Coach or Cart:
No Jadish Pranks would ever play,
But scorn'd to start or run away,
Tho' seldom by his Master Rid,
Was never wanton when Bestrid;
Yet look'd so shagged and forlorn,
For want of Dressing and of Corn,
That by his Coat you would have guest,
He'ad been some wild Arabian Beast.

A Greyhound tall of noted Breed,
For Courage, Beauty, and for Speed,
Before the Gate would couchant lye,
And snap at all that travel'd by,

Altho' his Ribs, thro' want of Food,
Like Hoop-sticks round a Barrel stood,
And that his Age had bound his Hide,
To's strutting Bones on e'ery side;
Yet neither Hare or Bitch could pass
That way, but he'd be at their Arse,
Or Clown approach in rural Jerkin,
But he'd give notice by his Barking;
Altho' too Old to Run or Bite,
Or give a Mate that's proud Delight,
Yet crazy Letcher like would shew,
His Will to what he could not do.

Besides the Don, the number Three,
Made up his Christian Family:
But these had in their sev'ral Stations,
So many rare Qualifications,
That they could turn their Hands to any
Performance, as if thrice as many.

The first, a young depending Niece,
Of Female Flesh, a pretty piece,

A freckly kind familiar Lass,
Just Rotten Ripe for Man's Embrace,
Could Dance a Minuet or a Bory,
Sing an old Song or tell a Story,
Upon her Spinet chime the Tune,
Of Happy Groves, or Bobbing Joan;
And make a Pudding, that forsooth,
Should so delight her Uncle's Tooth,
That tho' he burnt his Chops for haste,
He'd swear 'twas fitted to his Taste;
As Mustard Lovers praise the Grain
That bites the most, and gives them Pain.

Next Her, a pale-fac'd wither'd Slattern,
Of Piety the very Pattern,
Her Age full Forty Five or more,
Her Station that of House-keeper;
A Dame that understood by Halves,
To make fine Sweetmeats, Pickles, Salves;
Could also Dress and heal with Art,
Kibe, Cut or Bruise in any Part,

And never wanted in her Closet,
Ingredients for a good Sack Posset;
Or Chollick Drams upon Ocacsion,
Of Her own costly Distillation.
Thus no experienc'd Dame could be,
More skill'd in Houswifry than She,
Who was, as things requir'd Her Aid,
Physician, Cook and Chambermaid;
But above all Her boasted Gifts,
With which she made such sundry Shifts,
She had a Fiddle, as some say,
On which Her Master us'd to play,
Which Did his Am'rous Freaks supply,
And charm'd him from the Nuptial Tye:
So the Gay Damsel that is taught,
By some loose Spark to know what's what,
When once she'as found the pleasing way,
With patience waits her Marriage Day.
A Serving Man he kept beside,
Who divers Places occupy'd,

Could use like Vallet, or like Groom,
The Razor or the Stable Broom;
Both which he did in order keep,
That he might Shave as well as Sweep,
And 'twice in e'ery Week make clean
His Master's Stable and his Chin:
No servile Drudgery could be,
Too hard for his Dexterity;
Both Jack and Clock he understood;
Was skill'd in Water and in Wood;
In Garden or in Field knew how
To manage pruning Hook or Plow,
And on occasion, often Drest
His Master, and sometimes his Beast;
Could Harness Dobbin, Saddle Ball,
Cure Glanders, Malender or Gall,
Could spread a Cloth like skilful Butler,
And whet the Knives like any Cutler;
Rub brown the Parlour, wash a Room,
T'wirl Mop, or exercise the Broom;

Shoot flying, angle, lay a Snare,
For Woodcock, Partridge, or for Hare,
Bake, Brew, with any Farmer's Bride,
And do a Thousand things beside;
Was all by turns, from Rent Receiver,
Down to the Post of Billet Cleaver.

The Don himself that rul'd the Roast,
(Whose Fame we are about to Boast)
Did by his solid Looks appear,
Not much behind his Fiftieth Year:
In Stature he was Lean and Tall,
Big Bon'd, and very Strong withall;
Sound Wind and Limb, of healthful Body
Fresh of Complection, somewhat Ruddy;
Built for a Champion e'ery way,
But turn'd with Age a little Grey;
He never in his Life took Physick,
For Gout or Stone, Cold, Cough or Phthisick
Nor did his Stomach ever fail him,
Or Drunken Qualms, or Head-ach ail him.

The lusty Dinners that he fed on,
Were the best Beef Hands could be laid on
Rare Juicy Buttocks stuffd, like those
Which Boiling Cooks on Stalls expose,
Garnish'd with Marygolds and Carrot,
For Hungry Passengers to stare at:
Sometimes a Mutton Joint for Change,
Should Grace his good Old Kitchen Range,
And a Plumb Pudding piping Hot,
Well Butter'd to the Board be brought,
Boil'd in a Bag that had been torn
From some Old Smock his Niece had worn.

His Suppers chiefly were the Scraps
Of what at Noon escap'd their Chaps;
Sometimes an Egg or two at Night,
In Plate of Salt stuck bolt upright;
To which was added now and then,
A wholesome Dish of Butter'd Grain,
A Mouldy Apple-Pye and Cheese,
Or Custard to oblige the Niece.

Lentils on Fridays were observ'd,
On which they most devoutly starv'd,
And Cubboard Scraps and Pennance were,
On Saturdays, their only fare.

On Sundays there perhaps might be
A Cockerel extraord'nary,
To entertain the Parish Priest,
Or some such accidental Guest;
For Holy Guides those Men of Knowledge
Train'd up to Pray'rs in pious College,
By Sacred Function and their Breeding,
Have Title to the best of Feeding.

The Don in this Abstemious Life,
Without a Mistress or a Wife,
(Except the Keeper of his House,
Supply'd the Office of a Spouse,
And when she tuck'd him up at Night,
Receiv'd the Nipple of Delight,)
Consum'd three Parts of his Revenue,
Upon himself and his Retinue;

The Remnant of his Annual Riches,
Went in Plush Jacket, Velvet Breeches,
And now and then a costly Piece
Of Silk or Sattin for his Niece
To wear on Sundays, that she might
At Church be gaz'd on with delight,
Till some young Am'rous Fool should doat
On her fine Gown and Petticoat,
And pine so for the Charming Toy,
Which underneath did hidden lye,
That he might Steal away the darling,
Without one cross of Gold or Sterling,
And cool his Red-hot glowing Passion,
By Matrimonial Consolation.

So Cuff will his Consent refuse,
To him that would his Daughter Noose,
In hopes the Fool may be so hot
For what the pretty Maid has got,
That he may Wed the Lass by Stealth,
And save the Father all his Wealth.

His custom was to early Rise,
And Hunting was his Exercise,
To which he often had Recourse
On Foot, to save his Aged Horse;
For no Man had, of his Degree,
More Mercy on a Beast than he,
And from a Master no poor Creature,
Could ever merit more good Nature.
Thus had his Worship liv'd for Years,
As in his famous Life appears,
Still keeping up on all Occasions
His good Old Customs and his Fashions:
Some Writers who his Deeds proclaim,
Tell us Quixado was his Name;
But others do report 'twas not,
Affirming he was call'd Quixote;
Therefore shall my aspiring Muse,
The latter Appellation Chuse,
And in fit Numbers by the same,
Sing forth his Everlasting Fame.

The Don, whose Worth we mean to shew,
Having but little else to do,
B'ing subject unto Melancholy,
Was much addicted to the Folly
Of Reading the Renown'd Exploits,
Perform'd long since by Errant Knights,
Who us'd to bid such bold Defiance,
To roaring Dragons, Bears and Gyants,
And rescu'd Ladies when Distress'd,
By dint of Blows from Man or Beast,
That the strange Wonders they atchiev'd,
The num'rous Beauties they reliev'd,
And Everlasting Glories won,
By Deeds of Prowess they had done,
At length so craz'd his Worship's Head,
And in his Brains such Maggots bred,
That many Acres of his Grounds,
He Metamorphos'd into Pounds,
His Bedlam Study to supply
With Books of Rumbus and of Guy;

Of George who with his Nut brown Blade,
The Dragon slew to save the Maid,
Of Palmerin and fam'd Amadis,
Who did such Wonders for the Ladies;
With all those Whimsical Romances,
And useless froth of working Fancies,
Stuff'd full of Valiant Feats and Fights,
And quaint Amours of doubty Knights,
Assisted by their Sturdy 'Squires,
Thro' dang'rous Waters, and thro' Fires;
Who ready were in all Disasters,
To stand a Drubbing for their Masters.

Thus his whole Study Day and Night,
His only Bus'ness and Delight,
Was conning o're amusing Tales,
Of Combats, Castles, Dens and Cells,
Of Gyants, Pigmies, Old Magicians,
And Beauties in distrest Conditions;
Of Rampant Ladies leaping over
High Brazen Gates to meet a Lover,

And shewing Knights their Discontents,
By dropping Tears from Battlements;
Till by such strange Romantick Whims,
Wild Fictions and Poetick Dreams,
His frantick Brains were so besotted,
The more he read the more he doated;
Forsaking all his usual sorts
Of Rural Games and wholesome Sports,
And wasting daily his Estate
For Books to please his addl'd Pate,
Till by his Reading he was quite,
Bewitch'd into an Errant Knight,
And set his own self up, instead of
Some doubty Champion he had read of.

Thus nothing now possess'd his Crown,
But Deeds of Prowess and Renown,
Fierce Scuffles, Quarrels and Amours,
Fair Ladies and Enchanted Towers,
That e'ery strange Romantick Tale,
Tho' never so Fantastical,

Gain'd Credit now, and seem'd to be
With him Authentick History;
That all his Table talk at Noon,
Was of strange Combats bravely won,
By doubty Knights and sturdy 'Squires,
O'er other bold Adventurers;
To Rescue Ladies from the Clutches
Of huge Robust Gygantick Slouches,
And from the Arms of daring Blades,
Whose Practice was to ravish Maids,
Or when much injur'd and distrest,
By Dragons or some other Beast;
That, Madman like, he now conceiv'd,
From the strange Stories he believ'd,
The way to Honour Everlasting,
Was by the downright dint of Basting:
So out of Hand resolv'd to be
A dabler in Knight Errantry,
In hopes to purchase and advance,
His Fame by Trusty Sword and Lance,

And that he should become as Bright
A Champion as that Valiant Knight,
Who at one fierce Back-handed blow,
Did so much Rage and Vigour show,
That with his flaming Sword he cut
Two Gyants down from Head to Foot.
Thus Madmen hearing wondrous Things,
Of Heroes, Emperors and Kings,
Oft by the Strength of their Conceit,
Believe themselves to be as Great.

University of Virginia Library

CANTO I.