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The Knight, in order to provide
Clean Shirs and Salves, does homewards Ride;
Saves by the way a Boy from Slaughter,
Who soon had cause to curse him a'ter.

Avrora Goddess of the Morning,
In Blushing haste was now returning,
And all the Nymphs and Swains began
To leave their Bowers for the Plain,
When Quixote sally'd from the Inn,
Where he so well receiv'd had been,
In quest of some Adventure new,
Wherein he might his Valour shew,
And do some worthy Deed of Fame,
To Crown his Knighthood and his Name;
But as poor Rozinante beat
The dusty Road, with founder'd Feet,
And now and then fell down upon
His Knees, beneath the pensive Don:
The Champion growing now more Wise,
Was mindful of the good advice
He had receiv'd not long before,
From the kind gen'rous Governor,
Concerning Money and clean Shirts,
And Salves in case of Maims and Hurts:
At length considering that these
Might much contribute to his Ease,
And that his Station did require
The Service of some Trusty 'Squire,
The Knight resolv'd upon returning
To his own House that very Morning,
That he with speed might furnish'd be
With what became his Quality.
Accordingly he turn'd his Horse,
And Homewards chang'd his wandring Course,
Which gave such Life to Rozinante,
That tho' his Age was almost Twenty,
He trotted back like any Colt,
Without a Stumble or a Halt:
The Knight still thinking who should be
His sturdy 'Squire in Errantry,
At last, recalled to mind a Rustick,
Who was both Hardy and Robustick,
A lusty Looby, who had got
A Wife, and many Barns God-wot,
Who long had been his Worship's Neighbours.
All living poorly by their Labours,
By this stout Champion he depended
To be most manfully attended;
Who tho' both Lean and very Tall,
Was Nimble, and so brisk withal,
That he had Races often run,
And many Foot-ball Matches won;
Could toss or catch a Ball at Cricket,
And guard with Bandy-bat the Wicket
This was the Champion that the Don
Resolv'd in thought to pitch upon,
As one deserving to receive
The Honour he had Pow'r to give;
That in good time he might provide
The better for his Brats and Bride,
When, next the Knight, he should Command,
As Viceroy, some new Conquer'd Land,
Or fine Enchanted Castle won
From the fam'd Emp'ror of the Moon.
But as he thus was ruminating,
And many weighty Points debating
Within himself, he chanc'd to hear
A hidious out-cry very near;
The Knight determining the Noise
To be some injur'd Lady's Voice,
Arising from a little Wood,
Or lonely Thicket near the Road.
O'erjoy'd, much rather than dismay'd,
Thus to himself the Champion said;

Thanks to the lucky Stars of Heaven,
Here's now a kind occasion given,
Wherein 'tis likely I may crown
My Knighthood early with Renown,
In rescuing some beauteous Lass,
From sturdy Gyant's foul embrace,
Or Maid distress'd, from Dragon's Claws,
Or some worse Monster's greedy Jaws.
With that he made his Courser feel
The Fury of his armed Heel,
And fled as fast as e'er he cou'd,
From out the Road into the Wood;
Where, soon as enter'd, he espy'd
A Mare that to an Oak was ty'd,
And to another Tree hard by,
The Youth that made the hideous Cry
Was bound unmercifully fast,
And strip'd stark naked to his Waste,
Roaring aloud in this disaster,
Whilst drub'd by him that was his Master,
A gruff ill-natur'd Country Clown,
Who with a tough old Leathern Zone,
Strap'd him about from side to side,
And had no Mercy on his Hide,
Crying at ev'ry stroke he gave,
I'll teach you how to sleep, you Knave,
Keep your Mouth shut, and your Eyes open,
And then, you Dog, no Loss can happen.
The Boy for Mercy pray'd, and swore
And vow'd he'd never do so more:
But still the Master would not lose
His time, but follow'd Blows with Blows.
Which cruel and unchristian Sight
So rais'd the Fury of the Knight,
That in a fierce surprising Tone,
He thus reprov'd the angry Clown:
Who'd plac'd a Hop-Pole by the side
O'th' Tree to which his Mare was ty'd:

Discurteous Knight, at my Command,
With-hold thy base ungen'rous Hand,
Oppress not youthful Innocence
That's bound and cannot make defence;
So fair a Skin as you expose
To such inhumane Stripes and Blows,
Seems not of manly Mold, but rather
Some Virgin stolen from her Father;
Perhaps some Prince's only Daughter,
That you first beat to ravish a'ter;
Therefore, I say, bestride thy Steed,
And grasp thy stubborn Lance with speed,
That I may right that harmless Maid,
Whom thou hast injur'd and betray'd,
Or, Dastard, by this Morning Light,
I'll brand thee for a cow'rdly Knight.

The Farmer sore aghast to see
So fierce a Champion Cap-a-pe,
Reply'd, confus'dly in a fright,
Adsheartly wounds, I'm not a Knight,
Nor is that Rogue, and please you Sir,
A Lady, but an idle Cur,
An arch unlucky Bird I keep
To watch my Cattle and my Sheep,
Who either sleeps or runs to play,
And daily leaves my Flocks to stray;
Therefore, since now I've catch'd him at it,
And drub'd his Hide, instead of Jacket,
He swears I only use him thus,
Because I'm old and covetous,
In hopes to make him run away,
That I may cheat him of his Pay,
Tho', as I live, the Rogue's so base,
He lyes in ev'ry Word he says.

Cries Quixote, he that gives the Lye
Before a Knight, deserves to dye;
Such Language, whensoe'er it's spoke,
Calls loudly for a stabbing Stroke,
That did it not drop out by chance,
I'd surely pierce thee with my Lance;
Therefore this Moment loose the Creature
That thou hast beat with such Ill-nature,
Or will I instantly dissever
Thy Body and thy Soul for ever.

The Clown who fear'd an ugly Fray,
Not knowing what to think or say,
Held down his Noddle, and was glad,
Forthwith to loose the Naked Lad,
Fearing refusal might provoke
The Knight to give a hasty Stroke,
That might at once annoy him more
Than he had plagu'd the Boy before.
Thus fear of Danger soon supprest
The Anger in the Farmer's Breast,
And made him, with a nimble Hand,
Obey the fiery Knight's Command.

The punish'd Lad b'ing now unbound,
The Don with pity view'd him round,
And shook his awful Head to see
The Wheals and Marks of Cruelty:
Then screwing up as sowre a Phiz,
As a stern Judge at an Assize,
How much, says he, Young-man, is due
From your Old Gaffer unto you,
Tell me the Truth, and, e're he goes,
I'll make him pay you what he owes.

The Boy reply'd, He owes me, Sir,
Full Nine Months Wages, if not more,
And Seven Reals ev'ry Moon,
Was what we both agreed upon.

The Knight, a Dab at Computation,
After a short Deliberation,
I find by Algebra, says he,
That makes the Sum of Sixty-three,
Which, vice versa, does contain
Just nine times Sev'n, or sev'n times Nine,
And measur'd by the Sun's career,
Makes the grand Climacterick Year.
Therefore, says he unto the Farmer,
I charge thee, by my Sword and Armour,
That, Varlet, instantly you draw
Your Misers Pouch, and pay the Boy,
Or, by my Knighthood, will I use thee
Dog-like, and drub thee till I lose thee.

‘Pray, good your Worship, cries the Gaffer,
First hear what I'm about to offer,
That idle Rascal, you espouse,
Is a sad Rogue, the Parish knows;
Nor can there be a Priest or Fryar,
In Spain, that is a greater Lyar.
What have I said! forgive my Mouth!
I mean a Rogue that ne'er speaks truth.
I owe him not, I'll plainly shew,
One half of what he says I do,
Three Pair of Shooes, the Scoundrel knows,
I've bought him for his mangy Toes;
Twice also have I paid for Bleeding,
When surfeited with over-feeding;
‘And other things, which ought to be
‘Deducted from his Sallary.

No, no, I'll not allow a Dort,
Replies the Arbitrary Knight,
As for the Leather he'as destroy'd,
You've fetch'd as much from off his Hide;
Therefore I think it is but fair,
That you should put the Foot o'th' Hare
Against the Giblets of the Goose,
And not abate the Boy a Sous:
Then as for what you paid the Surgeon,
By Men of Learning call'd Chirurgeon,
Your self, against the Rules of Art,
In Health, have bled him to his Smart,
Not with a Lancet, as those shou'd,
That mean to do a Patient good,
But with a stubborn Thong of Leather,
So that put that and that together;
And nothing, I affirm, amounts,
As due to you on those Accounts:
Therefore, I say, discharge the Youth,
Else will I spit thee in at Mouth;
And lest thou canst thyself defend
I'll run thee thro' at t'other end,
And bear thee on my Lance away,
To my dear Fair Dulcinea.

‘And please your Worship (cries the Peasant)
My Pockets are unlin'd at present,
I beg your Worship be not rash,
I seldom carry so much Cash
About me, as will pay him off.
I own, at Home I have enough,
And there I promise and consent
To pay him to his Heart's content;
But here, where 'tis not to be had,
Your Worship knows it can't be paid.

I, quoth the Boy, go home! not I,
I know his Tricks; I'll sooner dy.
Indeed Sir, when he gets me thither,
Then out again comes Thong of Leather:
And if your Worship now shou'd leave me
Unpaid, that's all he means to give me.
Indeed, Sir, he's a sad old Cuff,
The Neighbours know him well enough.
He never took a friendly farewel
Of Man or Maid without a Quarrel:
Nor does he ever care to draw
His Purse-strings till he's forc'd by Law;
And when he does, the Country knows,
'Tis ne'er without ill Words or Blows:
Therefore unless you make him pay,
Before your Worship rides away,
Indeed, upon my Faith, Sir Knight,
By that time you are out of sight,
He'll only thwack and thump my Hide,
But pay me not a Groat beside.

‘He will not dare (reply'd the Don)
‘To disobey me, tho' I'm gone;
‘First he shall swear, as he's a Knight,
‘To truly pay thee ev'ry Doit,
And then thou may'st be well assur'd,
He will not dare to break his Word.

Lord, Sir, my Master, cries the Boy,
In troth's no more a Knight than I,
His Name is John Haldudo, Sir,
The rich old Cuff of Quintanar,
A Country Farmer bred and born,
That deals in Cattel and in Corn,
A Miser that will skin a Flint,
In case there be but Profit in't.

‘That's nothing, (gravely quoth the Don)
Honour may be conferr'd upon
A Man of Merit, tho' he be
By Birth of humble Pedigree;
Therefore a brave Haldudo may
Be dubb'd a Knight, why not I pray?
Besides, too often Honour flows
By Favour, just as Kissing goes:
But the Brave Man, that heeds no Pelf
Is a true Herald to himself
‘Of his own Works, the Eldest Son,
‘That Heirs the Fame his Deeds have won.

But, Sir, quoth Andrew, pray what Worth
Can that old Hug-a-Bag set forth,
Who in his Passions and Outrages,
Gives me hard Stripes instead of Wages?

‘Prithee, good Andrew (cries the Master)
(Who stood in fear of some Disaster)
‘Go Home, and by this picked Beard on,
‘And all the Knighthoods ever heard on,
‘I swear I'll pay thee out of hand,
‘The utmost Groat thou canst demand.

'Tis fairly promis'd, quoth the Don,
Besure you give him what's his own;
For should I hear that you have broken
Your Oath, and bate the Boy one Token,
By my Sword, Armour, and my Horse,
I'll punish thee with Death, or worse;
For know I am the valiant Knight,
Don Quixote de la Mancha hight,
The Righter of ignoble Wrongs,
And Punisher of saucy Tongues;
The Ladies Champion, who redresses
Their daily Suff'rings and Distresses;
The Cavalier that bids defiance
To all Fell-Monsters, Rogues and Gyants;
Therefore besure perform thy Word,
Or thou shalt feel my trusty Sword.

This said the Hero spurr'd his Horse,
Turn'd off, and homewards steer'd his Course,
Leaving the Farmer and his Boy,
One full of Fear, the other Joy;
But as the Youth foretold the Don,
No sooner was the Champion gone
Both out of hearing and of sight,
But the old Knave, to vent his Spite,
Coax'd the poor Lad, till he had got
Fast hold of both his Skin and Coat,
And gave him such a second Banging,
That, for the time, was worse than hanging,
Crying, I'll teach you how to Lye,
And tell your Tale to Comers by;
Now call your doubty Knight, your Hog
In Armour, you confounded Dog,
I'll pay you, Sirrah, what I owe
With Int'rest, e're I let you go.

Thus the poor Boy was forc'd to take
His Wages on his naked Back,
Having sufficient Cause to curse
The Knight, for whom he far'd the worse.
Till Fortune proving kind at last,
The Girdle broke that bound him fast,
And so poor Andrew, being cunning,
Sav'd some Arrears by dint of running.
Thus he that does appear too fervent,
'Twixt a vex'd Master and his Servant,
Like busy Fool 'twixt Man and Wife,
Abates not, but foments the Strife.