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

The Knight, tho' vex'd to find the Slaves
Had us'd him like ungrateful Knaves,
As he lay crippl'd in his Bed
Of Dust, was pleas'd that they were fled;
And raising up his Head aloft
From sandy Pillow, warm and soft,
He cry'd, Ah Sancho, I'll despise
No more thy friendly good Advice:
Had I been wisely rul'd by thee,
Mambrino's Helmet, which I see,
Is sadly bruis'd against the Ground,
Had still unwrong'd been safe and sound.

And has your beaten Worship, cry'd
Poor Sancho, no Complaint beside?

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‘Only, replies the Knight, some Blows,
‘About my Fore-head, Eyes and Nose,
‘Together with an ugly Fall,
‘And loss of an old Coat, that's all.

I find, quoth Sancho, by the sequel
They've dealt their Kindness very equal:
I feel my Cheeks are somewhat bloated,
And like your Worship I'm uncoated;
This 'tis alas to rob the Sea,
And rescue Rogues from Slavery.

‘It serves indeed, replies the Knight,
‘To prove a good old Proverb right;
‘Which is, preserve a Thief from Gallows,
‘He'll cut your Throat, that surely follows.

But Sir, quoth Sancho, now you spake
Of Gallows, rise for Heaven's sake,
And let us mount, that we may fly
The danger of a Hue and Cry;
For if we're taken, we may swing
F'rought I know in an ugly String,

236

And with ty'd Thumbs, and lift up Hands,
Take leave of all our weeping Friends.

‘Thou'rt a meer Coward, quoth the Knight,
‘Each Shadow puts thee in a Fright:
‘I scorn to fly, or would I fear,
‘Were the whole Country posse here.

Good Sir, quoth Sancho, move, by Lady
I dream they're at my Heels already;
Rattling their mighty Clubs and Spears,
And rusty Halberts round my Ears;
Therefore for God's sake let us mount,
Lest the next proves a fatal Brunt.

‘Look you, Friend Sancho, quoth the Don,
‘Since you're so earnest to be gone,
‘Because you shall not say, that I
‘Am obstinate, I will comply:
‘But pray don't you to mend the matter,
‘Presume at any time herea'ter
‘To tell Knight, Lady, Friend or Stranger,
‘That I withdrew thro' fear of Danger,

237

‘For were the mighty Race of Gyants
‘All here, that once bid Heav'n Defyance,
‘And Hercules himself to lead 'em,
‘Or fifty Monsters more to head 'em,
‘I'd fight 'em all before I'd flinch,
‘Or move my Ground one single Inch.

Quoth Sancho, to withdraw I say
In short is not to run away,
Nor is it Courage I averr,
But Hardiness to tarry here,
And run the Hazard of a Rope,
When there's more Cause to fear than hope:
He's wise, who saves himself from Sorrow
To Day, that he may laugh to morrow.
Who'd hazard all his Eggs, I ask it,
In one, and that a rotten Basket?
Tho' I'm a Bumpkin, I can talk
Sometimes as well as other Folk;
I seldom am without a Thought
Of the main Chance, and know what's what;

238

Therefore let's never tempt those Ills
We may avoid; one pair of Heels,
At present, as the matter stands,
Is worth at least two pair of Hands.

The Knight, submitting now his Sense,
To Sancho's home-spun Arguments,
Mounted without a word of Answer,
And follow'd Sancho's little Prancer,
Who shuffl'd on with all his Speed
Before the Champion and his Steed;
Looking as if they just had stole
Some Carter's raw-bone Mare and Foal.

Thus they rid on, 'till they came nigh
A Desart, mountainous and high,
O'er-grown with such aspiring Woods,
That seem'd to touch the passing Clouds:
However Sancho, bent to fly
From rusty Bills, and Hue and Cry,
Made bold to climb the Hill for Safety,
Altho' so woody, and so lofty;

239

Resolving 'twixt some Cliffs to cover
His Cow'rdice 'till his Fears were over;
Consid'ring that altho' the Slaves
Had stol'n away their Coats like Knaves,
Yet they by chance had been so kind
To leave the Bag of Prog behind;
Pleas'd with this happy Luck, the Don
And Sancho travel'd briskly on,
Still comforted with this good Fortune,
Till Night began to draw her Curtain;
About which time both 'Squire and Ass
Were tir'd for want of Bread and Grass:
Nor had the Champion and his Steed
A Jot less Appetite to feed;
So that they now agreed to light,
That Man and Horse might take a Bite;
And in that solitary Place
To skulk and tarry close some Days;
Or for so long a time at least,
As they had Food for Man and Beast.

240

Accordingly they stopp'd their Speed,
And each alighted as agreed;
Then spread upon the mossy Ground
What Fare they in their Snap-sack found,
Made up of dainty Bits good Store,
Which from the Priests they'd stoln before;
Whilst thus the Riders supp'd, the Ass
Found Thistles, Rozinante Grass,
And far'd, to recompense their Pains,
As well as those that rul'd the Reins.

No sooner had the Knight and 'Squire
Refresh'd to both their Heart's Desire,
But Morpheus, God of Sleep, and Sleepers,
Hung leaden Plummets on their Peepers,
And left their silent Clay the Pow'r
To breath and dream, but nothing more:
So Proverb wisely has exprest,
When Belly's full, the Bones must rest.

241

The Champions, tir'd with long upsitting,
And scurvy Drubbings, worse than fitting,
Upon their mossy Pillows lay,
In a sound Sleep, 'till Break of Day;
About which Time the Robber Gines,
Whom they before had loos'd from Chains,
Happen'd to strole into the Place
Where both lay snoaring on the Grass,
Having retir'd upon the same
Account as Sancho thither came,
That he might climb and hidden lye
Beyond the Reach of Hue and Cry,
B'ing sorely tir'd, and gall'd to boot,
By travelling so far on Foot;
But finding Knight and 'Squire were sound
Asleep together on the Ground,
He thought it now no Crime to pass
Away with Sancho's Ass,
Which was, i'th' Eye of Passimonte,
A better Beast than Rozinante;

242

Would creep thro' Shrubs, and be content
With harder Fare, where e'er he went;
Would in all Points his Bus'ness suit;
Who therefore mounted Sancho's Brute,
Pull'd down a Switch to jirk his Hide,
And did away in Triumph ride,
Leaving poor Sancho to bemoan
The Loss of his beloved Drone.

The Robber scarce had climb'd a Mile,
Thro' Brakes and Brambles, up the Hill,
E'er Knight and 'Squire did both disclose
Their Eyes, and shake off their Repose.
Both rising on their Rumps, to take
A yawning Shrug 'till broad awake;
Which when they'd done, they gaz'd about
To find their trusty Drudges out.
Poor Rozinante soon appear'd,
Nibbling short Grass beneath his Beard;
But Sancho miss'd, to his Surprize,
The Partner of his Cares and Joys,

243

Nor could he find the useful Jade
By all the Searches that he made;
Which made the 'Squire, in spight of Patience,
Breathe out the foll'wing Lamentations.

O dear Companion of my Life,
The Darling of my Self and Wife,
My Drudge, on whom I could depend,
My Childrens Play-fellow and Friend,
Who would to School in dirty Weather,
Bear, without grumbling, four together;
And ha'st thou now forsook thy Master?
O sad and comfortless Disaster!

Dear Sancho, quoth the Knight, abate
Thy Grief, there's no resisting Fate;
Tis Folly to bemoan ill Fortune;
All worldly Comforts are uncertain.
Grief follows Joy, and Gladness Sorrow;
We're rich to Day, and poor to Morrow.

What's this to my unhappy Case,
Quoth Sancho, now I've lost my Ass;

244

The sweetest Beast that e'er was rid,
The best that ever Man bestrid?
Besides, I'm in a Wood, God wot,
And thro' the Thorns must walk on Foot.

I have five Asses, quoth the Knight,
At Home, all young, in wholesome Plight;
I'll draw a Bill upon my Niece,
To let thee chuse which three you please,
Provided you'll no more lament
Your Loss, which now you can't prevent.

This kind Proposal of the Don,
The bleeding Heart of Sancho won,
And comforted the mournful 'Squire
According to the Knight's Desire;
Who made a Horse-block of a Stump,
With greater Ease to mount his Rump
Upon his Steed; and when he'ad done,
Like a Scotch Lord, rid proudly on,
Whilst Vassal-like poor Sancho beat
The thorny Way with horny Feet,

245

Who filch'd, without the least Suspicion,
The choicest Bits of their Provision,
Which now Don Quixote was so kind
To carry on his Horse behind:
So that the 'Squire, to's Guts Content,
Far'd richly all the Way he went,
Whilst the bold Knight, with trusty Lance,
The Bushes beat, in hopes, by Chance,
That he should start, as Men do Hares,
Some Wolf or Dragon unawares:
At length, to his Surprize, he found
A large Portmanteau on the Ground,
Which he endeavour'd sundry ways
Upon his Weapon's Point to raise,
But still was forc'd to let it drop,
'Till Sancho stoop'd, and took it up,
Who felt it weighty, but the Leather
Impair'd and rotted by the Weather;
So that the 'Squire, now big with hope
Of Wealth, tho' lock'd, soon broke it ope,

246

And, to his Comfort, found therein
Six Holland Shirts, fine, new, and clean,
With a rich Stock of other Linnen,
Fit for a Noble to be seen in;
Gloves, Stockins, and, among the rest,
A Purse of Gold, that pleas'd 'em best;
And searching to the bottom, found
A Pocket-Book most richly bound.

Pray, quoth the Knight, hand that to me,
The rest I freely give to thee.

Thank your good Worship, quoth the 'Squire
That's full as much as I desire.
The Booty's parted very fairly:
I own I love clean Linnen dearly;
And Gold I understand a little,
But of a Book scarce know a Tittle.
Therefore in short we're both possest
Of that which suits our Knowledge best.

Right, quoth the Don, the Wise of Old
Preferr'd Philosophy to Gold;

247

Made Study their Delight and Pleasure,
And valu'd Books much more than Treasure.

Therefore, quoth Sancho, you may see
What Fools we Country Loobies be;
For I should rather chuse, Cotzooks,
One Bag of Gold, than fifty Books.

A Robb'ry, quoth the Knight, I fear
Hath been of late committed here
On some Great Person, having lost
His Way as he this Desart crost.

Quoth Sancho, I'll be bold to say
Thieves scorn to fling their Gold away;
They never rob, I dare engage,
To hang their Booty on the Hedge.

It is not common, I must own,
For Thieves to do so, quoth the Don.
But hold, perhaps this Pocket-Book
May tell the Owner, let me look.
Then op'ning it, he finds this Sonnet,
And when he'ad por'd some Time upon it,

248

He reads the fine Poetick Rapture
To's 'Squire, as if 't'ad been a Chapter.

The God of Love, sure cannot know
The Pains his am'rous Slaves endure,
Else would the Tyrant burn his Bow,
Or when he'as wounded, find a Cure.
Yet is it criminal to say
A God's unjust to human Race,
Tho' when he punishes, we pray
In vain for Pity in Distress.
Therefore since Heaven is not free
To ease my Breast when I complain,
Death must the surest Refuge be
When Life's a Burthen, and a Pain.

Quoth Sancho, tho' my foollish Brains
Don't understand these chiming Strains,
Yet I protest they're pretty Stuff;
I like the Gingle well enough.

249

Look farther, Master, and you'll chop
At last upon his Name, may hap.

With that, Don Quixote, to discover
The Owner, turn'd some Pages over,
Until he found the foll'wing Letter
In Prose, which now is turn'd to Metre.

Your Falsehood, and my sad Dispair,
Have hurry'd me I know not where,
And sooner will I burst with Grief
In Solitude, than seek Relief.
How could you be, ingrateful Fair,
Of solemn Vows a base Betray'r,
And marry for the Sake of Pelf,
With him less worthy than my Self?
Were Vertue by your Sex approv'd,
Instead of Wealth, I'd been belov'd.
Then had my Torments been the Fate
Of him you've bless'd, because more great,
Not in his Vertues, but Estate.

250

In Beauty you're the brightest She,
But black your Infidelity.
You seem an Angel by your Eyes,
But prove a Devil in Disguise.
However, tho' I've been betray'd
By your fair Looks, and wretched made,
Your Happiness I'll not molest
By sweet Revenge, but wish you blest,
Whilst I in Woods and Desarts dwell,
Your wand'ring Lover. So farewel.

The Knight still farther search'd, but yet
Could no full Satisfaction meet;
For tho' the Book was stuff'd with Songs,
And Letters of disdainful Wrongs,
The Love-sick Author of the same,
Had to no Scrawl subscrib'd his Name.
So that now, taking it for granted
There was no finding what he wanted,

251

He bid the lucky Spot farewel,
With Sancho at his Horse's Tail,
Searching the Cloak-bag still for more,
Altho' he'ad gutted it before.
By th' Gold, infected with an Itch
Of hoping to be made more rich,
The craving Curse that does attend
The wealthy Miser to his End,
'Till finding that the worthless Skin
Was wholly stript of all within;
And then, for fear it should betray
His Luck, he toss'd the Case away.
So Weasels, who love Eggs so well,
Suck out the Yolk, and leave the Shell.

Sancho now o'erjoy'd to find,
That his good Stars had been so kind
To thus reward his Blanket-Tosses,
His Kicks, his Blows, and other Crosses,
Had quite forgot both Ass and Wife,
Those dear Companions of his Life;

252

As many do those Friends that love 'em,
When once grown rich, and climb'd above 'em,
Thinking of nothing, but his Gold
Which he had pocketted untold;
What a rare Farm he'ad in his Eye;
And what a glorious Team he'd buy;
How many Servants he'd be hiring,
As soon as he had left off 'squiring;
Wisely consid'ring that he ought
To husband, with Discretion, what
He had so very strangely got:
For Wealth, that is obtain'd so oddly,
Is sometimes flung away as madly.

Whilst Sancho's thick unpolish'd Skull
Was of these Worldly Crotchets full,
The Knight upon more noble Themes,
Spent all his cogitative Dreams;
Gravely expecting, now or never,
To raise his Worship's Fame for ever;

253

Big with the Hopes some Lady fair,
Brought thither from the Lord knows where,
To beg his Aid, would shrieking rush,
Half dead, from this or t'other Bush,
With some fierce Monster at her Tail,
Large as an Elephant or Whale:
For solitary Woods, and Groves,
Harmonious Birds and chooing Doves,
Do melancholy Thoughts excite,
And raise up Madness to the Height.

Whilst they mov'd on, by slow Gradations,
Wrapt up in these wild Cogitations,
Don Quixote happen'd to espy
A distant Wretch, that seem'd to fly
From Rock to Rock, o'er stony Crags,
Cloth'd downward from the Waste in Rags
But naked upwards, with a Hide,
By Sun and Wind so scorch'd and dry'd,
That his tann'd Back was better crusted,
Than a Pig's Crackling thorough roasted;

254

His Beard and Hair, for Want of Comb,
Were matted like a Mop of Thrum,
Having no Garment on, but Britches,
And those much broken in the Stitches.
In this distracted Plight, he mounted
The Bushes, like a Stag when hunted,
And bounded o'er the Shrubs so fleet,
As if he'ad Wings, as well as Feet.
The Knight now tew'd his Horse like mad,
And spurr'd with all the Heels he had,
Believing this the Man that own'd
The Gold and Linnen they had found;
Therefore the Don pursu'd the same,
As eager Sportsmen do their Game;
But Rozinante having lost
His Speed two seven Years almost,
Made but a very hobbling Chase,
Tho' he strove hard to mend his Pace;
Yet Quixote, having still an Itch
To find out this unhappy Wretch,

255

Bid Sancho range a little wide,
And beat the Wood on t'other Side.

Good Lord, Sir, should you leave me here,
Quoth Sancho, I should die with Fear;
I'm sick already, with the Thought
Of parting with the Gold we've got,
And if you from me stir this Day
One Minute, I shall faint away.
He's a wild Fellow, to be sure;
What should we daggle aft'r 'im for?
Since he's so mad to leave his Gold,
As well as Bag, for us to hold,
Don't let us now, like Fools, restore it
To him who has no Value for it.
He'll then have Cause to say, that we
Are more out of our Wits, than he;
That's all the Thanks we shall have for't,
And all that we deserve, in short;
Therefore, I say, keep close the Prize,
Tho' he be mad, let us be wise.

256

I'm bound in Honour, quoth the Knight,
To do distressed Mortals Right:
The Loser of the Money ought
To ha'it return'd him ev'ry Groat;
For he that finds, and never cries,
Or publishes the foundling Prize,
Is but a Robber in Disguise.

Is't so? quoth Sancho to himself;
But since I've got the Purse of Pelf,
In t'other Pocket I'll take Care
To sink one half; that is but fair.

As thus the conscientious Don
And 'Squire were talking Pro and Con,
They 'spy'd a flowing Brook adjunct,
By which appear'd a Mule defunct,
Bridl'd and saddl'd as he lay,
Half eaten up by Birds of Prey.
As they stood gazing both upon
This sad unfinish'd Skeliton,

257

Telling some lamentable Story,
Apply'd to the Memento mori,
They heard a Whistling from a Rock,
Like that of Shepherd to his Flock;
And soon, pursuant to their Thoughts,
They saw a Herdsman tending Goats
Upon a Mountain, where they graz'd,
Whose Top was high, by Nature rais'd.
Don Quixote hollow'd to the Goat-herd,
A poor old weather-beaten Dotard,
Who hobbl'd down, with wonted Leisure,
To know the Champion's Will and Pleasure.

How now, old Father, quoth the Knight,
Here's an odd melancholy Sight.
How came this Creature dead, d'ye think?
It could not be for want of Drink.

Right, quoth the Clown; but I must tell ye,
Drink without Meat, won't fill the Belly;
And in these Mountains hereabouts,
There's Feed for nothing, but for Goats;

258

Excepting Wolves, that prowl and prey
On other Vermin, less than they:
But as to that unsav'ry Beast,
'T'as lain there dead six Months at least;
Was, by her Master, turn'd a-drift
Among these barren Hills to shift;
And wanting Fodder, I suppose,
Became a Pudding for the Crows.
'Tis Wonder that you have not met
The Owner in these Mountains yet.

Not we, quoth Quixote; but we found
An old Portmanteau on the Ground.

Hush, hush, quoth Sancho, all I say, Sir,
Not a Word more o'th' Pudding, pray, Sir.

I've seen, replies the grizly Gaffer,
That Cloak-bag too, but durst not offer
To touch it, 'cause I thought, may hap,
It might be laid there for a Trap;
That if I'd meddl'd with the Matter,
The Owner might have sworn herea'ter,

259

I'd pick'd and cull'd the very best
Of what was in't, and left the rest.

Quoth Sancho, I could see 'twas Leather,
But did not dare to touch it neither,
For fear, as you say, I should be
Unjustly tax'd with Robbery;
I therefore left it where it lay,
For the next Comer by that Way.
Who Home another's Dog does bring,
Will have nought left him, but the String;
And he wh' about the Neck o'th' Cat
Will hang a Bell, may have a Scrat.

But can you tell me, quoth the Knight,
The Name of him that has the Right
To th' Saddle, Bridle, and the Goods,
That thus lie scatter'd in the Woods?

We know the Man, replies the Clown,
But who he is, he keeps unknown;
Many besides my self have met him,
That I'll engage will ne'er forget him:

260

He lives and skulks about between
These Rocks, and here is often seen.

Dear Friend, quoth Quixote, pray be plain,
And give us all the Light you can;
I'm apt to think, that he must be
Some Prince, or Man of Quality.

All that I know, replies the Swain,
I'll freely tell you; hear me then:
Six Months ago, the Moon at full,
I met this mad Man on his Mule,
That very Beast, that stinking lies,
By the Brook-side, before your Eyes;
When he beheld me on the Brow
O' th' Hill, he stopt, as you do now,
And look'd so amiable and comely,
Tho' grown of late so rough and homely,
That since my Chin was young and callow,
I ne'er beheld a prettier Fellow.
Dear honest Friend, quoth he to me,
I beg thou'lt be so kind and free,

261

To guide me to the loneliest Place
In all this Rocky Wilderness.
Quoth I, according to my Thoughts,
The Cliffs and Copsies hereabouts,
Are, by us Goat-herds, understood
To be the wildest of the Wood;
Where nothing dwells, but Beasts of Prey,
And Frogs and Toads, as bad as they,
Among the Shrubs, nor any Fowls
Upon the Trees, but Bats and Owls.
To which he answer'd, I'm content;
I thank ye, and away he went,
Leaving not only me, alas!
But other Goat-herds near the Place,
To wonder at his fine Apparel,
And courtly Breeding, at his Farewel.

Thus he appear'd at first, and then
We saw him not I know not when,
'Till a young Fellow, some Months after,
The Husband of my eldest Daughter,

262

Chanc'd to be bringing, on his Ass,
Provisions to this very Place;
And as he came along, out rushes
My Gentleman from yonder Bushes,
In Rags and Tatters, unawares
Catches my Son by Head and Ears;
And when he'ad thrash'd him three times more
Than e'er the Rogue had been before,
He flies, and with impatient Clutches,
The Victuals off the Ass he snatches;
And tho' 'twas heavy, throws it cross
His Back, as Reynard does a Goose,
And trips away the Lord knows whither,
As light as if 't'ad been a Feather.

Hearing these Tidings, we agreed
To search the Thickets where he hid.
Accordingly we rang'd about
The Wood next Day, to find him out.
At length, within a hollow Tree
We chanc'd to peep, and there sate he,

263

Who very calmly left his Den,
And gravely talk'd like other Men;
But look'd so tatter'd, and so torn,
So sun-burnt, frowzy, and forlorn,
That all by which we knew the Wretch,
Were the Plush Rags about his Breech.
No sooner was he sally'd out
His rotten Oaken Touch-wood Hut,
But he began, and made a Speech,
In Courtly Words, beyond my Reach,
Begging that none of us would wonder
At the great Hardships he was under,
Since 'twas a Pennace laid upon
His Person, for the Ills he'ad done.
We ask'd him who he was, and what?
But he refus'd to tell us that.
We then desir'd to know his Bounds,
And where he chiefly took his Rounds,
That we might bring or send him Food,
Lest he should perish in the Wood;

264

Or that he'd ask us, when he wanted,
For Victuals, and it should be granted;
And that he'd not attempt, by Force,
To plunder Servant, Ass, or Horse.

For that he thank'd us ev'ry one,
Beg'd Pardon for the Wrong he'd done;
And promis'd, when he stood in need,
For Time to come, he'd ask his Bread.
This said, he started, then he stopt,
And down among the Bushes dropt;
Star'd, without winking, at the Skies,
Then snatchingly he clos'd his Eyes;
But suddenly look'd up again,
And grinn'd as if in deadly Pain;
Clutch'd hard his Fists, and sternly knit
His Eye-brows, and his Lips he bit;
Then starting with a nimble Bound,
Sprang up at once from off the Ground;
And like a Bear or Lyon vex'd,
Flew at the Goat-herd that was next,

265

Crying out, Ferdinand, thou Traytor;
I'll have thy Heart, thou lustful Satyr;
That had not all those, few enough,
Fell timely on, to take him off,
With Bites and Blows, as fierce as Thunder,
He'ad kill'd the Fellow that was under.
Then flinging from us, tript away
O'er all that in his Passage lay;
And bounded o'er the brambly Grounds,
Like a wild Buck before the Hounds;
So that one Ferdinand, for certain,
Has been the Cause of his Misfortune;
For when he lifted up his Hand,
He cry'd, Thou Villain, Ferdinand,
I'll tear thy Bowels with my Teeth,
And press and torture thee to Death.
Thus sometimes for a while he'd prove
As mild and harmless as a Dove,
Then of a Sudden rend and tear,
And grow as wild as Wolf or Bear;

266

We therefore now intend to watch him,
And bind him, if we can but catch him,
That we by Force may lead him over
These Mountains, unto Almadover,
In Hopes his Face, tho' overgrown
With shagged Hair, may there be known,
And that his wild distracted Mind,
In Time some Remedy may find.
And now I've plainly laid before ye
The whole uncomfortable Story.

The Knight, uneasy to discover
The Cave of this same savage Lover,
Thank'd the old Goat-herd for his Tale,
And spurr'd his Horse away Pell-mell,
Resolving now to beat about,
'Till he had found this Hermit out.
Accordingly he bang'd the Bushes,
And rid thro' Swamps of Flags and Rushes;
Over this Hedge, and t'other Ditch,
With Sancho grunting at his Breech,

267

Like a Foot Hunts-man running a'ter
The op'ning Dogs thro' Wood and Water.

As ev'ry Knave delights, we see,
To worry those as bad as he;
So one poor Lunatick is glad
To chase another full as mad.

University of Virginia Library

CANTO XXXIII.