The Life and Notable Adventures of that Renown'd Knight, Don Quixote De la Mancha Merrily Translated into Hudibrastick Verse. By Edward Ward |
 | I, II. |
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 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. | CANTO XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
 | The Life and Notable Adventures of that Renown'd Knight, Don Quixote De la Mancha |  |
283
CANTO XXXV.
The Knight does Pennance in the Mountains,
Among the Desart Rocks and Fountains;
Sends, on his Horse, away
To visit fair Dulcinea.
Among the Desart Rocks and Fountains;
Sends, on his Horse, away
To visit fair Dulcinea.
The Knight now proud, tho' almost kill'd,
To be left Master of the Field,
Resolv'd within himself to put,
In spite of Bumps, the best Side out.
Accordingly he made a Bound,
And sprang from off the mossy Ground;
Mounted at once his Rozinante,
As nimbly as a Youth of twenty,
And with poor Sancho at his Stern,
Rid off without the least Concern;
Suff'ring the mad Man's sturdy Blows,
As blue as Damsens round his Nose,
To interrupt his Worship's Ease,
No more than Bites of Gnats or Fleas;
Tho' Sancho's more impatient Brain,
As well as Guts, still felt the Pain.
To be left Master of the Field,
Resolv'd within himself to put,
In spite of Bumps, the best Side out.
Accordingly he made a Bound,
And sprang from off the mossy Ground;
Mounted at once his Rozinante,
As nimbly as a Youth of twenty,
And with poor Sancho at his Stern,
Rid off without the least Concern;
Suff'ring the mad Man's sturdy Blows,
As blue as Damsens round his Nose,
To interrupt his Worship's Ease,
No more than Bites of Gnats or Fleas;
284
As well as Guts, still felt the Pain.
Now over craggy Hill and Dale,
With Sancho grumbling at his Tail,
The Champion rid, but ne'er exprest
One Word in Earnest or in Jest,
Whilst the poor 'Squire trampoos'd on Foot,
Betwixt a Gallop and a Trop;
Fatigu'd the more for Want of Chatting,
Because his chief Delight was Prating;
Yet durst not, for his Ears, be breaking
His Master's Silence by his speaking,
Because he had before forbid him,
And for the same ill Manners chid him.
However, after many Pushes
Thro' Bryars, Splashes, Bogs, and Bushes,
Sancho grew tir'd with too much walking,
As well as with too little talking;
And now resolv'd to give his Tongue
Refreshment as he went along,
That the still Member might be eas'd,
Let's Master take it as he pleas'd;
Accordingly, in doleful Tone,
He thus began, and so went on.
With Sancho grumbling at his Tail,
The Champion rid, but ne'er exprest
One Word in Earnest or in Jest,
Whilst the poor 'Squire trampoos'd on Foot,
Betwixt a Gallop and a Trop;
Fatigu'd the more for Want of Chatting,
Because his chief Delight was Prating;
Yet durst not, for his Ears, be breaking
His Master's Silence by his speaking,
Because he had before forbid him,
And for the same ill Manners chid him.
However, after many Pushes
Thro' Bryars, Splashes, Bogs, and Bushes,
Sancho grew tir'd with too much walking,
As well as with too little talking;
And now resolv'd to give his Tongue
Refreshment as he went along,
285
Let's Master take it as he pleas'd;
Accordingly, in doleful Tone,
He thus began, and so went on.
I pray your Worship, that you'd give
Your Blessing, and vouchsafe me Leave
To quit this hum-drum silent Life,
And to return to Joan my Wife,
My Children, and my brindle Cow;
For Home is Home, I find it now;
There I in Chimny-nook can chat,
And tell old Tales of this and that;
When weary, prattle with my Joan,
Who never wants two Words for one:
But here I follow at your Back,
As if you were a Lanthorn-Jack,
Thro' Woods and Mountains, foul or fair,
O'er Ditches, and the Dev'l knows where,
And when all's done, must be affear'd
To make my Moan, or speak a Word.
I ne'er kept Dog, altho' I've two,
Or Cat, but what might bark or mew.
My very Ass that's stoll'n away,
You know, had always Leave to bray.
'Tis therefore hard that, at my Age,
I, who am Vallet, 'Squire, and Page,
After such Thumps, 'till Back and Block
Are knotted like a Crab-tree Stock,
Should thus run dangling at your Breech,
And be deny'd the Use of Speech!
I say, no Flesh and Blood is able
To live, and trot thro' so much Trouble,
Without a little Bibble Babble.
Your Blessing, and vouchsafe me Leave
To quit this hum-drum silent Life,
And to return to Joan my Wife,
My Children, and my brindle Cow;
For Home is Home, I find it now;
There I in Chimny-nook can chat,
And tell old Tales of this and that;
When weary, prattle with my Joan,
Who never wants two Words for one:
But here I follow at your Back,
As if you were a Lanthorn-Jack,
Thro' Woods and Mountains, foul or fair,
O'er Ditches, and the Dev'l knows where,
And when all's done, must be affear'd
To make my Moan, or speak a Word.
286
Or Cat, but what might bark or mew.
My very Ass that's stoll'n away,
You know, had always Leave to bray.
'Tis therefore hard that, at my Age,
I, who am Vallet, 'Squire, and Page,
After such Thumps, 'till Back and Block
Are knotted like a Crab-tree Stock,
Should thus run dangling at your Breech,
And be deny'd the Use of Speech!
I say, no Flesh and Blood is able
To live, and trot thro' so much Trouble,
Without a little Bibble Babble.
I understand you, quoth the Don;
I know thou'rt never right in Tune,
But when thy prating Tongue is free
To exercise its Faculty:
Therefore, to ease thy Pain, I'll grant,
For once, the Liberty you want,
Provided that the same shall carry
No farther Term than while we tarry
Within this solitary Mount,
Where Talk may turn to some Account.
I know thou'rt never right in Tune,
But when thy prating Tongue is free
To exercise its Faculty:
Therefore, to ease thy Pain, I'll grant,
For once, the Liberty you want,
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No farther Term than while we tarry
Within this solitary Mount,
Where Talk may turn to some Account.
A Match, quoth Sancho, I agree.
Well, now my Tongue's at Liberty,
As my old Grannum us'd to say,
Whilst the Sun shines, let's make our Hay.
Then, since you've granted me my Speech,
Answer one Question, I beseech.
What Need had you to roar and thunder
About Queen Maxima, I wonder,
And to provoke a Monster's Wrath,
Till the wild Fury beat us both?
Suppose she had a Mind to try
The Barber's Wash-balls, by the Bye,
Whether they'd lather well or not,
Pray what had you to do with that?
Besides, had you no Notice taken,
We had not only sav'd our Bacon,
But heard, as you desir'd, the whole
Long Story of his Cock and Bull;
And my poor Guts must be, Pox take her,
Trampl'd, like Dow, by hare-foot Baker.
Well, now my Tongue's at Liberty,
As my old Grannum us'd to say,
Whilst the Sun shines, let's make our Hay.
Then, since you've granted me my Speech,
Answer one Question, I beseech.
What Need had you to roar and thunder
About Queen Maxima, I wonder,
And to provoke a Monster's Wrath,
Till the wild Fury beat us both?
Suppose she had a Mind to try
The Barber's Wash-balls, by the Bye,
Whether they'd lather well or not,
Pray what had you to do with that?
Besides, had you no Notice taken,
We had not only sav'd our Bacon,
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Long Story of his Cock and Bull;
And my poor Guts must be, Pox take her,
Trampl'd, like Dow, by hare-foot Baker.
Quoth Quixote, ha'st thou ever seen
Or read of this illustrious Queen?
You would have then confess'd I'd had
Much Patience, tho' her Foe was mad,
That I forbore to stab the Mouth
That stain'd her Honour with Untruth.
'Twas base Destruction to assert
So vile and sausy a Report:
For this same Barber and Chirurgeon,
Call'd by the Ignorant, a Surgeon,
Known by the Name Elizabat,
Was a spruce Blade, I tell you that;
Drew Teeth, let Blood, and grew, at length,
Famous for Wisdom, and for Strength;
Shav'd all the Lords, bled all the Ladies,
And tun'd his Cittern on his Play-days;
Made Beauty-Washes for the Face,
And Merkins for another Place.
Besides all these, he was a great
Projector in Affairs of State.
For these Accomplishments, which few
In any Age arrive unto,
And for his soothing sweet Behaviour,
The Queen advanc'd him to her Favour;
And thus discov'ring, by Degrees,
His Parts and great Abilities,
Made him not only her Physician,
But her chief privy Politician,
With whom, because she found him wise,
She'd in her Closet oft advise;
But as to that Reproach upon her,
About the staining of her Honour,
I ever did, and still will say,
Arm'd or unarm'd, by Night or Day,
They're lying Villains, who accuse her,
And that they wrongfully abuse her;
Nor would the Knight o'th' Rock have said
So much, unless he had been mad.
Or read of this illustrious Queen?
You would have then confess'd I'd had
Much Patience, tho' her Foe was mad,
That I forbore to stab the Mouth
That stain'd her Honour with Untruth.
'Twas base Destruction to assert
So vile and sausy a Report:
For this same Barber and Chirurgeon,
Call'd by the Ignorant, a Surgeon,
Known by the Name Elizabat,
Was a spruce Blade, I tell you that;
Drew Teeth, let Blood, and grew, at length,
Famous for Wisdom, and for Strength;
Shav'd all the Lords, bled all the Ladies,
And tun'd his Cittern on his Play-days;
289
And Merkins for another Place.
Besides all these, he was a great
Projector in Affairs of State.
For these Accomplishments, which few
In any Age arrive unto,
And for his soothing sweet Behaviour,
The Queen advanc'd him to her Favour;
And thus discov'ring, by Degrees,
His Parts and great Abilities,
Made him not only her Physician,
But her chief privy Politician,
With whom, because she found him wise,
She'd in her Closet oft advise;
But as to that Reproach upon her,
About the staining of her Honour,
I ever did, and still will say,
Arm'd or unarm'd, by Night or Day,
They're lying Villains, who accuse her,
And that they wrongfully abuse her;
290
So much, unless he had been mad.
That's it, quoth Sancho to the Don;
You now have hit the Nail, I own:
But who the Devil, in his Wits,
Would mind a mad Man, in his Fits,
Except he would be thought to be
As mad and desperate as he?
You now have hit the Nail, I own:
But who the Devil, in his Wits,
Would mind a mad Man, in his Fits,
Except he would be thought to be
As mad and desperate as he?
I tell thee, Sancho, as a Friend,
We Knights, quoth Quixote, must defend
All vertuous Ladies of Renown,
Up from the Pig-sty to the Throne;
Much more the Honour of a Queen,
So wise, so beauteous, and serene,
Whose Patience, under her Misfortune,
And Bounty, is enough, for certain,
To hide all Faults behind the Curtain.
I therefore swear this Sword of mine
Shall cleave the Villain down the Chine,
That durst so much as think or say
Elizabat, the Barber, lay
With that good Queen Madasima.
We Knights, quoth Quixote, must defend
All vertuous Ladies of Renown,
Up from the Pig-sty to the Throne;
Much more the Honour of a Queen,
So wise, so beauteous, and serene,
Whose Patience, under her Misfortune,
And Bounty, is enough, for certain,
To hide all Faults behind the Curtain.
I therefore swear this Sword of mine
Shall cleave the Villain down the Chine,
291
Elizabat, the Barber, lay
With that good Queen Madasima.
Quoth Sancho, may I hang my Brother,
If I think one Way or the other;
May those that tell a Lie for me
About her Honour's Honesty,
Like Dogs, that to their Vomit run,
Be bound to eat it, when they've done.
I never love to thrust, in Troth,
My Nose into another's Broth;
Or let a Falshood drop, for fear
The Truth should on my Back appear.
I'm no such Fool, that is as 'twas,
To buy and sell, and live by th' Loss.
Let him that owns the Cow, in fine,
Take her by th' Tail, she's none of mine:
Naked into the World I came,
And must go out the very same:
Many seek Wooll, that oft return
With their own Bodies poorly shorn:
All Things begin, before they're ended,
A little said is soon amended:
Good begets Good, and Evil Evil,
'Tis sinful to belie the Devil:
A tattling Tongue won't wear a Padlock,
And he's a Fool that prays for bad Luck:
Misunderstandings oft breed Lies,
But a close Mouth will catch no Flies.
If I think one Way or the other;
May those that tell a Lie for me
About her Honour's Honesty,
Like Dogs, that to their Vomit run,
Be bound to eat it, when they've done.
I never love to thrust, in Troth,
My Nose into another's Broth;
Or let a Falshood drop, for fear
The Truth should on my Back appear.
I'm no such Fool, that is as 'twas,
To buy and sell, and live by th' Loss.
Let him that owns the Cow, in fine,
Take her by th' Tail, she's none of mine:
Naked into the World I came,
And must go out the very same:
292
With their own Bodies poorly shorn:
All Things begin, before they're ended,
A little said is soon amended:
Good begets Good, and Evil Evil,
'Tis sinful to belie the Devil:
A tattling Tongue won't wear a Padlock,
And he's a Fool that prays for bad Luck:
Misunderstandings oft breed Lies,
But a close Mouth will catch no Flies.
Good Heaven! Why, Sancho, quoth the Knight
Thy Senses sure cannot be right.
What a mix'd Catalogue of Stuff
Is there? Thou'rt frantick sure enough.
Prithee, my Friend, forbear to utter
Thy musty Proverbs for the future,
That hang as awkwardly together,
As Pot-books, high-crown'd Hat and Father.
Be modest, talk no more of Things
That appertain to Queens or Kings;
But rule thy Tongue, and let it be
Thy Care to serve and follow me;
And pray remember ev'ry Matter
I have done, do, or shall herea'ter,
Hath agreed, does, and shall agree
With the good Laws of Chivalry.
Thy Senses sure cannot be right.
What a mix'd Catalogue of Stuff
Is there? Thou'rt frantick sure enough.
Prithee, my Friend, forbear to utter
Thy musty Proverbs for the future,
That hang as awkwardly together,
As Pot-books, high-crown'd Hat and Father.
Be modest, talk no more of Things
That appertain to Queens or Kings;
293
Thy Care to serve and follow me;
And pray remember ev'ry Matter
I have done, do, or shall herea'ter,
Hath agreed, does, and shall agree
With the good Laws of Chivalry.
Aye, Sir, quoth Sancho, pray by what
Good Law do 'Squires trampoose on Foot
Thro' desart Woods, where nothing grows,
But Brambles, Bushes, Bogs, and Sloughs,
And plaguy thorny Shrubs, enough
To rend a Hide that's made of Buff?
What Law, I beg your Worship, says,
That we must run this wild Goose Chace
After a mad Man who, by Lady,
Has bang'd us to some Tune already;
And if we find him, ten to one
Will finish what he has begun?
I do not mean his long Discourse
About the roasting of a Horse,
But that the Knave will curry us o'er
Much worse than he has done before;
He's therefore but a foolish Hound,
That hunts what's better lost than found.
Good Law do 'Squires trampoose on Foot
Thro' desart Woods, where nothing grows,
But Brambles, Bushes, Bogs, and Sloughs,
And plaguy thorny Shrubs, enough
To rend a Hide that's made of Buff?
What Law, I beg your Worship, says,
That we must run this wild Goose Chace
After a mad Man who, by Lady,
Has bang'd us to some Tune already;
And if we find him, ten to one
Will finish what he has begun?
I do not mean his long Discourse
About the roasting of a Horse,
294
Much worse than he has done before;
He's therefore but a foolish Hound,
That hunts what's better lost than found.
Prithee forbear, replies the Knight,
I tell thee thou'rt mistaken quite:
'Tis not the mad Man I pursue;
I have much nobler Game in View.
The Task I must perform among
These Mountains, thou shal't know e'er long.
'Tis such that will, I'm sure, proclaim,
Thro' all the World, my rising Fame,
And raise me to a Pitch of Glory,
Beyond the greatest Knight in Story.
I tell thee thou'rt mistaken quite:
'Tis not the mad Man I pursue;
I have much nobler Game in View.
The Task I must perform among
These Mountains, thou shal't know e'er long.
'Tis such that will, I'm sure, proclaim,
Thro' all the World, my rising Fame,
And raise me to a Pitch of Glory,
Beyond the greatest Knight in Story.
Won't this Adventure, quoth the 'Squire,
Be out o'th' Frying-pan, into th' Fire,
And prove more dangerous than that
We were of late so worsted at?
Be out o'th' Frying-pan, into th' Fire,
And prove more dangerous than that
We were of late so worsted at?
No, crys the Knight, thou need'st not fear
Kick, Cuff, or Blanket, I aver;
Yet Fortune, if she's angry, may
Fling Disappointments in our Way;
But what I now forthwith intend,
Will on thy Diligence depend.
Kick, Cuff, or Blanket, I aver;
295
Fling Disappointments in our Way;
But what I now forthwith intend,
Will on thy Diligence depend.
In Troth, quoth Sancho, I confess,
That makes me like it but the less.
That makes me like it but the less.
I mean, says Quixote, if you make
A Post-boy's Expedition back
From whence I am about to send,
My Pain will soon be at an End;
And then my Glory will arise,
Bright as the Sun in Eastern Skies;
Thro' the whole World diffuse its Splendor,
Whilst Mortals wonder at my Grandeur.
A Post-boy's Expedition back
From whence I am about to send,
My Pain will soon be at an End;
And then my Glory will arise,
Bright as the Sun in Eastern Skies;
Thro' the whole World diffuse its Splendor,
Whilst Mortals wonder at my Grandeur.
Quoth Sancho, I'm agog to know
To whom, and whither I must go.
I wish the Journey and Design
May answer both your End and mine.
To whom, and whither I must go.
I wish the Journey and Design
May answer both your End and mine.
Since thou'rt to bear a friendly Part,
I'll open, quoth the Knight, my Heart,
And make thee privy to the grand
Adventure I have now in Hand.
Know then, the valorous Amadis,
So honour'd both by Lords and Ladies,
Was deem'd the most accomplish'd Knight
That e'er drew Sword in bloody Fight;
Beauty's true Champion, rarely skill'd
To take the Chamber or the Field;
Therefore, as Painters, who desire
To rise in Excellence still higher,
Copy, with an attentive Mind,
The best Originals they find;
So the like Method ought to be
Observ'd by Knights in Errantry.
Old Homer makes his brave Ulysses
The Pattern of heroick Graces;
And Virgil wisely lets us see as
Exemplar Vertues in Æneas:
But not an ancient Greek or Trojan,
Of whom old Poets talk so much on,
Could e'er shine equal with the bright
Amadis, that puissant Knight,
Who kill'd more Dragons, sav'd more Maids,
Nay, slic'd off more grim Gyants Heads,
And won more Vict'ries, than a Host
Of bearded Grecians e'er could boast;
Therefore Amadis I prefer
To all Men, as my Polar Star;
To him I'll turn to for his Worth,
As the touch'd Needle to the North.
He, of all Worthies, was most Great,
And him alone I'll imitate,
'Till I become the very same
In all his Vertues, and his Fame.
I'll open, quoth the Knight, my Heart,
296
Adventure I have now in Hand.
Know then, the valorous Amadis,
So honour'd both by Lords and Ladies,
Was deem'd the most accomplish'd Knight
That e'er drew Sword in bloody Fight;
Beauty's true Champion, rarely skill'd
To take the Chamber or the Field;
Therefore, as Painters, who desire
To rise in Excellence still higher,
Copy, with an attentive Mind,
The best Originals they find;
So the like Method ought to be
Observ'd by Knights in Errantry.
Old Homer makes his brave Ulysses
The Pattern of heroick Graces;
And Virgil wisely lets us see as
Exemplar Vertues in Æneas:
But not an ancient Greek or Trojan,
Of whom old Poets talk so much on,
297
Amadis, that puissant Knight,
Who kill'd more Dragons, sav'd more Maids,
Nay, slic'd off more grim Gyants Heads,
And won more Vict'ries, than a Host
Of bearded Grecians e'er could boast;
Therefore Amadis I prefer
To all Men, as my Polar Star;
To him I'll turn to for his Worth,
As the touch'd Needle to the North.
He, of all Worthies, was most Great,
And him alone I'll imitate,
'Till I become the very same
In all his Vertues, and his Fame.
Now, you must know, in ancient Days,
The Means Amadis us'd to raise
Himself above all other Knights,
Was, running quite beside his Wits,
And doing Pennance on a Rock
Frequented by no Herd or Flock;
Changing the Name he had before,
To that of Lovely and Obscure.
All this he did, to shew his Pain
For Oriana's proud Disdain,
In Hopes thereby that she might see
His faithful Love and Constancy;
For she was slighting, to her Blame,
Or else he thought so; that's the same.
The Means Amadis us'd to raise
Himself above all other Knights,
Was, running quite beside his Wits,
And doing Pennance on a Rock
Frequented by no Herd or Flock;
298
To that of Lovely and Obscure.
All this he did, to shew his Pain
For Oriana's proud Disdain,
In Hopes thereby that she might see
His faithful Love and Constancy;
For she was slighting, to her Blame,
Or else he thought so; that's the same.
Now, Sancho, I'm resolv'd to be
As wretched and as mad as he;
And on these Mountains, for my fair
Dulcinea pine, whine, rave, and tear;
Sing Songs, make Verses, grin and chatter,
Frisk, caper, feed on Grass, drink Water;
And thus, by imitating him,
Win all the giddy World's Esteem,
And from Dulcinea's Eyes obtain
A Flood of Tears, to drown my Pain;
For 'tis a Task of much more Ease,
To copy that Great Knight in these
Hard Suff'rings, than to imitate
His other Deeds so truly great,
In cleaving Dragons at a Blow,
And Gyants down from Head to Toe,
Routing whole Armies in the Field,
And forcing mighty Fleets to yield;
Breaking all Spells and magick Pow'rs,
And taking strong enchanted Tow'rs;
Therefore since these tall Mountains here,
Where neither Goats nor Sheep appear,
Bless my aspiring active Mind
With Opportunity so kind,
I find my Genius ready for't,
And must and will go mad, in short.
As wretched and as mad as he;
And on these Mountains, for my fair
Dulcinea pine, whine, rave, and tear;
Sing Songs, make Verses, grin and chatter,
Frisk, caper, feed on Grass, drink Water;
And thus, by imitating him,
Win all the giddy World's Esteem,
And from Dulcinea's Eyes obtain
A Flood of Tears, to drown my Pain;
For 'tis a Task of much more Ease,
To copy that Great Knight in these
299
His other Deeds so truly great,
In cleaving Dragons at a Blow,
And Gyants down from Head to Toe,
Routing whole Armies in the Field,
And forcing mighty Fleets to yield;
Breaking all Spells and magick Pow'rs,
And taking strong enchanted Tow'rs;
Therefore since these tall Mountains here,
Where neither Goats nor Sheep appear,
Bless my aspiring active Mind
With Opportunity so kind,
I find my Genius ready for't,
And must and will go mad, in short.
Thus great Mens Faults are standing Rules
For crafty Knaves and giddy Fools.
For crafty Knaves and giddy Fools.
But, Sir, quoth Sancho, I suppose
This 'Madis had substantial Cause
For perching on a Rock alone,
Like an old Eagle on a Stone;
May hap his froward Mistress made him
Run mad, by some ill Trick she play'd him:
But pray, what ill-condition'd Shrew
Has snorted up her Snout at you?
No Lass, I hope, has pop'd a Child
Upon you: Why should you run wild?
I hope that modest Piece, my Lady
Dulcinea, no such Game has play'd ye:
Her Innocence, I've heard you say,
No Flesh alive could tempt astrayt;
Why then should you turn Cat of Mountain,
To lap the Drippings of a Fountain,
When drowthy, and to starve your Guts
With Black-berries and Thistle Roots,
When Madam, by your own Relation,
Has given your Worship no Occasion?
This 'Madis had substantial Cause
For perching on a Rock alone,
Like an old Eagle on a Stone;
300
Run mad, by some ill Trick she play'd him:
But pray, what ill-condition'd Shrew
Has snorted up her Snout at you?
No Lass, I hope, has pop'd a Child
Upon you: Why should you run wild?
I hope that modest Piece, my Lady
Dulcinea, no such Game has play'd ye:
Her Innocence, I've heard you say,
No Flesh alive could tempt astrayt;
Why then should you turn Cat of Mountain,
To lap the Drippings of a Fountain,
When drowthy, and to starve your Guts
With Black-berries and Thistle Roots,
When Madam, by your own Relation,
Has given your Worship no Occasion?
So much the better, quoth the Knight,
That she has teas'd me with no Slight:
Who'd run distracted for a Creature,
That's full of nothing but ill Nature?
The greater Pains she takes to show
Her Love, the madder I should grow,
And rave the more, with a Design
To make her sensible of mine.
Should she prove scornful, cross, or trickish,
And give me Reasons to be freakish,
Then should I madly go beside
My Wits, the Compliment's destroy'd;
For that which makes the Obligation,
Is, to run mad without Occasion.
'Tis but small Favour, to be sure,
To do what we've Reason for;
True Love appears the most, no Doubt,
In Favours that are shewn without;
Therefore I tell thee, Sancho, though
Dulcinea's faithful, f'rought I know,
I will (since now I am inclin'd to't)
Go mad, because I have a Mind to't;
For absent Lovers bind the Fair
More fast, by Hardships that they bear.
That she has teas'd me with no Slight:
Who'd run distracted for a Creature,
That's full of nothing but ill Nature?
301
Her Love, the madder I should grow,
And rave the more, with a Design
To make her sensible of mine.
Should she prove scornful, cross, or trickish,
And give me Reasons to be freakish,
Then should I madly go beside
My Wits, the Compliment's destroy'd;
For that which makes the Obligation,
Is, to run mad without Occasion.
'Tis but small Favour, to be sure,
To do what we've Reason for;
True Love appears the most, no Doubt,
In Favours that are shewn without;
Therefore I tell thee, Sancho, though
Dulcinea's faithful, f'rought I know,
I will (since now I am inclin'd to't)
Go mad, because I have a Mind to't;
For absent Lovers bind the Fair
More fast, by Hardships that they bear.
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Nay, Sir, replies the 'Squire, I know,
If you're resolv'd, it must be so;
But whilst you're raving on the Mountain,
Where must I run a Jilb'ry-hunting?
If you're resolv'd, it must be so;
But whilst you're raving on the Mountain,
Where must I run a Jilb'ry-hunting?
Thou must, replies the Knight, bestride
My Horse, and to Dulcinea ride,
And humbly give into her white
Extended Hand, what I shall write;
And if, when thou return'st, I find
Her Answer comfortably kind,
My Senses 'twill at once restore,
And I shall give my Pennance o'er;
But should her stony Heart reject
My Love, and treat me with Neglect,
I'd overwhelm my Soul with Sadness,
And climb the Pinnacle of Madness.
My Horse, and to Dulcinea ride,
And humbly give into her white
Extended Hand, what I shall write;
And if, when thou return'st, I find
Her Answer comfortably kind,
My Senses 'twill at once restore,
And I shall give my Pennance o'er;
But should her stony Heart reject
My Love, and treat me with Neglect,
I'd overwhelm my Soul with Sadness,
And climb the Pinnacle of Madness.
But hold a little, thou ha'st got
Mambrino's Helmet; ha'st thou not?
I think I saw thee t'other Day
Take't up, when batter'd in the Fray.
Mambrino's Helmet; ha'st thou not?
I think I saw thee t'other Day
Take't up, when batter'd in the Fray.
303
Now I suppose, quoth Sancho grinning,
Your Worship's Madness is beginning;
For none, except bereaft of Reason,
Could thus mistake a Barber's Bason;
For if you talk at this same Rate,
When you've no Frenzy in your Pate,
'Twould make one think your winning Kingdoms,
And giving Crowns, and mighty Thingdoms
To your poor 'Squire, were all, in short,
But Flams to make your Worship Sport.
'Tis true, I've got the batter'd Mettle,
And kin it is to Grannum's Kettle.
I think to hamm'r out these Abuses,
And keep it for its proper Uses.
A Helmet, say ye, if you'd swear it,
'Tis but a Bason, I declare it;
And after all your mighty Fortune
To win it, 'tis but Brass, for certain.
Your Worship's Madness is beginning;
For none, except bereaft of Reason,
Could thus mistake a Barber's Bason;
For if you talk at this same Rate,
When you've no Frenzy in your Pate,
'Twould make one think your winning Kingdoms,
And giving Crowns, and mighty Thingdoms
To your poor 'Squire, were all, in short,
But Flams to make your Worship Sport.
'Tis true, I've got the batter'd Mettle,
And kin it is to Grannum's Kettle.
I think to hamm'r out these Abuses,
And keep it for its proper Uses.
A Helmet, say ye, if you'd swear it,
'Tis but a Bason, I declare it;
And after all your mighty Fortune
To win it, 'tis but Brass, for certain.
Poor silly Wretch, the Don replies,
Thou see'st not with Knight Errant's Eyes;
It may a Bason seem to thee,
But 'tis a Helmet unto me;
That's a rare Faculty 't'as got,
T'appear to others what 'tis not;
'Tis varnish'd with a certain Ointment,
That hides its Vertues, by Inchantment,
From all but those who are impow'r'd
To win it fairly by the Sword;
No Mortal else, that lives on Earth,
Can see its Figure, or its Worth.
To me 'tis Gold, to thee 'tis Brazen;
To me a Helmet, thee a Bason;
And to the next Man you should bring,
Perhaps 'twould seem another Thing:
For should the wealthy Trophy shine
As bright in all Mens Eyes as mine,
The jarring World would all arise,
And quarrel for the glorious Prize.
As Greece and Troy fell out, and spilt
Their Blood about one beauteous Jilt;
Therefore, by my Commands, you're bound
To keep the Helmet safe and sound;
For when I do my Freaks begin,
I shall strip naked to my Skin;
And therefore shall no Armour need
For either Body, or my Head,
Resolving to do all I can do,
T'out-brave the Fury of Orlando,
As well as patiently exceed
The Pennance that Amadis did.
Thou see'st not with Knight Errant's Eyes;
304
But 'tis a Helmet unto me;
That's a rare Faculty 't'as got,
T'appear to others what 'tis not;
'Tis varnish'd with a certain Ointment,
That hides its Vertues, by Inchantment,
From all but those who are impow'r'd
To win it fairly by the Sword;
No Mortal else, that lives on Earth,
Can see its Figure, or its Worth.
To me 'tis Gold, to thee 'tis Brazen;
To me a Helmet, thee a Bason;
And to the next Man you should bring,
Perhaps 'twould seem another Thing:
For should the wealthy Trophy shine
As bright in all Mens Eyes as mine,
The jarring World would all arise,
And quarrel for the glorious Prize.
As Greece and Troy fell out, and spilt
Their Blood about one beauteous Jilt;
305
To keep the Helmet safe and sound;
For when I do my Freaks begin,
I shall strip naked to my Skin;
And therefore shall no Armour need
For either Body, or my Head,
Resolving to do all I can do,
T'out-brave the Fury of Orlando,
As well as patiently exceed
The Pennance that Amadis did.
As some Mens Vice do others taint,
So Madness thrives by Precedent.
So Madness thrives by Precedent.
These wild Discourses, Pro and Con,
Brought hobbling Sancho and the Don
To th' Foot of a stupendious Rock,
By which there run a murm'ring Brook,
Whose soft Meanders did divide
The Meads thro' which they chanc'd to glide;
The Banks that fenc'd the joining Grounds,
And kept the Stream within its Bounds,
With whisp'ring Osiers were adorn'd,
Whose bending Heads in Ranges turn'd
From ev'ry gentle Breeze that blow'd,
And fann'd 'em as they yielding stood;
Among whose humbler Ranks, appear'd
A Willow here and there, that rear'd
Its Head, and on the Stream bestow'd
A mourning Shadow as it flow'd,
Whilst drowsy Cowslips gilt each Side,
And Violets spread their Purple Pride.
The Rock that join'd this pleasant Vale,
From off whose Cliffs the Waters fell,
The Don at once resolv'd should be
The Bedlam of his Lunacy;
And gazing round him with Delight,
Was ravish'd with the following Flight:
Brought hobbling Sancho and the Don
To th' Foot of a stupendious Rock,
By which there run a murm'ring Brook,
Whose soft Meanders did divide
The Meads thro' which they chanc'd to glide;
The Banks that fenc'd the joining Grounds,
And kept the Stream within its Bounds,
306
Whose bending Heads in Ranges turn'd
From ev'ry gentle Breeze that blow'd,
And fann'd 'em as they yielding stood;
Among whose humbler Ranks, appear'd
A Willow here and there, that rear'd
Its Head, and on the Stream bestow'd
A mourning Shadow as it flow'd,
Whilst drowsy Cowslips gilt each Side,
And Violets spread their Purple Pride.
The Rock that join'd this pleasant Vale,
From off whose Cliffs the Waters fell,
The Don at once resolv'd should be
The Bedlam of his Lunacy;
And gazing round him with Delight,
Was ravish'd with the following Flight:
O! Heav'ns, that I should thus discover
A Place so fit for such a Lover,
Destin'd to Solitude and Grief,
And wild Despair, beyond Relief:
Upon this lofty Mountain here,
Whose barren Cliffs so high appear,
Will I, all naked and forlorn,
Bemoan my fair Dulcinea's Scorn;
In Tears lament my wretched Pain,
Occasion'd by her cold Disdain;
Tears that shall melt the sullen Tops
Of Stones, by their resistless Drops,
And flow from off the Rocky Hill
In Cataracts, like those of Nile.
Come hither all, ye charming Birds,
That ev'ry distant Wood affords,
And sing around me, to improve
The faithful Passion of my Love.
Assist me all, ye rural Gods,
That make these Desarts your Abodes,
To breathe my Sorrows, that arise
From all my Fears and Jealousies,
And help me to subdue the fair
Dulcinea, Author of my Care.
Dulcinea; O! thou happy She,
Who reigns o'er all, as well as me,
Whose Smiles are Balsam to my Wounds,
Occasion'd by your killing Frowns:
O! hear the piercing Groans and Sighs
That from my bleeding Breast arise,
And do not, to these Rocks, confine
A faithful Heart, that's truly thine,
To faint and perish in so rude
A starving Place of Solitude;
But bless thy poor despairing Knight
Once more with a reviving Sight
Of thy dear healing heav'nly Eyes,
Before he rends his Soul, and dies.
A Place so fit for such a Lover,
Destin'd to Solitude and Grief,
And wild Despair, beyond Relief:
307
Whose barren Cliffs so high appear,
Will I, all naked and forlorn,
Bemoan my fair Dulcinea's Scorn;
In Tears lament my wretched Pain,
Occasion'd by her cold Disdain;
Tears that shall melt the sullen Tops
Of Stones, by their resistless Drops,
And flow from off the Rocky Hill
In Cataracts, like those of Nile.
Come hither all, ye charming Birds,
That ev'ry distant Wood affords,
And sing around me, to improve
The faithful Passion of my Love.
Assist me all, ye rural Gods,
That make these Desarts your Abodes,
To breathe my Sorrows, that arise
From all my Fears and Jealousies,
And help me to subdue the fair
Dulcinea, Author of my Care.
308
Who reigns o'er all, as well as me,
Whose Smiles are Balsam to my Wounds,
Occasion'd by your killing Frowns:
O! hear the piercing Groans and Sighs
That from my bleeding Breast arise,
And do not, to these Rocks, confine
A faithful Heart, that's truly thine,
To faint and perish in so rude
A starving Place of Solitude;
But bless thy poor despairing Knight
Once more with a reviving Sight
Of thy dear healing heav'nly Eyes,
Before he rends his Soul, and dies.
Sancho, my trusty 'Squire, where art,
Thou present Comfort of my Heart?
My faithful Friend, who only knows
My Sorrows, Suff'rings, and my Woes,
I charge thee strictly mind each Feat
Thou see'st me do in my Retreat,
That thy obsequious Tongue may bear
The Tidings to Dulcinea's Ear.
Thou present Comfort of my Heart?
My faithful Friend, who only knows
My Sorrows, Suff'rings, and my Woes,
I charge thee strictly mind each Feat
Thou see'st me do in my Retreat,
309
The Tidings to Dulcinea's Ear.
This said, he alighted from his Saddle,
Takes off the same, and eke his Bridle,
And spanking Rozi on the Arse,
To grazing turn'd his trusty Horse,
Crying, Thy Master, who must pine
His Loss of Freedom, gives thee thine;
Thou'st Leave to range, and seek about
For Food, whilst I remain without;
Go where thee wil't, eat, drink, and rest,
Of Brutes, thou ar't the very best.
Takes off the same, and eke his Bridle,
And spanking Rozi on the Arse,
To grazing turn'd his trusty Horse,
Crying, Thy Master, who must pine
His Loss of Freedom, gives thee thine;
Thou'st Leave to range, and seek about
For Food, whilst I remain without;
Go where thee wil't, eat, drink, and rest,
Of Brutes, thou ar't the very best.
I wish, quoth Sancho, my poor Ass
Was here, to taste your Meadow-Grass;
He should not want a dainty Speech
In's Praise, nor yet a Spank o' th' Breech.
He'd trudge, poor Jade, thro' Dust or Mire,
All Day and Night, and never tire,
Let him but sometimes wet his Whistle,
And give him now and then a Thistle:
T'a Bull, for Strength, I might compare him;
No Ass for Burden could come near him:
He'd carry, in the worst of Weather,
A Pair of Mill stones like a Feather;
And was, in all such useful Cases,
In short, the very Ass of Asses.
Was here, to taste your Meadow-Grass;
He should not want a dainty Speech
In's Praise, nor yet a Spank o' th' Breech.
He'd trudge, poor Jade, thro' Dust or Mire,
All Day and Night, and never tire,
Let him but sometimes wet his Whistle,
And give him now and then a Thistle:
310
No Ass for Burden could come near him:
He'd carry, in the worst of Weather,
A Pair of Mill stones like a Feather;
And was, in all such useful Cases,
In short, the very Ass of Asses.
But, Sir, quoth Sancho to his Master,
Tho' Rozinante's turn'd to Pasture,
I hope your Worship means, God mend me,
That I shall ride him where you send me;
For I'm so crippled with my Corns,
And hobbling thro' these Shrubs and Thorns,
That I'm too stiff, and full of Pain,
To trot so far on Foot, that's plain.
Tho' Rozinante's turn'd to Pasture,
I hope your Worship means, God mend me,
That I shall ride him where you send me;
For I'm so crippled with my Corns,
And hobbling thro' these Shrubs and Thorns,
That I'm too stiff, and full of Pain,
To trot so far on Foot, that's plain.
Do as you please, replies the Knight;
Your Ease, you know, is my Delight.
If Rozinante will content thee,
My trusty 'Squire, he shall be lent thee:
But first you must continue here
A while, that you may witness bear
Of all the frantick Tricks I play,
What 'tis I do, and what I say;
And what mad raving Frisks I take
For my dear fair Dulcinea's Sake.
Your Ease, you know, is my Delight.
If Rozinante will content thee,
My trusty 'Squire, he shall be lent thee:
But first you must continue here
A while, that you may witness bear
311
What 'tis I do, and what I say;
And what mad raving Frisks I take
For my dear fair Dulcinea's Sake.
I think, quoth Sancho, you've already
Been mad enough for any Lady:
Your Worship cannot shew me more
Wild Tricks, than I have seen before
Repeated by you o'er and o'er.
Been mad enough for any Lady:
Your Worship cannot shew me more
Wild Tricks, than I have seen before
Repeated by you o'er and o'er.
Those, quoth the Knight, are all but Flies
To th' Monster I shall shew thy Eyes.
I'll doff my Armour, thou shal't see,
And make my self a Prodigy;
Tear off my Cloths to Rags, and knock
My Head and Fists against the Rock,
And do such Wonders, in my Passion,
Well worthy of thy Admiration.
To th' Monster I shall shew thy Eyes.
I'll doff my Armour, thou shal't see,
And make my self a Prodigy;
Tear off my Cloths to Rags, and knock
My Head and Fists against the Rock,
And do such Wonders, in my Passion,
Well worthy of thy Admiration.
For Heaven's Sake, replies the 'Squire,
Don't quarrel, in your frantick Ire,
With that ungracious Heap of Stone,
For fear it cracks your Worship's Crown,
And spoils, at one unhappy Blow,
The Penitent, and mad Man too.
If you must fight, when mad, to show
Your Valour, find a softer Foe,
Where you may boldly run your Poll,
And never bruise or crack your Skull;
But ne'er attack a stubborn Rock,
That's ten times harder than your Block;
And I'll report you still as mad
To your fair Dear, as if you had;
And swear point-blank, I see you bounce
Your Head full butt against the Stones,
And made 'em fly nine Ways at once.
Don't quarrel, in your frantick Ire,
312
For fear it cracks your Worship's Crown,
And spoils, at one unhappy Blow,
The Penitent, and mad Man too.
If you must fight, when mad, to show
Your Valour, find a softer Foe,
Where you may boldly run your Poll,
And never bruise or crack your Skull;
But ne'er attack a stubborn Rock,
That's ten times harder than your Block;
And I'll report you still as mad
To your fair Dear, as if you had;
And swear point-blank, I see you bounce
Your Head full butt against the Stones,
And made 'em fly nine Ways at once.
I thank you, quoth the Knight, but I
Must use no subtle Querk, or Lie;
What I pretend to, in my Passion,
Admits of no Equivocation.
If I attempt to beat or knock
My Head or Hand against a Rock,
I must not do't by way of Sham,
But run full-tilt, like butting Ram;
For should I once prevaricate,
To save my Knuckles, or my Pate,
I break the Laws by which I act,
And for the cow'rdly shameful Fact,
Shall punish'd be with Degradation,
For using mental Reservation;
Therefore, lest thou should'st find me dead,
Leave Lint and Plaister for my Head,
That I may heal my fractur'd Skull,
And, oft as broken, make it whole.
O! that I could but now prepare
My Balsam Fierbrassum here;
The last was spilt, the Vessel broke,
Thou know'st, by an unlucky Stroke.
Must use no subtle Querk, or Lie;
What I pretend to, in my Passion,
Admits of no Equivocation.
313
My Head or Hand against a Rock,
I must not do't by way of Sham,
But run full-tilt, like butting Ram;
For should I once prevaricate,
To save my Knuckles, or my Pate,
I break the Laws by which I act,
And for the cow'rdly shameful Fact,
Shall punish'd be with Degradation,
For using mental Reservation;
Therefore, lest thou should'st find me dead,
Leave Lint and Plaister for my Head,
That I may heal my fractur'd Skull,
And, oft as broken, make it whole.
O! that I could but now prepare
My Balsam Fierbrassum here;
The last was spilt, the Vessel broke,
Thou know'st, by an unlucky Stroke.
Good Sir, quoth Sancho, say no more,
My Bung-hole's ready to run o'er:
That Stuff is Physick for the Devil;
The very Name on't makes me drivel:
But as for Lint and Salve, alas!
He carr'd off those, that stole my Ass;
I'd therefore have you save your Bones,
And pick no Quarrels with the Stones;
But write your Mind, get all Things ready,
And send me packing to your Lady,
That my Return may be the sooner,
With joyful Tidings from her Honour;
Such a sweet Answer, that may please
Your Ears, and give your Worship Ease.
My Bung-hole's ready to run o'er:
314
The very Name on't makes me drivel:
But as for Lint and Salve, alas!
He carr'd off those, that stole my Ass;
I'd therefore have you save your Bones,
And pick no Quarrels with the Stones;
But write your Mind, get all Things ready,
And send me packing to your Lady,
That my Return may be the sooner,
With joyful Tidings from her Honour;
Such a sweet Answer, that may please
Your Ears, and give your Worship Ease.
Well, be it so, replies the Knight;
But how shall I this Letter write?
'Tis but a Folly here to think
Of fine gilt Paper, Pen, or Ink;
Or should I grave or scratch my Grief
On some Tree-bark, or verdant Leaf,
Tho' I express it ne'er so fully,
Such Writing will appear but dully.
But hold, I've now a lucky Thought,
Cardenio's Pocket-book will do't;
His Pencil, and a Leaf that's fair,
Will do the Business to a Hair.
But when I thus have writ my Mind,
You, Sancho, must take Care to find
Some Parish-Clerk, or Pedant, fit
To copy't on a Paper Sheet:
But pray don't give it, I forewarn ye,
To any Parson or Attorney;
For few to read their Hands are able,
They use such Dashes, when they scribble.
But how shall I this Letter write?
'Tis but a Folly here to think
Of fine gilt Paper, Pen, or Ink;
Or should I grave or scratch my Grief
On some Tree-bark, or verdant Leaf,
Tho' I express it ne'er so fully,
Such Writing will appear but dully.
315
Cardenio's Pocket-book will do't;
His Pencil, and a Leaf that's fair,
Will do the Business to a Hair.
But when I thus have writ my Mind,
You, Sancho, must take Care to find
Some Parish-Clerk, or Pedant, fit
To copy't on a Paper Sheet:
But pray don't give it, I forewarn ye,
To any Parson or Attorney;
For few to read their Hands are able,
They use such Dashes, when they scribble.
I mind, quoth Sancho, what you say,
And will your whole Commands obey:
But don't forget a little Piece
Of Writing to your handsome Niece,
That she may let me chuse the three
Young Asses that you promis'd me.
And will your whole Commands obey:
But don't forget a little Piece
Of Writing to your handsome Niece,
That she may let me chuse the three
Young Asses that you promis'd me.
Well thought on, Sancho, quoth the Knight;
I'll not forget to do thee right;
But charge thee let thy ready Way
Be first to fair Dulcinea.
Thoul't have no Struggle to come at her;
For she's the lovely only Daughter
Of one Lorenzo, who is known
To all Men in Tobosa Town.
I'll not forget to do thee right;
316
Be first to fair Dulcinea.
Thoul't have no Struggle to come at her;
For she's the lovely only Daughter
Of one Lorenzo, who is known
To all Men in Tobosa Town.
Lorenzo, quoth the wondring 'Squire,
Is he Dulcinea's noble Sire?
We've play'd a thousand Games together
At Skettle-pins, if that's her Father:
But if your Mistress be the same,
I mean Aldonza is her Name;
A swinging, lusty, strapping Lass,
With a huge sun-burnt platter Face,
Built in all Parts as strong and square,
As Parson's Bull, or Carter's Mare.
Is he Dulcinea's noble Sire?
We've play'd a thousand Games together
At Skettle-pins, if that's her Father:
But if your Mistress be the same,
I mean Aldonza is her Name;
A swinging, lusty, strapping Lass,
With a huge sun-burnt platter Face,
Built in all Parts as strong and square,
As Parson's Bull, or Carter's Mare.
Thou wil't be sawcy still, in spite
Of all my Cautions, quoth the Knight:
Give not thy Tongue so great a Length,
Pray what's more beautiful than Strength?
I love her for that very Grace
Which thou despisest, like an Ass;
I doat upon her charming Vigor,
And all her Amazonian Figure;
I therefore chang'd her Maiden Name,
In order to advace her Fame,
And make her worthy of that Honour,
Which I intend to heap upon her.
Of all my Cautions, quoth the Knight:
Give not thy Tongue so great a Length,
Pray what's more beautiful than Strength?
317
Which thou despisest, like an Ass;
I doat upon her charming Vigor,
And all her Amazonian Figure;
I therefore chang'd her Maiden Name,
In order to advace her Fame,
And make her worthy of that Honour,
Which I intend to heap upon her.
As for my Part, replies the 'Squire,
I meant no Hurt, I vow and swear.
I'm sorry, if I've spoke amiss;
She's a strong Doxy, that she is;
And since your Worship loves a Strapper,
She'll fit your Turn, for she's a Whopper:
And as for Strength, she'll pitch the Bar;
I've seen her do't so woundy far,
That all the lusty Fellows round
The Parish, could not reach her Ground;
And that this long-back'd Lady fair
Should be at last your Worship's Dear!
Nay, she's a chearful merry Dowdy,
Will jile and joke with any Body,
Frisk, caper, dance about, and spring,
Just like a Kitten at a String:
And that your Worship thus should pine
For an old Play-fellow of mine!
Bless me! how Murder will come out,
And Time and Things bring Things about?
I thought the Lady you sought after,
Had been at least some Prince's Daughter;
A Lass, whose dainty Looks, egad,
Might make a Man run God-piece mad,
And well deserve the plaguy Jaunts
We've taken thro' these Woods and Mounts,
And all the Drubbings, and untow'r'd
Disasters for her Sake endur'd,
And not a Lady bred to plough,
Pitch Cart, unload, and tread a Mow:
But homely Fare between the Sheets,
May please as well as dainty Bits.
I meant no Hurt, I vow and swear.
I'm sorry, if I've spoke amiss;
She's a strong Doxy, that she is;
And since your Worship loves a Strapper,
She'll fit your Turn, for she's a Whopper:
And as for Strength, she'll pitch the Bar;
I've seen her do't so woundy far,
That all the lusty Fellows round
The Parish, could not reach her Ground;
And that this long-back'd Lady fair
Should be at last your Worship's Dear!
318
Will jile and joke with any Body,
Frisk, caper, dance about, and spring,
Just like a Kitten at a String:
And that your Worship thus should pine
For an old Play-fellow of mine!
Bless me! how Murder will come out,
And Time and Things bring Things about?
I thought the Lady you sought after,
Had been at least some Prince's Daughter;
A Lass, whose dainty Looks, egad,
Might make a Man run God-piece mad,
And well deserve the plaguy Jaunts
We've taken thro' these Woods and Mounts,
And all the Drubbings, and untow'r'd
Disasters for her Sake endur'd,
And not a Lady bred to plough,
Pitch Cart, unload, and tread a Mow:
But homely Fare between the Sheets,
May please as well as dainty Bits.
319
Thy Tongue, replies the Knight, I see,
Will still abuse its Liberty.
However, that thou may'st discern
Thy Fault, and more Discretion learn,
Give Ear, and I shall introduce
A Story that may be of Use.
Will still abuse its Liberty.
However, that thou may'st discern
Thy Fault, and more Discretion learn,
Give Ear, and I shall introduce
A Story that may be of Use.
A wealthy Widow, rich and young,
Who wanted neither Tail nor Tongue,
Happen'd to fix her Love upon
A strong-back'd jolly handsome Clown,
Who had, in short, no other Riches,
But what lay hid in Leathern Breeches.
Others, who were superior to him,
Hearing the Lady came to woe him,
Would take upon 'em to reprove her,
For chusing such a worthless Lover;
A Fellow meanly born and bred,
And quite unworthy of her Bed,
When Men of Birth, and Wealth beside,
Would gladly take her for a Bride.
Quoth she, Tho' you may ridicule
My Choice, and think the Man a Fool,
Perhaps he'as Wit enough to do
The Work that I shall put him to,
Much better, Gentlemen, than you.
Who wanted neither Tail nor Tongue,
Happen'd to fix her Love upon
A strong-back'd jolly handsome Clown,
Who had, in short, no other Riches,
But what lay hid in Leathern Breeches.
Others, who were superior to him,
Hearing the Lady came to woe him,
Would take upon 'em to reprove her,
For chusing such a worthless Lover;
A Fellow meanly born and bred,
And quite unworthy of her Bed,
When Men of Birth, and Wealth beside,
Would gladly take her for a Bride.
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My Choice, and think the Man a Fool,
Perhaps he'as Wit enough to do
The Work that I shall put him to,
Much better, Gentlemen, than you.
So is Dulcinea, I assert,
More fit to act that female Part
Which I design her for, in case
That I can win the lusty Lass,
Than any beauteous Dame on Earth,
Or Princess of the highest Birth.
As to her Charms, I can assign her
Such graceful Gifts as I'd have in her,
And will with all those Vertues crown her,
For which I'd have the World renown her.
Did'st ever know a Poet chuse
Bess, Nan, or Jenny, for his Muse?
Or prize, as his beloved Dear,
A Sempstress, or a Garretteer,
But she was made his lovely Phillis,
His Chloris, or his Amaryllis;
Extoll'd and prais'd above the Skies,
For rosy Cheeks, and killing Eyes;
And all her Vertues, and her Worth,
In horrid florid Rimes set forth;
Altho' we justly may surmise,
Her highest Excellency lies
In dressing Heads, contriving Smocks,
And making Shirts and Holland Socks?
Why therefore may not I commend
The Vertues of my female Friend;
Change, if I please, as well as they,
Aldonza to Dulcinea;
And do my self and her the Favour,
To represent her as I'd have her?
For should not Fancy promise more
Than they possess, whom we adore,
And, to us Lovers, shew the Fair
More bright and vertuous than they are,
We ne'er could love to any Height,
Nor Women yield us much Delight.
More fit to act that female Part
Which I design her for, in case
That I can win the lusty Lass,
Than any beauteous Dame on Earth,
Or Princess of the highest Birth.
As to her Charms, I can assign her
Such graceful Gifts as I'd have in her,
And will with all those Vertues crown her,
For which I'd have the World renown her.
Did'st ever know a Poet chuse
Bess, Nan, or Jenny, for his Muse?
Or prize, as his beloved Dear,
A Sempstress, or a Garretteer,
321
His Chloris, or his Amaryllis;
Extoll'd and prais'd above the Skies,
For rosy Cheeks, and killing Eyes;
And all her Vertues, and her Worth,
In horrid florid Rimes set forth;
Altho' we justly may surmise,
Her highest Excellency lies
In dressing Heads, contriving Smocks,
And making Shirts and Holland Socks?
Why therefore may not I commend
The Vertues of my female Friend;
Change, if I please, as well as they,
Aldonza to Dulcinea;
And do my self and her the Favour,
To represent her as I'd have her?
For should not Fancy promise more
Than they possess, whom we adore,
And, to us Lovers, shew the Fair
More bright and vertuous than they are,
322
Nor Women yield us much Delight.
I now knock under, quoth the 'Squire;
You've answer'd to my Heart's Desire.
'Tis ill to talk of Ropes, I find,
Before a Man that has a Mind,
Upon a Crab-tree Bough, to take
A hanging Swing for Verges Sake:
But all this while, pray where's the Letter
Intended for your lushious Creature?
For I'm agog, methinks, to take
This Journey, for Acquaintance Sake.
I know she'll treat me with good Chear,
Brown Apple-pye, and humming Beer.
Truly, well thought of, quoth the Knight;
Stay here, I'll step aside, and write;
For such Affairs of Weight, require
A prudent Lover to retire.
You've answer'd to my Heart's Desire.
'Tis ill to talk of Ropes, I find,
Before a Man that has a Mind,
Upon a Crab-tree Bough, to take
A hanging Swing for Verges Sake:
But all this while, pray where's the Letter
Intended for your lushious Creature?
For I'm agog, methinks, to take
This Journey, for Acquaintance Sake.
I know she'll treat me with good Chear,
Brown Apple-pye, and humming Beer.
Truly, well thought of, quoth the Knight;
Stay here, I'll step aside, and write;
For such Affairs of Weight, require
A prudent Lover to retire.
With that, the Don withdrawing, took
Cardenio's Pencil, and his Book;
Then poring downwards with his Eyes,
And sometimes upwards tow'rds the Skies,
He walks about the Rock, and beats
His Brains, to conjure up his Wits;
Now soaring to a lofty Pitch,
Then scratching where it did not itch;
Just like a Poet, at a Time
When proud of Thought, but crampt for Rime,
Like groaning Dame, he thus remain'd
In Labour, study'd, stretch'd, and strain'd,
Till he at length, by Strength of Nature,
Was well deliver'd of a Letter;
With which fine Offspring, back he came,
And thus to Sancho read the same.
From the mad Knight, turn'd Furioso,
To fair Dulcinea del Toboso.
Cardenio's Pencil, and his Book;
323
And sometimes upwards tow'rds the Skies,
He walks about the Rock, and beats
His Brains, to conjure up his Wits;
Now soaring to a lofty Pitch,
Then scratching where it did not itch;
Just like a Poet, at a Time
When proud of Thought, but crampt for Rime,
Like groaning Dame, he thus remain'd
In Labour, study'd, stretch'd, and strain'd,
Till he at length, by Strength of Nature,
Was well deliver'd of a Letter;
With which fine Offspring, back he came,
And thus to Sancho read the same.
From the mad Knight, turn'd Furioso,
To fair Dulcinea del Toboso.
High
sov'reign Lady of my Heart,
By whom I'm stabb'd in ev'ry Part;
This comes to let you know my Grief,
And to implore your kind Relief:
Such Force your lovely Charms have had,
That I'm not only sick, but mad,
And now am left to sigh and mourn
Upon a barren Rock alone.
If you despise my raging Pain,
And wound me deeper with Disdain,
The Mountain Top my Eyes shall close,
Beneath the Pressure of my Woes:
But if you timely Pity take
On him that suffers for your sake,
Then shall he live, and still adore
Your gen'rous Beauty more and more.
Just now I faint with Cares opprest,
So leave my 'Squire to tell the rest.
Yours, my dear Angel, in a Trance,
The Knight o'th' Woeful Countenance.
By whom I'm stabb'd in ev'ry Part;
This comes to let you know my Grief,
And to implore your kind Relief:
324
That I'm not only sick, but mad,
And now am left to sigh and mourn
Upon a barren Rock alone.
If you despise my raging Pain,
And wound me deeper with Disdain,
The Mountain Top my Eyes shall close,
Beneath the Pressure of my Woes:
But if you timely Pity take
On him that suffers for your sake,
Then shall he live, and still adore
Your gen'rous Beauty more and more.
Just now I faint with Cares opprest,
So leave my 'Squire to tell the rest.
Yours, my dear Angel, in a Trance,
The Knight o'th' Woeful Countenance.
E'faith, quoth Sancho, now you've don't;
She's yours, I'll lay my Life upon't:
'Tis all so loving, and so civil,
If this won't fetch her, may the Devil.
I never heard such dainty Praise
And Sugar Words in all my Days.
How rarely does it chime and chink!
You're good for ev'ry Thing, I think.
Now this is finish'd, I must pray
The Note you promis'd t'other Day.
She's yours, I'll lay my Life upon't:
'Tis all so loving, and so civil,
If this won't fetch her, may the Devil.
325
And Sugar Words in all my Days.
How rarely does it chime and chink!
You're good for ev'ry Thing, I think.
Now this is finish'd, I must pray
The Note you promis'd t'other Day.
Timely remember'd, quoth the Don;
I'll write it, that thou may'st be gone.
Then on the Letter-back he wrote
Unto his Niece the foll'wing Note.
I'll write it, that thou may'st be gone.
Then on the Letter-back he wrote
Unto his Niece the foll'wing Note.
My dearest Niece, thou best of Lasses,
At sight of this my Bill of Asses,
Pray pay the Bearer three o'th' best
That he can chuse from out the rest;
And this, with his Receipt, shall be
A full Discharge to you from me.
Giv'n at the bottom of a Rock,
To th' Bearer, just at two a Clock,
Upon the second Day of June,
I' th' Year twelve hundred twenty one,
By me Don Quixote de la Mancha,
To honest trusty Sancho Pancha.
At sight of this my Bill of Asses,
Pray pay the Bearer three o'th' best
That he can chuse from out the rest;
And this, with his Receipt, shall be
A full Discharge to you from me.
Giv'n at the bottom of a Rock,
To th' Bearer, just at two a Clock,
Upon the second Day of June,
I' th' Year twelve hundred twenty one,
326
To honest trusty Sancho Pancha.
Thanks, quoth the 'Squire, tho' 'tis but little
I'll swear you've done it to a Tittle.
Well, now, Sir, all Things are in order,
Your Worship thinks of nothing further.
I have no more to do, you say,
But to mount Rozi, and away.
I'll swear you've done it to a Tittle.
Well, now, Sir, all Things are in order,
Your Worship thinks of nothing further.
I have no more to do, you say,
But to mount Rozi, and away.
But hold, quoth Quixote, thou shal't tarry
'Till I have plaid thee one Figary,
That with safe Conscience you may swear
You left me mad and naked here;
And then thou may'st be gone, and fly,
Like Love upon the Wings of Joy.
'Till I have plaid thee one Figary,
That with safe Conscience you may swear
You left me mad and naked here;
And then thou may'st be gone, and fly,
Like Love upon the Wings of Joy.
Quoth Sancho, since you'd have me waste
More Time, for Heaven's sake, make haste.
I must confess, an Oath's quite barren,
Where there's no Grounds at all to swear on;
Therefore just shew me one or two
Of your mad Gambols, that will do.
I can stretch Truth, I must confess,
But hate a Lie that's bottomless.
With that, the Knight unhook'd his Steel,
And in a Trice flung by his Shiel,
As angry Car-men do their Frocks,
When eager to begin to box,
Unclothing ev'ry Limb and Feature,
'Till quite become a naked Creature,
That he might act a Mad-man's Part
With greater Liveliness and Art.
When thus prepar'd, he rav'd and rattl'd,
And frisk'd as if his Arse was nettl'd;
Pitch'd like a Tumbler, Heels o'er Head,
And many wild Figaries plaid;
Exposing unto Sancho's Eyes
Such lumping, thumping Rarities,
That, frighted with the monst'rous Sight,
He blushing left the naked Knight,
To mount the Steed, that he might ride,
And tell what Wonders he had 'spy'd.
More Time, for Heaven's sake, make haste.
I must confess, an Oath's quite barren,
Where there's no Grounds at all to swear on;
Therefore just shew me one or two
Of your mad Gambols, that will do.
327
But hate a Lie that's bottomless.
With that, the Knight unhook'd his Steel,
And in a Trice flung by his Shiel,
As angry Car-men do their Frocks,
When eager to begin to box,
Unclothing ev'ry Limb and Feature,
'Till quite become a naked Creature,
That he might act a Mad-man's Part
With greater Liveliness and Art.
When thus prepar'd, he rav'd and rattl'd,
And frisk'd as if his Arse was nettl'd;
Pitch'd like a Tumbler, Heels o'er Head,
And many wild Figaries plaid;
Exposing unto Sancho's Eyes
Such lumping, thumping Rarities,
That, frighted with the monst'rous Sight,
He blushing left the naked Knight,
To mount the Steed, that he might ride,
And tell what Wonders he had 'spy'd.
328
By thus indulging odd Conceits,
Men gradually eclipse their Wits,
And from small Whims, to great proceed,
'Till Custom makes 'em mad indeed.
Men gradually eclipse their Wits,
And from small Whims, to great proceed,
'Till Custom makes 'em mad indeed.
| The Life and Notable Adventures of that Renown'd Knight, Don Quixote De la Mancha | |