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

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

Merrily Translated into Hudibrastick Verse. By Edward Ward

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

I, II.

VOLUME I, II

[dedication]

[Whilst Butler in Immortal Glory Sits]

To Mr. Edward Ward,

To my very good Friend Mr. Edw. Ward

THE LIFE AND Notable Adventures, &c.

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I, II. VOLUME I, II

To the Worshipful John Cass, Esq; ALDERMAN of the City of LONDON.

[Whilst Butler in Immortal Glory Sits]

Whilst Butler in Immortal Glory Sits
Enthron'd, as King of Poets and of Wits;
Ward Seeks not to usurp his Endless Fame,
But, Courts his Genius to revive his Name

To Mr. Edward Ward,

on his Translation of Don Quixote into Hudibrastick Verse.

Knight-Errantry the Spanish Genius rais'd,
And, tho' fantastick, was with Prudence prais'd.
Thus with the Fire of Glory carried on,
They mighty Empires o'er the Indies won,
And pass'd from rising to the setting Sun.
Cervantes brought true Wisdom to the height,
And taught the distance betwixt Vain and Great.
Then Anna, Europe's just Protector, came,
And show'd their Monarchy true Paths to Fame.
You to Cervantes equal Spirit give,
And in the British Language bid him live.

W. King, L. L. D.

To Mr. Edward Ward,

on his excellent Version of Don Quixote into Hudibrastick Verse.

With what Ill-nature can the Critick see
Cervantes lost, because improv'd by Thee;
For by the Spaniard's Fancy Thou hast shown
A much superior Genius of Thy own.
Who then thy tuneful Version wou'd refuse,
Sung by a Bard inspir'd with Butler's Muse?
Tho' all the World with Justice must confess,
Cervantes bright in his own Country Dress,
That Mirth and Humour flow in ev'ry Line;
But poignant Satyr was the grand Design.
When the wise Spaniard in light Airs thus writ,
The gravest Morals skulk'd beneath his Wit:
You to your Author show such just regard,
We know not which Cervantes writ, which Ward.

J. Browne, L. L. M. D.

To my very good Friend Mr. Edw. Ward

on his excellent Version of part of the Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote into English Metre.

Friendship commands what Friendship should excuse
In an unpractic'd and neglected Muse,
That lost to Numbers and Untuneful, long
Has been estrang'd from Melody and Song,
But when Thy Verse, and such as Thine has wrought
Warmth in my Breast and Rapture in my Thought,
Else had I with the rest that read thy Lays,
In silence wonder'd at, not sung Thy Praise.

Believe me, for I Sycophants detest,
Well is Thy Author's Sense in Thine exprest,
And fam'd Cervantes to thy Metre owes
The Beauties he had lost before in Prose;
Whilst Butler, from whose excellence of Quill,
Judgment, and Wit, and Harmony distil,
Rescu'd from servile Imitators shines
In Thine as in his Own unerring Lines:
Spight of Thy Wrongs Thou hast his Fame retriev'd,
So had that Bard translated had he liv'd.

'Tis true, the Task is difficult and great,
And calls for much of Time, and much of Sweat,
The Knight's Adventures wholly to compleat.
However, do not from that Labour start,
Artists must give Encouragement to Art,

And I in this unthankful Age foresee
That Saying fully verified in Thee.

Criticks may snarl, and from ill-natur'd Pride,
The Worth they can't arrive at may deride,
As want of Merit in themselves makes known
How they would lessen Beauties not their own.
Yet be not from the search of Fame deter'd,
Who ridicules Preferment that's prefer'd?

Go on, my Friend, thy wonted Steps persue,
Still to Thy Author and Thyself be true,
Amongst the Just and Loyal still be read,
Nor quit thy wonted Honesty for Bread,
Like others, who like Chaff by Tempests born,
Vere to that Quarter where the Courtiers turn.
To Knaves in Power never basely sneak,
Nor thy Repose of Soul for Interest break.

The Times shall come, and lo! those Times are near,
When Men shall Truth of Principle revere,
When Thou, and such as Thou, no more shalt fall
A Sacrifice to Dagon and to Baal,
But dare to speak what would unspoken wrong
Strict Innocence of Heart, as well as Tongue;
When that prevailing Faction shall decease,
And even those Quixote Bravoes sue for Peace.

W. Pittis, late Fellow of New-College in Oxford.

THE LIFE AND Notable Adventures, &c.

I. PART I.

CANTO I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CANTO II.

The Knight's preparing, for the Field,
His Lance, his Armour, and his Shield;
The naming of himself and Horse,
And his Dear Doxy, tho' but Course.

The Crazy Don b'ing now inspir'd,
With Courage and Ambition fir'd,

Could Dream of nothing but Amours,
Fine Ladies, Armour, Silver Spurs,
And Steed that would his Ground maintain,
In dirty Road or dusty Plain,
And all things that could needful be,
To mount a Champion Cap-a-pe.

Thus bent he did to mind recal,
The rusty Breast-plate in his Hall,
And Batter'd Helmet which had born,
When in the Times of Yore 'twas worn,
So many bitter Bangs and Drubs,
Of trusty Swords and sturdy Clubs,
That of each side the yielding Mettle,
Was bruis'd like Grannum's Ancient Kettle:
However, as the Maggot bit,
He thought it for his purpose fit;
So down the Trumpery was taken,
Which had for Ages hung forsaken,
And e'ery Piece with Care inspected,
That all Defects might be corrected.

Much Pains were now bestow'd upon
The Canker'd Armour by the Don,
Brick-dust and Oyl, and Soap and Sand,
Were us'd with an industrious Hand,
And e'ery thing apply'd that might
Make the Old rusty Head-piece bright;
Tho' 'twas but Labour spent in vain,
Like washing Æthiopian;
Yet no good Hus'wife that delights
To scour her Hand-ir'ns and her Spits,
That she for cleanliness may vie
With any noted Gossip nigh,
Could take more pains about her Grates,
Her Pots and Dishes, or her Plates,
Than did the busy Don to cleanse
His Trusty Armour of Defence:
At length by nice Examination,
Found his Steel Cap of Preservation,
That was to guard his Head from blows,
And deadly Thwacks of stubborn Foes;

No Beaver had to save his Face,
The Champion's only market place,
But that in Fight he must expose
His Eagle Eyes and Hawks-bill Nose,
Unless he timely could project,
Some way to mend the sad defect;
For nothing could the Champion daunt,
Turn Knight he would what e're came on't
Was therefore much concern'd about
The needful safeguard of his Snout,
Which after all could not be found,
In Hole or Nook above the Ground:
So that at last, consid'ring by
What means he could the loss supply,
And being exc'llent at Invention,
He took with Care the true Dimension,
And of stiff Pastboard did compleat,
A Beaver so exactly fit,
That it deserv'd much Admiration,
Altho' it would not stand Probation;

For when he came to try how well
His Work would bear the force of Steel,
One sturdy Stroke did quite dissever
What a whole Week had patch'd together.
Thus many in One Minute spoil
The Product of a tedious Toil,
As Sots will at one sitting spend,
What many Days hard Labour gain'd.

The pensive Don now growing vex'd
To find himself so much perplex'd,
Not doubting such a fatal slip
In his own Artful Workmanship,
But rather thought his Pastboard Beaver,
Would stand the Stroke of Butcher's Cleaver,
Doubl'd at least to make it hold,
Like Ajax Shield full Sevenfold.
Thus Disappointments unforeseen,
Will often plague the Bravest Men;
But he that's Stout will never bend
To those Misfortunes he can mend.

Therefore the Don b'ing reconcil'd,
To what he had both made and spoil'd,
Resolv'd by stitching and by pasting,
To make his Handy-work more lasting:
So down a second time he sat,
With Awl and Ends, and God knows what,
And patch'd, as if 't had been his Trade,
The Cuts and Breaches he had made,
Till by his skilful pains at length,
It prov'd of such undoubted Strength,
That he conceiv'd 'twas Cutlace proof,
And without Tryal firm enough
To save his Phiz from sore mischance,
Of Nut-brown Sword or stubborn Lance.

When thus to guard himself from Murder
He'd put his Armour into Order,
And made his Spurs not only bright,
But sharp as Sword of Errant Knight,
Whetted his Weapons till as kene
As crooked Scythe had ever been;

The next thing to be done in course,
Was to revive his aged Horse
With Oats and Beans, such hearty Meat
Poor Dobbin very seldom eat,
Who now had scarce a useful Tooth
To bless his Gums, or grace his Mouth;
But, Grannum like, had much ado
To mumble what he could not chew.
However, now his matted Main
Was comb'd and trim'd, and comb'd again;
His Fly-flap too, that hung as low
As daggl'd Tail of Gammar's Cow,
Was dock'd as close his bony Crupper,
As bob-tail Horse of English Trooper;
His Heels new Shod, his Hide well curry'd,
And a long Lock brought o'er his Forehead,
Not only meant to add a Grace,
But Fierceness to his raw-bone Face,
That he might be by Foes accounted,
A bold Bucephalus when mounted,

And that each Horse might be afraid
O'th' Hide-bound Anatomick Jade,
And start against a Wall or Post,
To shun the Brute, as if a Ghost;
Or that each Steed of greater Force,
That met this Grandsire of a Horse,
To crippl'd Age might Rev'rence pay,
And, without Jostling, give the Way:
As Youth, whose Manners we extol,
To grissy Dolards give the Wall.

When thus he had prepar'd his Stramel,
Tall as an Elephant or Camel,
And made the bony Scare-crow fit
For the War Saddle and the Bit,
He took four Days Consideration,
About what noble Appellation
He should bestow upon the Brute,
That best his Qualities might sure,
And also add unto the Fame
Of him who was to mount the same;

For if a Name that's well apply'd,
Gives Credit to the Beast we ride,
Then he that is thereof the Donor,
In Justice ought to share the Honour.

After the Don much time had spent,
Some apt Distinction to invent,
Had alter'd, mended, dash'd, and blotted,
To make the Character unspotted,
At last it came into his Fancy,
To call his Courser Rozinante;
A Name that, in the Don's Conceit,
Sounded significantly Great,
Filling the Mouth, when 'twas exprest,
With Rev'rence tow'rds the worthy Beast,
And seem'd to intimate, the Steed
Was of no base or vulgar Breed,
But fit, by Quality and Birth,
To mount the bravest Knight on Earth.
So Kings, with Titles, Honour those
They for their own Companions chuse,

That they may be, upon occasion,
By vertue of their new Creation,
More fit for Royal Conversation.

Having thus far so well proceeded,
Himself began to think he needed
Some new addition to his Name,
That might his own true Worth proclaim;
And also to his native Town
Bring endless Honour and Renown,
By Deeds of Prowess, which he meant
To do, if nothing should prevent;
Accordingly a Week he took
For Study, without help of Book,
To find some new Donomination,
Deserving of his Approbation:
At length, when very near distracted
With Thought, he timely recollected,
A doubty Knight, of wondrous Fame,
Who'd tag'd his Country to his Name,

Which was Amadis, whom we call,
(As he had stil'd himself) de Gaul,
A Precedent so very fair,
It nick'd the Champion to a Hair,
Who grasp'd a good old silver Cup,
And when with Wine he'd fill'd it up,
Himself new Christens, and then drank a
Health to Don Quixote de la Mancha;
Which awful Name the Hero chose,
To fright and terrify his Foes,
And make them fearful to advance
Their Arms against his Sword or Launce.
So Country Gaff, that keeps a Dog
To bait a Bull or hunt a Hog,
Calls the Cur Towzer, that his Game
May swiftly fly the dreadful Name.

The Don, with wondrous Satisfaction,
Being almost now prepar'd for Action,
His Armour made indiff'rent bright,
His aged Horse in wholsome plight,

His Helmet, by his artful Pains,
Well cobbl'd to secure his Brains;
His ancient Spurs and Weapons made
As clean and keen as Pen-knife Blade;
Himself distinguish'd and his Steed,
To come of some Illustrious Breed;
That now there wanted but one thing
To fit him for Knight-Erranting,
And that was, lastly, to approve
Some Maid deserving of his Love,
For sake of whose prevailing Charms
He might exert his conquring Arms,
And at her Feet most humbly lay
His Trophies, when he'd won the Day;
For a Knight-Errant that has none
To heap his valiant Deeds upon,
Poor Tinker-like, without a Trully,
Must beat the dusty Road but dully;
For where a Champion has no Dame,
To share his Honour and his Fame,

He Combats like that Bully-Rake,
That only fights for Fighting's sake;
For Blood is seldom bravely spilt,
In Duel, Tournament, or Tilt,
Between the Plaintiff and Defendant,
Without a Woman at the end on't.
The Champion therefore recollected
A Lass he'd heretofore affected,
Tho' now in Years a little stricken,
And something wither'd, not to speak on,
Only so wrinkl'd, that the Maid
Was what we call not Old, but Staid;
A careful Huswife, fit to manage
Unlucky Striplings in their Nonage;
Or to become a Nurse to such
As lamely move by help of Crutch;
Besides, she famous was for making
Hogs-puddings, and for Brewing, Baking,
Churning rare Butter, pressing Cheese,
And all such useful things as these,

That not a Lass of her Degree,
Could match her for her Huswifry.
Her Dress was High crown'd-Hat and Pinner,
Suited to th' Qualities sh'ad in her;
Red-Petticoat of noble Dye,
At which the Turkies us'd to fly;
A Grogram-Gown, and Doulace-Linen,
Both which were of the Damsel's spining,

Aldonca was the Christian Name
Adapted to the Rural Dame,
Lorenco's said to be the other,
Deriv'd from Father and her Mother:
And this was she our famous Don,
After long study, pitch'd upon,
To make her, for her great Desert,
The only sov'reign of his Heart;
Resolving to bestow upon her,
Some new and swelling Name of Honour,
That might enlarge her Fame, and better
Become so excellent a Creature,

That when he should declare her brightness,
Her Carriage, Prudence, and Politeness,
Her Name, to ev'ry Hearers wonder,
Might rumble from his Mouth like Thunder.

Accordingly he rack'd his Brains,
And took a Week's incessant Pains,
To conjure up some fine Device,
That might be applicably nice:
At length by Love and Fancy fir'd,
The Thoughtful Don became inspir'd,
And leaping from his Buffet-Stool,
Cry'd out, I have it, by my Soul,
Dulcinea, that shall be her Name,
No Mortal can a better frame;
Says he, how sweetly does it sound!
Long look'd for now at last is found;
The Appellation fits my Dear,
It fills the Mouth and charms the Ear,
And well becomes so fair and chast
A Mistress, of so great a Breast.

But yet the Champion, not contented
With the bare Name he had invented,
Resolv'd to spend some Days, in order
To aptly find out something further,
That might set off the Dame to be
Of Noble Birth and Quality;
At length, by little and by little,
The Hero fix'd upon a Title,
And like a skilfull Vertuoso,
Added to Dulci*** del Tobosa,
Which was, as Authors do agree,
The Place of her Nativity.

His Lady's Name being thus commuted,
And all things to his Purpose suted,
He now resolv'd, what e'er came on't,
To mount his Trusty Rozinant,
And beat the dusty Road to find
Out strange Adventures to his Mind.

Thus, those who take too much delight
In idle Tales that others write,

Are oft misled from Reason's Rules,
To act like Madmen, or like Fools.

CANTO III.

Of the first Mounting of the Don,
With all his trusty Armour on;
And how he sally'd forth in quest
Of Honour, on his founder'd Beast.

The Champion being now prepar'd
With all things for his Body's Guard,
And quite impatient of Renown,
Which other famous Knights had won,
Awaking early in his Bed,
With fifty Crotchets in his Head,
He started up before the Sun
Had climb'd the blushing Horizon,

And did with secrecy environ
His hardy Corps in rusty Iron,
Fixing his Helmet o'er his Ears,
Which itch'd to battle Bulls and Bears,
Making himself, from Head to Tail,
A Kernel to the stubborn Shell.

When thus, for Service and for show,
Lock'd up in Steel, from Crown to Toe,
The Champion, proud as any Lord,
Then buckl'd to his nut-brown Sword,
And bracing on his Shield that shone
Like any new-scowr'd Dripping-Pan,
He grasp'd his Lance and stole away
To th' Stable-door by break of Day,
And there with armed Heel he mounted
His Rozinant, who groan'd and grunted,
Upon his arched Back to feel
The pondrous weight of so much Steel,
A Burthen which till then, poor Beast,
He ne'er had born behind his Crest.

Howe'er, no sooner had the Don
Well fix'd his Arms and Arse thereon,
But gently spurring ancient Steed,
On founder'd Stilts away he rid,
Well pleas'd that none had watch'd his motions,
Or knew his gen'rous Resolutions,
Consid'ring great Designs should be
Carr'd on with greatest Privacy,
Because, too early publication
Of mighty things in agitation,
Either obstructs what we're devising,
Or makes Success the less surprising.

Having thus stol'n from out his Yard,
Both unspected and unheard,
Away he jogg'd, like one forlorn,
O'er Fallow-Grounds and Fields of Corn,
Believing that the ruggedst Way,
Which over Hills and Mountains lay,
Was the best Road, where Champions sooner
Might stumble upon Fame and Honour,

Than in the common Path trod down
By the rude Feet of ev'ry Clown,
Most wisely thinking, as he trotted
Thro' Brakes and Stones, like one besotted,
The greatness of our Deeds are measur'd
By nothing but Fatigue and Hazard,
And that each Blessing Man obtains,
Is only valu'd by the Pains
We take to gain the happy Prize,
On which we fix our longing Eyes.

As thus he halted on in State,
From Gate to Gap, and Gap to Gate,
Poor Rozinante still endeav'ring
To save that Leg that wanted fav'ring,
A Thought alarm'd him of a sudden,
Which prov'd so biting and corroding,
That he at once, in great Confusion,
Had lik'd to've drop'd his Resolution,
For calling to his Mind, by chance,
He had no Right to bear a Lance,

Or was he qualify'd to draw
His Sword, according to the Law
Of Chivalry, or ought to fight
A Champion till bedubb'd a Knight,
And that in case he should be made
An Errant Brother of the Blade,
By stroke upon his crazy Helmet,
Enough to cleave or overwhelm it,
Yet, that his Armour should be white,
Till he had done some brave exploit,
And that he ought to take the Field,
With no Device upon his Shield,
Till he had drub'd some Knight or Dragon,
Or done some mighty Deed to brag on.
These thoughts perplex'd his Mind most sorely,
And rais'd therein a Hurly-burly,
That made him ready to renounce
His noble Enterprize at once,
Till pond'ring, like a Man that frets
For want of Coin to pay his Debts,

At length he wisely did project
A way to heal the sad Defect,
Resolving kindly to entreat
The next Knight-Errant he should meet,
To dub him his Erratique Brother,
As one Fanatick Priest does t'other,
Which he had read, in times of Yore,
Had frequently been done before.

As to his Armour being white,
Of that old Rule he made but light,
Resolving to improve his own,
By constant scow'ring, till 'twas grown
As bright as any Huswife's Platter,
Or Pewter-Pot that holds her Water.
Thus overcoming, by degrees,
The Scruples that disturb'd his Ease,
His Resolutions were, at length,
Recover'd to their former strength,
And he again as firm and stout
As when he first set boldly out.

So the fond Lover, for a while
Despairs; when Madam does not Smile;
But taking Heart renews his Court,
And Rallies till he wins the Fort.

The Don, to thinking much inclin'd,
Mongst other things; now call'd to Mind,
The Age and Wisdom of his Beast,
Advanc'd beyond his Teens at least,
Giving, on due Consideration,
The Rein to Rozinant's Discretion,
As if the Pensive Rider knew
His Horse was wisest of the two,
In Justice therefore ought to judge
Which Way was fittest for the Drudge;
Also what Speed and Pace would sute
The Strength and Temper of the Brute.

Poor Rozinante pleas'd to find
His Master so extreamly kind,
With Moderation now jogg'd on,
Like Higler's Pad, or Pack-Horse Drone,

Not caring to perform much more
Than one good Yorkshire Mile an Hour.

The Champion hoping soon to enter
On some miraculous Adventure,
Beat ev'ry Bush for Wolves and Bears,
As Rural Sportsmen do for Hares,
Each Minute wishing for the sight
Of some strange Dragon, Maid, or Knight,
That his stanch Courage might be try'd
Upon some scaly Monster's Hide;
Or have the happy luck to thwack
Some mighty Gyant's sturdy Back;
Or kill some blust'ring Furioso,
To bless Dulcinea del Tobosa,
By throwing at her charming Feet,
In spite of Sweat, divinely sweet,
The bloody Head in Combat won,
With Warts and Whiskers over-run:
Then ruminating on his Steed,
As if he'd done so brave a Deed,

Thus, in a Rapture, would he cry,
The Bards shall sing my History.

Scarce had the bright enliv'ning Sun,
From Thetis Arms his Course begun,
And gilded with his beauteous Rays,
The verdant Meads where Cattle graze;
Or had the Songsters of the Groves
In Consort join'd with cooing Doves,
To welcome in, with tuneful Throats,
Expressing their melodious Notes,
The blushing Goddess of the Morn,
That chears the World at her return,
And blesses with her glorious Smiles
The busy Farmer's early Toils;
Or had the happy Nymphs and Swains
Forsook their Bowers for the Plains,
Or from their fragrant Rosy Beds
And Pillows rais'd their drowsy Heads,
E're fam'd Don Quixote de la Mancha
Bestrid his trusty Rozinante,

Forsaking that voluptuous Ease
Which does the slothful Temper please,
To beat the Desarts of Montiel,
Where Glory, Fame, and Honour dwell,
And to survey the dusty Plains
Where Great Belona only reigns.

O happy Age to thus Record
The bold Atchievements of my Sword,
That ought to stand engrav'd upon
Pillars of everlasting Stone;
Or by some Painter be exprest,
A Michael Angelo at least,
Whose artful Strokes might speak my Praise,
And universal Wonder raise,
That my great Deeds, thus drawn, might be
Examples to Posterity.

But whosoe'er shall paint or write
The Hist'ry of so fam'd a Knight,
As I e'relong shall surely prove,
For Combat, Constancy, and Love,

O let 'em, I beseech, set forth
The Paces, Graces, and the Worth
Of Rozinant, that trusty Steed,
That all the World his Praise may read,
That Brute of Brutes, that careful Creature,
No Champion e'er bestrid a better;
That faithful Drudge that Trots all Day,
And never pines for Oats or Hay;
That kind Companion of his Master,
In ev'ry Scuffle and Disaster.
O! let his Character be bright,
For he's my Horse, tho' I'm the Knight;
And therefore as he shares the brunt
Of each Exploit, what e'er comes on't,
In Justice 'tis the Creature's due
To share the endless Honour too.

When thus the Champion's roving Fancy
Had favour'd trusty Rozinante,
Next to his dear beloved Horse,
His Mistress must be prais'd in course:

Then thus he'd into Raptures fly,
'Twixt Madness, Sadness, Love, and Joy.

O charming Goddess of my Breast,
Why thus do you disturb my Rest?
Why, Fair Dulcinea del Tobosa,
Is your poor Captive us'd but so-so?
Why, Princess so divinely bright,
Do you despise your doubty Knight?
Who wanders in Distress, to shew
The World his matchless Love for you,
And wades thro' Waters and thro' Fires,
To serve the Queen of his Desires,
And bears the sturdy thwacks and drubs
Of Champions Swords and Gyants Clubs,
T'enlarge the Empire of your Fame,
And add fresh Glories to your Name,
Till all Men shall be forc'd to own,
Your spotless Right to Beauty's Throne,
And ev'ry Champion bend their Arms
In Honour of Dulcinea's Charms.

In such extravagant Conceits
He spent the Remnant of his Wits,
Which entertain'd no other Fancies,
Than frothy Dregs of old Romances:
So he that loves the pleasing Chase
Of either Hare or pretty Lass,
With him, where-e'er he comes, 'tis common
To talk of Chloe or of Bowman.

Thus with his Head as full of Whims,
As an old Quaker's is of Dreams,
The Armed-Champion beat about
To find some strange Adventure out,
Till the warm Sun, that shone so bright
Upon the Armour of the Knight,
Had made his Helmet full as hot
As Sauce-Pan, or as Porridge-Pot,
When scalding Broath, for Lads and Lasses,
Has just been ladl'd into Messes.

However, still he bore the Heat
With Patience, tho' he stew'd in Sweat,

And fry'd within, from Head to Tail,
Like Lobster roasting in his Shell.

Poor Rozinante halting on,
As much afflicted as the Don,
Was now near ready to complain,
As well of Hunger as of Pain,
For they had almost spent the Day
Together, without Bread or Hay;
So that like trusty Friends they far'd
Alike exactly, tho' but hard,
That neither could affronted be
At t'other's Partiality.
Thus up and down the spacious Plain
The Champion wander'd, but in vain,
Meeting with neither Gyant, Beast,
Or beauteous Lady sore distrest,
Nor any kind Adventure worth
So bold a Warrior's setting forth;
At length, despairing of Success,
And Evening drawing on apace,

He now began, like Rozinante,
To think Provision very scanty,
Therefore with diligence look'd out
For some poor Shepherd's homely Hut,
Or curteous Gyant's ancient Castle,
Where he might hope to wet his Whistle,
And stuff his empty Guts with Beef,
Which now were honing for Relief,
And that his Rozinant might find
A good Horse-Supper to his Mind,
Who could, if better Fare should fail,
Of Barly-Stubble make a Meal;
Or if it happen'd in his way,
Mumble Wheat-Straw instead of Hay.

The Don, with all the Eyes he had,
Thus staring round like one that's Mad,
At last, a distant Inn espy'd,
At which his Heart was overjoy'd,
Altho' his craz'd Imagination,
Transform'd the tipling Habitation

Into a stately Castle, where
Some Gyant cloister'd up the Fair,
And us'd to haul in harmless Maids
By the curl'd Tresses of their Heads,
Chain down their Legs to overpow'r 'em,
First Ravish 'em, and next Devour 'em.

The nearer 'twas within his view,
The more Delirious still he grew,
And fancy'd that 'twas fenc'd about,
With brazen Walls and spacious Moat,
And that the Corners which were Four,
Were guarded each with lofty Tow'r,
Whose Pinacles much brighter shon
Than burnish'd Silver in the Sun,
And glitt'ring stood so very high,
As if near Neighbours to the Sky;
A Draw-bridge too his Brains supply'd,
And Iron-Gates on t'other side;
With fifty other monstrous Fancies
He'ad glean'd from out his old Romances.

No sooner was he come within
A hundred Paces of the Inn,
Tho' Castle we should say, for lo
The frantick Don would have it so,
But his poor Rozinant he stops,
And waits, possest of wondrous Hopes,
That from some Battlement, or Turret,
Or Window of a lofty Garret,
A Dwarf, there posted for a Spy,
Would sound his Trumpet from on high,
To give due notice to his Dutchess,
Of a Knight's making his Approaches,
Or to apprize the Ladies Guard,
Some Gyant with a whisking Beard,
A Knight that had a mind to thwack him,
Without stood ready to attack him.

Thus, the Don waited, with his Lance
Fix'd in a Posture of Defence,
Dreaming he should a Challenge hear,
Or that some Lady would appear,

To give him curteous Invitation
To a good Supper or Collation,
Which now he wanted to be tasting,
Much rather than to feel a Basting,
Prefering wholsome Beef and Porridge,
To a sharp Tryal of his Courage,
Altho' he wanted to confirm
His valiant Mind and strength of Arm,
By slicing some Goliah's Head off,
Like other Knights that he had read of;
Yet famish'd Guts allay'd his Choler,
And Hunger got the start of Valour.
But no Fair Rosamond appearing,
Or Trumpet sounding in his hearing,
And Rozi. stiff as any Post,
With standing on three Legs at most,
B'ing very willing (tho' scarce able)
To crawl into some Barn or Stable,
The thirsty Don, with mounted Lance,
Did near to the Inn-Door advance,

Which by the strength of his Conceit
Still seem'd to him a Castle-Gate,
Where two loose airy wanton Jades,
That look'd as if they'd learn'd their Trades,
Were standing, in a merry Chat,
Laughing aloud at this and that.

Just in the Good-speed, as the Don
Was spurring Rozinante on,
A Swineherd chanc'd to wind his Horn,
To call the Hogs from out the Corn,
Which happy sound so overcame
The Champion with the hopes of Fame,
That he believ'd, as he had read,
The Signal by a Dwarf was made
From off the Battlements on high,
His near approach to notify;
That now o'erjoy'd he stabs the Sides
Of Rozinant, and boldly rides
To th' House, quite Ravish'd and Inspir'd
With the Hog-Trumpet he had heard.

So in the dark, when Country Clown
Has lost his Path-way to some Town,
He hears Dog-Musick with delight,
Because their Barking sets him right.

The Strumpets standing at the Door,
Who'd ne'er seen such a Sight before,
Much frighted at so strange a Creature,
Whose Head had neither Face nor Feature,
His Body arm'd with Iron-Shell,
Like flying Dragon's Coat of Mail,
In great Surprise flew back to shun
The scaly Devil of a Don,
Who lifting to his Helmet top
His ill-look'd Pastboard Beaver up,
Shew'd 'em his rusty dusty Face,
Which caus'd the Jilts to slack their Pace,
And stand their Ground, when they began
To find the Monster but a Man.

The Champion blest, to see the vertuous
And beauteous Pair so very curteous

As not to fly his Shield and Lance,
But rather freely to advance,
Was proud he should respected be
By Ladies of such high degree,
And bowing down his Head in course,
Low as the Withers of his Horse,
Believing them to be no less
Than charming Nymphs and Goddesses,
In frantick old Romantick Strains
He thus accosts the Harradans.

O beauteous Queens! how blest a Knight
Am I, to thus with-hold your flight?
Should I, Fair Virgins, do Offence
To such enchanting Innocence,
I should unworthily transgress
The Noble Order I profess,
Eclipse my Everlasting Fame,
And bring Dishonour on my Name.
No! sweet, angelick, lovely Creatures,
Your heav'nly Smiles, your charming Features,

Command me, Ladies, to redress
Your Wrongs, in case you're in Distress,
And forc'd to any foul Compliance,
By Champions, Dragons, or by Gyants.

This high-flown complimenting Speech
Gave the young Jades a Laughing Itch,
Whose Ears, till now, had Strangers been
To Angel, Lady, or to Queen,
Accustom'd to no Names before,
But Doll you Slut, and Nan you Whore;
So that for want of due Discretion,
They could not check their Titulation,
But giggl'd at the Dons Oration.
Who being something mov'd to see
Ill-Manners in such Quality,
As he mistook the Punks to be,
And growing splenetick upon't,
He thus resented the Affront:

Fair Ladies I am griev'd to find ye
So Wanton, therefore must remind ye,

That civil Words and curteous Mein,
From the coarse Dowdy to the Queen,
Become your gentle Sex much better,
Than laughing in so rude a nature,
As if you scoff'd your doubty Knight,
Who only comes to do you right,
And in his Armour ready stands
T'obey your Ladyship's Commands.

This quaint Rhetorical Reproof,
With so much Gravity set off,
Put Manners quite beyond their Pow'r,
And made the Gossips laugh the more.
As the Wife check'd by Nuptial Master
For scolding, always scolds the faster.
This so provok'd the Champion's Spleen,
That he began to Fume and Grin,
Shewing his Valour was not wont
To brook so odious an Affront,
Without revenging, like a Knight,
So great and undeserv'd a Slight.

Thus Anger breaks thro' Reason's Rules,
And makes the Bravest act like Fools.

CANTO IV.

The Don's divertion of his Spleen,
And kind Reception at the Inn:
His Supper with a Jilting Crew,
And Musick that he had thereto.

The Champion vex'd he should be scoff'd
Like any Bully rav'd and huff'd,
And in his Wrath was almost ready
To draw upon each laughing Lady:
Or with his Lance to run full tilt
At her that was the merri'st Jilt;
But the Host hearing what had past,
Came timely to appease his Guest,

And, interposing, beg'd Sir Knight
To cease his Passion and alight;
Altho' when he himself beheld
So strange a Warrior with his Shield,
A Mortal lock'd from Head to Heel,
In such a rusty Case of Steel,
He found 'twas Penance to forbear
A Laugh, in spite of all his Care;
However, being a Man of Peace,
Short-breath'd, and over-charg'd with Grease,
A wheesing, lazy, punch-gut Fellow,
Made chiefly up of Dung and Tallow,
He acted with the greater heed,
For fear a Drubing should succeed,
And thus receiv'd the hungry Don,
As lighting off his Skeleton.

Sir Knight you're welcome as a Lord,
To what my Cubboard does afford;
I hope my Cellar and my Stable
Are so well furnish'd that they're able

To entertain both Man and Beast,
With what becomes so great a Guest:
Only, Right Worshipful, I fear
There is no Bedding for you here.
Then, with Submission, holding right
The off-side Stirrup of the Knight,
Who first dismounts his feeble Prancer,
And thus returns his Host an Answer,
Taking the mercenary Vassal
To be the Governour o'th' Castle.

Most curteous Senior Castillano,
You much oblige me, but I pray now,
Let your kind hospitable Plenty
Extend to this my Rozinante,
For sure no Champion e'er bestrid,
Tho' Old, a more deserving Steed,
Nor can the Universe afford
His Fellow, take it of my Word.
This said, at's Rump he made a stand,
And spank'd his Buttock with his Hand.

The list'ning Host surpriz'd to hear
The hide-bound Strammel's Character,
Look'd nicely round him ev'ry way,
To see wherein his Goodness lay,
Yet could, alas, no Graces find,
But greasy Heels and broken Wind,
Founder'd besides in ev'ry Foot,
Lean, Old, and almost Blind to boot;
So Smiling led the Beast away,
To give the crippl'd Drone some Hay.
Returning soon from Rozinant,
To see what 'twas the Knight might want,
Whose hasty Passion now was o'er
With those that scoff'd him at the Door,
So far, that they were stripping off
His Armour, and forbore to laugh.
The Don between them setting forth
Their great Humility and Worth,
And praising their excessive Beauty,
Down from the Top-knot to the Shoe-tye,

Whilst the Jades labour'd Tooth and Nail,
To part the Champion and his Shell,
Till, they had eas'd his Back and Breast;
Of half a Hundred weight at least;
But at length striving to unlock
The Helmet that inclos'd his Block,
They found no Method or Endeavour
Would loose his Gorget or his Beaver,
Without they cut the Strings to wast,
With which he'd ty'd them on so fast,
Which were not Thongs, but Ribbons green,
That long i'th' Family had been,
Therefore with Scissers or with Knife,
He'd let none touch 'em for his Life,
That the poor Champion's seat of Reason
Was forc'd to lodge all Night in Prison;
So that his Steel Belonian Bright-Cap,
Was now transform'd into a Night-Cap,
Which made the merry Doxies Chaps
Into a Laughing-fit relapse,

Tho' now, thro' Fear, they would be turning
Their Heads aside, to hide their Girning,
That his grave Worship they attended,
Should not be at their Mirth offended.

The Don extreamly proud to see
That Ladies of such Quality,
So Curteous, so divinely Fair,
As in his frantick Thoughts they were,
Shou'd with their charming Presence grace him
And take such Pleasure to unease him,
Thought himself bound, in point of Breeding,
To strain from his Romantick Reading,
Some high-flown Compliment, that might
Become the Mouth of such a Knight;
Accordingly he paus'd a little,
Then thus perform'd it to a Tittle:

O gen'rous Damsels to attend
Your Knight, your Lover, and your Friend,
And thus to welcome to your Castle,
Your Captive, Champion and your Vassal;

Sure no puissant Knight till now,
Whether of high Degree or low,
Was e'er so honour'd by such bright
Attendance as Don Quixote hight,
Young Virgins cry, Sir Knight what want ye,
And Princes feed his Rozinante.

Now Ladies I have made my own
And my Steed's Title to you known,
Which once I had resolv'd to hide,
Till I had pierc'd some Dragon's Side;
Or with this Arm of Valour slain
Some Gyant on the dusty Plain;
But since I could not but discover
His Name who is your trusty Lover,
Before your Champion and his Steed
Had serv'd you in some famous Deed,
Yet, Ladies, shall this Arm of Glory
Defend your Charms, do Wonders for ye,
To shew how greatly I adore ye.

The Jilts unqualify'd to answer
The Flights of such a learn'd Romancer,
Instead of suitable returns,
Scoff'd him, unseen, with Winks and Girns.
Such Game that merry Damsels make,
When plac'd behind their Grannum's back.
Yet one pert Lass, to shew his Worship
The curteous Temper of her Whoreship,
Desir'd him that he'd please to think
Of what he best cou'd Eat or Drink.

That kind Proposal made him start,
Eat, quoth the Knight, with all my Heart,
Fair Ladies, 'tis a welcome Thought,
Bring what you please, I care not what,
For now you've strip'd me of my Armour,
I could, methinks, out-eat a Farmer.

But the Day proving to be Friday,
Amongst all Romanists a bye-day,
That's set apart for hungry Sinners,
To mortify on Poor-Jack Dinners,

That th' Inn had nothing to delight
The Champion's craving Appetite,
But Stock-Fish, which must first be beaten
With Mallets, e're it could be eaten,
Call'd in some places Coradilla,
By the Inn-keeper, Truchuela,
Ironically so, no doubt,
Because that Word means little Trout.

To which reply'd the Famish'd Knight,
A Lark's much better than a Kite,
Tho' a Whale's great he's no good Meat,
A Sprat's a better Fish to eat.
But since I'm fall'n amidst such Plenty,
I hope the number wont be scanty;
For, lovely Maids, to tell you truly,
I could, methinks, eat wonderfully;
Pray, therefore, let me have 'em quickly,
Before my Appetite grows sickly.
With that the Host, and ev'ry Hussy
Were, in a Moment, wondrous busy;

Some for the Knives and Forks were looking,
Whilst those more handy went to Cooking,
That tho' the Supper was but mean
The Entertainment might be clean;
For what they had was only fitting
For downright Penitential Eating.
However, at the Door for Air,
The Cloth was laid by Maiden Fair;
Where, for some time, the hungry Don
Expecting sat with Helmet on,
Whose ghastly Phiz, with Beaver cock'd,
In rusty Shell of Iron lock'd,
Like Hamlet's Manes, in the Play,
Scar'd all that travel'd by that way.
At length the noble Feast was brought,
Swiming in Oil 'twixt cold and hot;
Such Sauce which smutty Vulcan takes
To liquor stubborn Locks and Jacks;
The Fish, we justly may allow,
Was tough as Countenance of Cow,

Like rusty Bacon, rank and frowzy,
And Salt as Lot's Wife's Tuzzy-muzzy.
Deal Shavings could not be more fine,
Fry'd in their own rich Turpentine.
The Bread both coarse and mouldy too,
Brown, mix'd with canker'd streaks of blue
The Wine that did the Banquet crown,
And made the husky Food go down,
Was, in its taste related near
To Syrup, dash'd with Vinegar;
Such as your Bawdy-house Taverns deal
To those that come to Kiss and Feel.

These were the Dainties that the Don
Was forc'd, alas, to feed upon,
Who was, in spite of all Endeavour,
So plagu'd with's Head-piece and his Beaver,
That he was glad to beg the Sluts,
That cook'd his Food, to cram his Guts;
Nor could the Glass come near his Mouth,
That he might quench his craving Drowth,

Until a hollow Cane was brought,
Thro' which he rinc'd his dusty Throat.
As Fluxing Patients, weak and ill,
Suck Broaths and Cordials thro' a Quill.
Thus sate the Knight on wooden Bench,
Upon his Right and Left a Wench,
Striving by painful Mastication
To yield his Bowels Consolation,
Bearing, like any patient Saint,
Without Reflection or Complaint,
His homely Usage, and the curse
Of Iron-Night-Cap, which was worse,
Rather than any Hand should be
The Mangler of his Finery.
So Heroes, to the Gods ally'd,
Make Ease and Safety stoop to Pride.

As thus his Worship chewing sat,
Too busy with his Fish to Chat,
A Gelder passing by, by chance,
Did to his Mouth his Horn advance,

And on his bending Cornet play'd
Such Musick to proclaim his Trade,
That the Inn Dogs in Consort join'd,
As soon as e'er they heard him wind,
All running, out in mighty Anger,
As if they thought their Stones in danger,
And therefore stood by one another,
As Brother Puppy should by Brother.

The Champion highly pleas'd to hear
So sweet a Harmony so near,
Was now confirm'd and very pos,
That 'twas a Castle, that it was;
The brawny Host, a Knight of Fame,
Or Governour that kept the same;
And those that by his Side sate down,
No less than Ladies of Renown,
Who had undress'd him, cook'd his Food,
And so much veneration shew'd,
That now again he highly bless'd
The Occupation he profess'd,

And almost ready was to fly
Into a frantick Rhapsody,
But recollecting he'ad no Warrant
To claim the Title of Knight-Errant,
Like Tatler's Church, it sunk his Passion
From Zeal, quite down to Moderation.
So that his Thoughts were wholly now
Ta'n up about, which way and how
He should arrive to this great Honour,
And what fam'd Knight should be the Donor.

Thus we may see the Tracks of Fame,
At which such giddy Numbers aim,
Are full of Thorns, and only fit
For those to tread that can submit
To taste the sowre as well as sweet.

The End of the First Part.

II. Part II.

CANTO V.

The merry Farce that pass'd between
The Don and Landlord of the Inn;
And how he paid the Carriers off,
For coming near the Wat'ring Trough.

The Champion's mind not sitting right,
For want of being dubb'd a Knight,
The melancholy Thought destroy'd
His Appetite before 'twas cloy'd,
And made his Supper but the worse,
Which was at best both short and coarse.
However, when the Jilts had clear'd
The Dish, and wip'd his greasy Beard,

The Don arising from his Seat,
Cry'd, God be thank'd for what I've Eat;
And then by a commanding whistle
Call'd for the Governor o'th' Castle,
That with him he might cross the Yard,
To see how Rozinante far'd.
No sooner had the Landlord led,
His noble Guest to view his Steed,
Who grunting lay, poor founder'd Creature
On Muck, for want of fresher Litter:
But the Don locking of a sudden
The Door o'th' Stable that they stood in
Fell down upon his Knees before
His Host, upon the filthy Floor,
And on a Cusheon made of T**ds,
Address'd him in the following Words.

Most Valiant Knight who Governs all
Within this Ancient Castle Wall,
Whose Courteous Bounty has been shew'd
In costly Wines and dainty Food,

I now must beg a further Boon,
Which you must grant or I'm undone;
Nor will I rise from this soft Place,
Till you assure me of Success.

The staring Host stood much amaz'd,
To see his Noble Guest so craz'd,
And thought him down right mad at least,
To Kneel where Cows had dung'd and Pist,
Did therefore earnestly desire,
The Don to rise from out the mire,
And not pollute his Marrow-bones,
By kneeling on such filthy Stones;
But all the Landlord could devise,
Would not perswade the Don to rise,
Who, still amidst the nasty moisture,
Continu'd in a Godson's Posture,
Till by the Host his Suit was granted,
Before he knew what 'twas he wanted;
Then rising up, the joyful Don
Renew'd his Speech, and thus went on.

Most worthy Knight of high Degree,
Your Goodness speaks your Quality,
I therefore shall entreat no more
Than I may modestly emplore,
And you, when my Request you know,
With Credit to your self bestow;
The Boon that I shall now demand
By Promise, at your Generous Hand,
Is, that I may receive the Honour
Of Knighthood, from so brave a Donor,
And that to morrow Morn may be
The Day of the Solemnity.

All Night that I may be prepar'd
Your Castle Chappel will I guard,
There Watch my Armour, till the Sun
Surmounts the gilded Horizon,
Then by the Dint of Trusty Blade,
By you will I a Knight be made;
That when thus qualify'd to shew
The Wonders that this Arm can do,

I may relieve distressed Maids,
Fight Champions, cut off Monsters Heads,
Take sturdy Gyants by the Beard,
And do such Feats that ne'er were heard,
Till Poets Songs my Deeds enrol,
And spread my Fame from Pole to Pole.

The Host discerning very plain
The Don's Disorder in his Brain,
Now rightly took his Talk to be
Th' effect of downright Lunacy,
And b'ing a sharp and merry Blade,
Well fitted for the tip'ling Trade,
Resolv'd to carry on the Jest,
By humouring his frantick Guest,
So cocking by his Bacon side
An Elbow, thus the Host reply'd,

Most doubty Champion I am blest,
In such a Valiant worthy Guest,
No Man at Arms has greater Right
Than you, Sir, to be dubb'd a Knight;

None better qualify'd than he
That's skill'd in Feats of Chivalry,
Which bold Employment to my Praise,
I followed in my Youthful Days,
And rang'd the spacious World to find
Adventures Noble as my Mind:
Strange Pranks have I been us'd to play
I'th' Percheles of Malaga,
And in the Isles of Riaran,
Hug'd many a Charming Curtizan;
Within the famous Town of Sevil,
Kiss'd, kick'd and bully'd like a Devil;
Storm'd the Quicksilv'r House at Segovia,
Sinn'd thro' the Potro of Cordova;
Made many a Beauteous Damsel yield,
In the Valencian Olive Field,
Rak'd round the Circle of Granada,
Bilk'd the Hedge Taverns of Toledo,
Unrig'd upon St Lucar's Wharf
The Stroling Punks of Hood and Scarf;

Liv'd upon Widows, Wives, and such
That by the Bye would take a Touch;
Bubbl'd young Heirs at Cards and Dice,
And fought 'em if they made a Noise,
Till grown a famous Gladiator,
In all the Courts of Judicature.
Thus having got my self a Name,
Much dreaded wheresoe'er I came,
Then to this Castle I retir'd,
T'enjoy the Wealth I had acquir'd;
And here I live and make Provision
For Errant Knights of all Condition.
To shew the Honour and Regard
I bear to Worthies of the Sword,
And also to partake of what
They by their Valiant Deeds have got,
That ev'ry Courteous Brother Knight,
My civil usage may requite,
And shew his Love to me his Brother,
As one good turn requires another.

But now, says he, I must confess,
There's one mischance you cannot guess,
That is, my Chappel's not in plight
To watch your Armour in this Night;
For being shatter'd by the Rage
Of Storms, and much impair'd by Age,
I raz'd it level with the Floor,
To build it finer than before.
So that it now in Rubbish lies,
From whence e'er long to th' World's surprize
Another Phœnix shall arise.

Therefore, says he, Right Worthy Sir,
You no Dishonour will incur,
If you should chuse another Place,
In so Necessitous a Case.
The Court-yard, now the Nights grow warmer,
May suit the Vigil of your Armour,
'Twill fit your Worship to a Hair,
What signifies a little Air,

Now Madam Luna shines so bright,
And adds such pleasure to the Night,
That you your Lance and Shield may handle,
Without the Light of Lamp or Candle,
And watch your Armour with your Eyes,
By the bright Lustre of the Skies:

But by the way there is one Query,
Which at this time seems necessary,
I hope your noble Worship's Pockets
Are lin'd with current Crowns and Duckets,
And that i'th' Morning you'll be free
To pay th' accustomary Fee
Of Honour, due to Errant Brothers,
For giving Knighthood unto others.

With that the Champion search'd his Britches,
And fumbl'd, but could find no Riches;
At length reply'd, he had no Money,
Adding, 'twas needless to have any;
For that he never found in Writing
That Cavaliers who Rid a Knighting,

E'er carry'd Pounds or Crowns about 'em,
But always liv'd like Kings without 'em;
Could feast their Guts and wet their whistles
In fine enchanted Caves and Castles,
Where Beauteous Dames should smiling sit,
And bid 'em welcome to their Meat;
Whilst Virgins at their Backs should wait,
To hand 'em Wine in Bowls of Plate;
So that he thought all Coyn but Dross,
And therefore had not brought a Cross.

This made the Landlord scratch a while,
Who yet could not forbear to smile,
Altho' his Ends were disappointed,
And his own Project quite disjointed:
However, finding the delirious
Champion of Knighthood so desirous,
He still resolv'd to please the Don,
And cary' the Humour further on;
But first he rack'd his crafty Wits,
To shew his Guest, that Errant Knights

As well as those of courser Mold.
Made use of Silver and of Gold,

For tho', says he, we do not Read
That Errant Knights had any need
Of Money, Cordials, Salves or Plaisters,
In case of Wounds or such Disasters;
Or of clean Linen to refresh 'em,
If Gyant Rumbolo should thrash 'em,
And make 'em sweat in the Defence
Of some fair Lady's Innocence;
Yet still none Travels but he carries
Such useful common Necessaries,
That if he should in fight sustain
A Wound, he might relieve his Pain,
Or drop a loose unsav'ry flirt,
Should soil the Lappit of his Shirt,
He might remove the warm Perfume,
That sticks so close unto his Bum,
And wrap his poor polluted Label
In Linen, clean and comfortable;

Therefore, that Knight's equipp'd by halves
Who 'as neither Money, Shirts or Salves,
And must be very oft Distrest,
Unless he happens to be Blest
With some Magician for a Friend,
Who can by Art of Magick send
A Dwarf or Damsel in a Cloud,
With Drams and Balsams for his Good,
Or with a Bottle or a Noggin
Of Aqua Tetrachimagogon,
That, tho' his Bones are ne'er so baisted,
Will cure the Knight as soon as tasted.

But otherwise, in Times of Yore,
The Knights took always care to store
Their Squires with all things that were wholesome,
As Money, Linnen, Lint and Balsam,
That in their Snapsacks they might carry
Whate'er was truly Necessary
To dress their Wounds, and to supply
Their wants, when Hungry or a Dry.

But if it was a Knight's desire
To range the World without a 'Squire,
Then in a little Bag behind,
Most neatly to his Saddle join'd,
Himself cary'd all that might Commode
His Worship on the dusty Road,
Well buckl'd down with Straps of Leather,
And thought it no dishonour neither.

Therefore since you desire to be
My Noble Son in Chivalry,
I charge you for the time to come,
When e'er you sally out from Home,
That you take special Care to be
Well stock'd with what I've mention'd t'ye,
But above all, besure you line
Your Bags or Pockets well with Coyn,
If that one thing should be forgot,
The rest won't signify a Groat;
'Tis all in all, the only Talent
That makes a Champion Wise and Valiant;

Therefore I charge you o'er and o'er
That you ne'er mount or wander more,
Fight, Squabble, Scuffle, Eat or Drink,
Abroad, without the ready Chink.

The Don convinc'd he now should be
Confirm'd a Knight in Errantry,
Gave his Left Breast a sudden blow,
And did in Solemn manner vow
Obedience to the whole Command,
Then from his Heart withdrew his Hand,
And did the Ceremony End
With an obsequious humble bend.

The Don now full of Joy prepar'd
His Armour for the open Yard,
And fearing neither Wind or Weather,
Laid all his Trumpery together;
Then, Porter like, convey'd his Case
Of Iron, to th' appointed Place,
Where stood between a Pump and Sink
A Trough where Horses us'd to Drink.

The Don conceiving this to be
A very great Conveniency,
In the Stone Coffin did Intomb
His jointed Steel, which just had room,
And as at length 'twas nicely laid,
Look'd like a Corps without a Head,
For still the Helmet was upon
The frantick Noddle of the Don,
Who was resolv'd his Head should dwell
A Pris'ner in its Iron Jayl,
Rather than cut the Silken Pride
With which his stubborn Cap was ty'd.

The Champion now brac'd on his Shield,
And did his Lance most nicely wield,
As, at a little distance off
The Pump, he mov'd to watch the Trough;
No Bell-man at a Banker's Door,
That walks to guard the Wealthy Oar,
Could put a Sterner Visage on,
Or Strut more proudly than the Don.

The Host had now forsook his Guest,
To laugh within Doors at the Jest,
And tell the merry Tale to those
That sat carousing in the House,
Who presently came out in Clusters,
As if to see a Horse crack Oysters;
And at a distance, by the Light
O'th' Moon, beheld the pleasing sight;
Whilst the grave Centry strutted round
The Trough, upon the self same Ground,
And walk'd about in mighty State,
Like any Midnight Magistrate;
Sometimes he'd stop and pause a Minute,
As if his Head had something in it,
Then leaning forward on his Hands,
Supported by his upright Lance,
Would on his Armour fix his Eyes,
And think as if profoundly Wise.

At length a sturdy Lout, a Carrier,
Who fear'd no Errant-Knight or Warriour,

Wanted to fill the Trough with Water,
That he might bring his Mules to't a'ter:
Accordingly he bluntly went
To th' Pump to make good his intent;
But the Don storming in a huff,
To see the Clown approach the Trough,
Advanc'd his Lance, but thus he spoke
In Wrath, before he struck a stroke.

O bold Presumptious Knight, who e'er
Thou art that rudely dar'st prepare,
To lay thy Hands upon the bright
Unsully'd Arms I watch this Night,
Take heed, I say, how you approach,
Or with unhallow'd Fingers Touch
The Armour that belongs unto
The bravest Knight that ever drew;
Stand off, return from whence you came,
Provoke me not into a Flame,
Lest instant Death the end should be
Of thy Robust Temerity.

'Nouns who are you, crys surly Hob,
D'ye think I fear your spiked Club,
I say my Mules shall Drink in spite
Of you, for all you are a Knight,
What's this, I tro, what have we here,
Steel Harness for a Cavalier:
So rashly catching hold thereof,
He tost the Armour out the Trough,
And had no sooner seiz'd upon
The Pump, and made the Water run,
But the fierce Champion, in a storm,
Let slip his Target from his Arm,
And turning up his wishful Eyes,
With great Devotion tow'rds the Skies,
He cry'd aloud, thou charming Maid,
Dulcinea, Bless me with thy Aid,
That for the Honour of Tobosa,
I may subdue this Furioso,
And in this first Adventure shew,
My Love and Valour both are true,

Then raising up his Trusty Lance
Above his Head, with both his Hands
He gave the poor unwary Clown,
Be damn'd a knock upon the Crown,
That had the Carrier been a Horse,
He could not have withstood his Force,
But must have fall'n upon his Rump,
By sudden dint of mortal thump.

When thus with one successful thwack,
He'ad laid the Carrier on his Back,
Without the least Concern he left
The sprawling Clown of Sense bereft,
And gravely gather'd from the Dirt
His Arms, as if he'ad done no hurt,
Then calmly to the Trough restor'd 'em,
And as before walk'd by to guard 'em,
Finding no more the fatal knock,
He'ad given the Carrier on his Block,
Than if he'ad crush'd a silly Mouse,
Or with his Thumb-nail crack'd a Louse,

Tho' very near depriv'd of Breath,
And gasping lay 'twixt Life and Death,
Thus do the Brave despise the Foe
That they can conquer with a Blow.

No sooner had our mighty Warriour,
Obtain'd this Victory o'er the Carrier,
And free from either Fear or Passion,
Return'd unto his watchful Station;
But a new Foe approach'd the Trough,
A second Carrier, Stern and Gruff,
Who little knew alas! how hard
His Brother Jobbernole had far'd,
And wanting only like the first,
To bring his Mules to quench their Thirst
He boldly went about to clean
The Trough, that he might pump therein
And taking hold of what he found,
To lug it out upon the Ground,
The Don renewing of his Passion,
Without a Word of Invocation,

Drop'd down his Target to be ready,
Forgetting his Tobosa Lady,
And with his Lance so laid about
The Noddle of the Country Lout,
That e'ery stroke did Execution,
By deep Incision or Contusion.

The Carrier scar'd at the Attack,
Roar'd like a Bull at e'ery Thwack,
And cry'd out Murder, when he found
His Comrade gasping on the Ground,
Which outcry soon alarm'd the Inn,
And brought out all that were within:
Amongst the rest the Host appear'd,
All much surpriz'd at what they'd heard,
Moving together in close Order,
To find who 'twas that cry'd out Murder.

The Don perceiving this Batall'on,
Just ready, as he thought, to fall on,
And taking them at first to be
All chosen Knights of Errantry,

Brac'd on his Shield with Expedition,
Most gravely offe'ring with Submission
To his dear Dulci, this Petition.

Thou Queen of Beauty whose bright Charms
Inspir'd me first to take up Arms,
Thy kind Assistance I invoke,
O give me now a Heart of Oak,
That thy Advent'rous Knight may prove,
At once his Valour and his Love,
Enable 'm with thy distant Eyes,
To struggle with this great Surprize,
And conquer this puissant Army,
Of Scoundrel Slaves that now alarm me.

Then drawing his Tremendous Sword
He put himself upon his Guard,
Believing now no Foot or Horse
Was able to withstand his force,
And that if Fifty Warriours more,
Came on with their United Power;

Droncanso like he could have Slain
Them all, and not have spar'd a Man.

The Muliteers being much provok'd,
Their Friends should be so roughly stroak'd;
But yet, not daring to come near
A Foe that did so fierce appear;
They pick'd up Stones to their Assistance,
And made their Onset at a distance;
Giving the Don such Knocks and Thumps,
That put him sadly to his Trumps,
Because he durst not make a Sally
Upon the Croud that gave the Volley,
For fear the Foe should snatch away
His Arms that in the Horse-Trough lay.
The Host now labour'd to divert,
The Clownish Mob from doing hurt,
Declaring that the Man they Pelted,
Was Mad, and should not be Assaulted,
Left in his Fury he should do
Some Mischief that themselves might rue,

For that in Case his Trusty Steel,
Should Chop 'em down from Head to Heel.
No Law would Punish his Offences,
Because he was not in his Senses.

The Champion who maintain'd his Post,
Byth' Moon distinguishing his Host,
So busy in the Boist'rous Croud,
To him and them, Cry'd out aloud.

O Base Inhospitable Wretch!
To thus disturb me in my Watch,
And Treat me in so Rude a Fashion,
Amidst my Solemn Preparation;
Durst I but from my Armour part,
My Trusty Blade should make thee Smart;
This Sturdy Arm and Nut brown Sword,
Should thy vile Perfidy Reward,
And Cleave thy Costern by this Light,
Had I but first been made a Knight.

But for you Ignominious Rabble,
Pelt on as long as you are able;

Advance, draw nearer if you durst;
That I may lay you by the first,
And give you the return that's due
To such a Scoundrel Herd as you.

This threatning, tho but short Oration,
He Spoke with so much Indignation,
That each Bold Sentence struck a Terrour
The ery Clownish Dastard hearer,
So that for Fear, and partly thro'
The Landlords mild Perswasions too,
They stoop'd no more to gather Stones,
But gladly made a Truce at once;
The Don (that Wars might have an ending)
In his Side franckly Condescending,
That they in Peace should carry off
Their Wounded Comrades from the Trough,
And they on their Side should no more,
Molest him till his Watch was o'er;
So both Sides parted with content,
And in a Doors the Carriers went,

100

Leaving the Grave, Victorious Don
To finish what he had begun.
Thus, when Men foolishly fall out,
And scarce can tell what 'tis about,
If one Side's Mad and does despise
All Danger, to'ther soon complies.

101

CANTO VI.

The Manner of the Don's b'ing Knighted,
And how his Landlord was requited;
How the Bold Knight departed thence
In Peace without a Groat Expence.

The Host beginning now to vex
At the Don's Mad unruly Tricks,
Resolv'd before he slept to Knight him,
In hopes he then would bid God b'wit 'im,
That's Customers might Drink in quiet
Without the fear of further Riot;
To th' Don accordingly he went,
And made this welcome Compliment.

Right Worthy Sir, it gives me Trouble,
To think a Man so truly Noble,

102

Should be attack'd by Clowns within
My Castle Walls as you have been,
And so Affronted by a Crew
Of Scoundrels not a Match for you:
But be assur'd their great Offence,
Committed with such Insolence,
Was done without my Approbation,
And was alone their own Transgression;
Truly deserving that severe
Correction which you gave 'em here:
Therefore since you've so bravely shewn,
Your Valour by the Light o'th' Moon,
And Beat so Bold a Rabble off,
Wh' Attack'd your Armour in the Trough,
You've well deserv'd, and may Command
The Hon'r of Knighthood out of Hand;
And since my Chappel as I said,
Quite Level with the Ground is laid,
I think if here we do perform
The Rites, it can be no great harm,

103

Now you have Watch'd your Coat of Mail,
Four Hours, when Two had done as well.

The Don extreamly pleas'd to hear
His Time of Knighhood was so near,
Reply'd, Ill bend to what you say,
And gladly your Commands obey;
The greater am I Blest, the sooner
You Dub your Servant with that Honour;
For were I once but made a Knight,
Methinks I could so boldly Fight,
That should the Rude provoking Crew,
Rally as they perhaps may do,
I should not spare one daring Vassal,
Of all the Force within your Castle,
Less I should save, at your Request,
Some chosen Friend that is your Guest;
For tho' enrag'd, yet your Command
Should stop the Fury of my Hand,
And move your Servant to forgive,
Ev'n those that scarce deserve to live.

104

The Landlord fearing all his Sport,
At length might Terminate in hurt,
And that the Champion and the Carriers,
Should Fight again like sturdy Warriours,
Resolv'd on speedily dispatching,
The Knight without his further watching.
Accordingly in Doors he stept,
And fetch'd a Book wherein he kept,
His Inn Accompts of Oats and Hay,
Receiv'd and measur'd out each Day;
To improve the Solemn Sham the better,
And make the Comedy the greater,
He brought the Lasses who before,
The Don had Sup'd with at the Door,
That the Two Wanton Jades might be,
A Grace to the Solemnity:
A Lusty Youth 'twixt Boy and Man,
With lighted Candle led the Van,
And thus they march'd with great Decorum,
To Knight the Don that waited for 'em,

105

As soon as they approach'd the Trough,
The Champion standing not far off,
The Landlord thus begun the Farce,
And Cry'd, Kneel down, thou Son of Mars,
That endless Honour may be done thee,
And Knighthood be conferr'd upon thee.
The Joyful Heroe out of Hand
Obey'd the Governour's Command,
And on the Cockling dirty Stones
Stoop'd down upon his Marrow-Bones.
The Landlord now a Mumbling made
Oe'r his Accounts as if he Read,
And drawing forth his Trusty Spado,
Which was a Rusty old Toledo,
H'adapted Words to the Occasion,
That pass'd for a Devout Oraison;
Turning his Eyes into the Air,
Like any Whore at Ev'ning Pray'r,
Feigning a Countenance as Pious,
As any Quaking Ananias,

106

And so dissembl'd, that his Guest
In solemn manner bore the Jest:
At length he lifted up that hand
Which did the sturdy Steel command,
And laid the tough old stubborn Blade
So hard upon the Champion's Head,
That bent his Helmet to his Crown,
And almost knock'd his Worship down;
Then lifting up his Sword soon after
He smote his Back a little softer,
Expressing loud some quaint Oration
That pass'd for Words of Consecration,
Then order'd one attending Lass,
Whose Face had oft been rubb'd with Brass
To girt the Sword about the Knight,
Who still was in a Kneeling plight.
Accordingly the Merry Gipsy,
With Wine and Brandy almost Tipsy,
In solemnwise kneel'd down in haste,
And ty'd the Weapon to his Waste,

107

Being forc'd to bite her Lips the while,
For fear they should betray a Smile;
Whilst she was busy just above
The hidden Label of his Love,
To fasten on his Belt before
Yet nothing could provoke the poor
Dumb Thing that hung a little low'r.

As thus the Mercenary odd-piece
Was fumbling near the Champion's Cod-piece,
To shew her Breeding and her Sense,
He made the Knight these Compliments,
I humbly wish your Doubty Worship
Good Luck in Combat and in Courtship,
May neither Armour, Sword or Steed,
Or any thing in time of Need,
E'er fail you, but be always ready
To Cope with either Knight or Lady;
For pity 'tis so brave a Blade
Should e'er be foil'd by Man or Maid.

108

Don Quixote smitten with the Dame
Most humbly begged the Lady's Name,
That he might know to what dear Creature
He was oblig'd for such good Nature,
Who had not only buckl'd on
His Sword, and other Service done,
But was so kind in her Expression
On this his Solemn Consecration.

The Lady, as the Champion thought her,
Told him She was a Coblers Daughter,
That her Name truly was Toloso,
And tho her Circumstance but so so,
She no Occasion had to be
Asham'd of Name or Pedigree,
For though her Friends liv'd by the Awl
And in Toledo kept a Stall,
Yet were they counted, she was sure,
Good Honest People, tho but Poor;
And truly, that herself, altho
She was in Quality but low,

109

Yet she was wholsome Flesh and Blood,
And, tho she said it, had as good
A Countenance, and Skin as white,
And other Things for Man's delight,
As those fine Dames that Men admire,
Who hold their Heads a great deal higher;
Adding, that she'd be glad to do
What e'er he should command her to,
And without Wages never grumble
To be his Worship's very humble.
The Knight upon his Honour bent,
Not heeding what the Strumpet meant,
Conceiting still she was a Maid
Of Virtue, tho an arrant Jade,
Only implor'd her for the Time
To come, in due respect to him
She had attended at his Knighting,
With Virgin Beauty so inviting,
That she would add unto her Name
A Title that might raise her Fame,

110

And stile herself for ever after
Donna Toloso, Eldest Daughter
To Don Coblerio of Toledo,
Descended of the Fam'd Quevedo.

My Lady smilingly reply'd
That Favour should not be deny'd,
Nor any thing that could delight
So worthy and so brave a Knight.

But all the Proffers of her Whoreship
Could not excite his frozen Worship
To take her forward Hints, or move
The Crazy Knight to think of Love;
For thirst of Glory crampt his Courting,
And put him by all thoughts of sporting.

The other Harlot full as kind
Was fixing on his Spurs behind,
And taking pains with pointed Steel
To arm the kneeling Champion's Heel,
Who still did Penance on his Knees,
And never flinch'd for want of Ease;

111

But with grave Patience and Content
Thro' all the Ceremony went;
Which shews what Struggle Pride will make
With hard Fatigues for Honour's sake.

The Knight now finding t'other Huzzy
About his Heels so very busy,
Did also very greatly long
To know from whence this Lady sprung,
So that his Questions were the same
To her as to the other Dame.

The Jilt, who like her Sister Trull,
Of Confidence b'ing brimming full,
Reply'd, the Name that she was known by
Was Miller, which she'd always gone by,
And that it also was the Trade
To which her Parents had been bred,
Who tho they had no Wealth, yet were a
Good Family in Anqteuera,
That scorn'd like other Knaves to steal
Five Pecks out of a Strike of Meal,

112

And that she durst to pawn her Soul
They never stopt more than honest Toll;
Adding, that if they'd took Extortion
They might have given their Child a Portion,
And not have only left their Daughter
A little Mill 'twixt Wind and Water,
Which his kind Worship by and by
Might find a good One if he'd try.

The sober thoughtful Knight not minding
What twas she meant, being past his grinding,
Instead of answ'ring what the Jill
Had said concerning of her Mill,
Return'd this Compliment upon her,
As if she'd been a Maid of Honour.

Madam, said he, Altho by Birth
You're not a Lady, yet the worth
And sweetness of so fair a Creature
Has made you doubly so by Nature,
Besides, as you've attended me
In this devout Solemnity;

113

For ever after 'tis your Duty
To add some Title to your Beauty,
That for your Service you may be
Distinguish'd as high Quality.
No matter tho' your Birth be mean,
At Princes Courts 'tis daily seen,
That Landresses and Chambermaids
From washing Smocks and making Beds,
For Secret Service Rise to be
The very top of Quality;
Therefore I beg, since you have won me
With those good Offices you've done me,
That for my sake you'll always claim
The Lady Miller as your Name,
And if that any durst dispute
Your Honour, how you came unto't,
This Arm at all times shall be ready
To justify your Claim to Lady.

The merry Crack, who rather wanted
To be well treated and gallanted,

114

Drop'd a Tail compliment however,
And kindly thank'd him for his Favour.

The Host, as well as all the rest,
B'ing now quite weary of the Jest,
Cry'd out aloud, Rise up, Sir Knight,
And for distressed Ladies Fight:
The Champion full of Life and Joy,
Sprung up as nimbly as a Boy,
Tho almost Crippl'd in the Hams,
Beneath their Ceremonious Shams,
His Posture having numb'd his Toes
And Feet, as if they had been Froze;
However, leaning on a Post,
He made this Speech unto his Host;
Right Worthy Governor and Knight,
And Lord of these Two Ladies bright,
Who by the Light of yonder Moon
Have thus adopted me your Son,
In Gratitude I'm highly bound
To own the Favours I have found,

115

And thank you for the welcome Cheer
That in Distress I met with here;
But above all, for that great Honour,
Of which you've been the Gen'rous Donor:
So that I now beg leave to go
Where I my Valiant Strength may show,
And for the sake of these Fair Ladies,
I'll Fight Orlando or Amadis.
The Host reply'd, with all his Heart,
Crying, The dearest Friends must part;
So gladly stepping to the Stable,
As nimbly as his Legs were able,
He rous'd the Courser from his Rest,
And clapping Saddle on the Beast,
He brought forth hopping Rozinante
From little Hay, and Oats more scanty,
Who groan'd and sigh'd, poor founder'd Steed
For want of Sleep as well as Feed.
No sooner had the Landlord brought
The Horse, but up the Champion got;

116

Then bowing o'er and o'er again,
As low as Rozinante's Mane,
He thank'd the Damsels for their Favour
And all their Lady-like Bevaviours,
Profess'd himself an humble Vassal
To th' Gen'rous Lord that kept the Castle,
So took his leave in Solemn manner,
And Gallop'd off with his new Honour
Leaving what e'er he had to pay,
Till the next time he came that way.
The Host being glad on any Terms
To send him packing with his Arms,
E'en let him march without the least
Attempt to stop the Man or Beast,
And wisely thought a friendly farewell
Was Ten times better than a Quarrel,
With one whose fighting was his Pride
Stark mad and Money-less beside.
Thus those who by their hair-brain'd Fancies,
And wild Conceits Eclipse their Senses,

117

With Ease and Pleasure boldly run
Those Risques that sober Mortals shun.

CANTO VII.

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,

118

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.

119

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,

120

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,

121

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

122

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:

123

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,

124

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,

125

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,

126

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.

127

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;

128

‘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:

129

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:

130

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,

131

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

132

‘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,

133

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,

134

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.

135

CANTO VIII.

The Knight's return to fetch clean Shirts,
And Salves, in case of Maims and Hurts;
His woful Suff'rings in a Fray,
He chanc'd to meet with by the way.

The Knight conceiting he had won
Much Fame by th' Justice he had done
Between the Farmer and his Boy,
Now trotted homewards full of Joy,
The Beast expressing, like his Master,
Much chearfulness in jogging Faster,
That truly 'twas no easy matter
For the most prying Observator,
To judge who felt the greatest force
Of Joy, the Champion or his Horse;

136

The one b'ing very much delighted,
To think how timely he'd been Knighted;
The other with his Journey back,
To his old Stable and his Rack,
Where he for many Years had led
A lazy Life, and oft been fed.
At length the Knight b'ing over-run
With the proud Thoughts of what he'd done,
As he jog'd on upon his Beast,
Thus his dear Dulci he address'd,
With Love and Honour in his Breast.

O thou most beautiful of Beauties!
I kiss the shadow of thy Shooe-ties,
And only seek to raise thy Name
The highest in the Rolls of Fame.
Well may'st thou deem thyself to be
The Fairest and the Happy'st she,
Whose Charms Divine can make so brave
A Knight as me thy Captive Slave;

137

Who tho' I was but dubb'd last Night,
My pale Diana's silver Light,
Yet have I done a Deed this Day,
Which humbly at your Feet I lay,
That ne'er was yet perform'd by Man,
Since ancient Knighthood first began;
The greatest Wrong have I redrest,
That e'er was done by Man or Beast,
And rescu'd from a Tyrant's Rage,
In Infant of a tender Age;
And stop'd the cruel Hand that whip'd
Poor Innocence when naked strip'd;
And would have surely flead'd him a'ter,
As God Apollo did the Satyr.

Before the Knight had fully ended
The noble Speech that he intended,
He chanc'd to come unto a Place
Where the Road split four sev'ral ways,
And having read that Knights were us'd,
In such a Case, to be confus'd,

138

For half an Hour he stop'd his Horse,
And study'd how to steer his Course;
At length he thought the wisest way
Was on his Prancer's Neck to lay
The Reins, and let the Beast decide
Which was the lucki'st Road to ride,
Who, without Boggle, run a Head,
That Way which tow'rds his Stable lead,
And scowr'd as if he'd smelt or seen
The distant Hay-loft or the Bin.
Just so the Fortunate, by chance,
Step right, and do themselves advance,
Whilst others, full as wise as they,
But not so lucky, miss the Way.

Don Quixote scarce two Miles had got,
Upon a round uneasy Trot,
Within the Lane, the poor dumb Creature
Had chosen by instinct of Nature,
But he beheld a distant Croud
Of Mortals on the dusty Road,

139

Six Spanish Merchants, Mules bestriding,
Four Servants upon Gennets riding,
Three Muleteers, who lamely beat
The drowthy Ground with batter'd Feet,
All from Toledo bound to Murcia,
To buy up Silks that came from Persia.
No sooner had the Valiant Knight
Beheld this unexpected sight,
But he began to bless the Day
For this Adventure in his Way,
Believing it would prove to be
As he had read in Errantry,
Some Accident wherein he might
Advance his Glory to that hight,
That no Renown should ever claim,
A Zenith equal with his Fame.
By such fantastick Hopes inspir'd,
His Breast with Courage soon was fir'd,
That now he warily prepar'd
To stoutly stand upon his Guard,

140

Sate himself firmly in his Seat,
And in his Stirrups fix'd his Feet,
His Target for his Safety plac'd
In ample Order, at his Breast,
Then couching his tremendous Lance,
He waited for the Foes advance,
And in this threatning Posture stood
I'th' middle of the dusty Road,
That Rooks and Jack-daws shun'd the Knight,
And fled with Terror from his sight.

At length the Travellers came up,
But wisely made a distant stop,
And with faint Hearts and doubtful Eyes,
Beheld the Knight, to their surprize;
Some who his scaly Hide perceiv'd,
Cry'd, 'twas a Dragon they believ'd,
Taking his Lance to be his Sting,
And each bright Arm to be a Wing;
Others, more given to Superstition,
Averr'd it was some dreadful Vision,

141

That threaten'd, by its angry Motion,
The Christian Church with Persecution;
The rest conceited 'twas some Evil
Infernal Monster, or the Devil,
Or Ghost of Chiron the Centaur,
Whom they had read of long before,
Because they could distinguish plain,
Twas one half Horse, the other Man:
But finding that the Scare-crow kept
His Ground, the Merchants forward stept,
Till humane Voice could reach the Ear
Of either side, they were so near.
The Knight perceiving that the Foe
Took Courage, and did bolder grow,
In haughty Tone, and Words as proud,
Thus spoke to the approaching Croud.

Let all Mankind at my Command,
No further pass this way, but stand,
Till they confess, affirm, and swear,
By all the solemn Ties that are,

142

That the bright Ladies they pretend
To Love, to Honour, and Defend,
Are but dull Stars that shine but so-so,
Compar'd to Dulci del Tobosa,
That Queen of all the Beauteous Train,
Whose Empire I alone maintain.

No sooner had the Merchants heard
This Speech, but they no longer fear'd;
And smiling at their past surprize,
Thought him some Madman in disguise,
Who being by Ill-fortune crost
In Love, had all his Senses lost.
So that to better understand
The meaning of his high Demand,
He that was thought to be the best
Improver of so odd a Jest,
And was most furnish'd with Discretion,
To manage the Capitulation,
Was by the rest, in their defence,
Appointed for the Conference;

143

Accordingly he bow'd his Head,
And this evasive Answer made.

Most worthy and renowned Knight,
We come to Treat, and not to Fight;
Nor do we only Honour you,
But that fair Queen you talk of too:
Yet how, alas, can we confess
She's brightest of the Female Race,
Or say and swear that she alone
Has Title unto Beauty's Throne,
Before we've had the pleasing sight,
Of those sweet Charms that are so bright?
No Mortal can sincerely vow
The Truth of what he does not know;
How then can we in Justice swear,
The Dame we never saw is Fair?
No awful Judge, with rev'rend Beard,
Decides a Cause before 'tis heard:
How then can you expect that we,
In solemn manner, should agree

144

To own your Lady to be Queen
Of Beauties, till her Charms are seen.

‘Should I (reply'd the angry Knight)
‘Expose her Beauty to your sight,
‘'Twould be no Wonder then for you
‘To own what you're convinc'd is true:
‘You should believe upon my Honour,
‘The Praise that I bestow upon her,
‘Or 'tis my Duty you must know it,
‘By dint of Sword to force you to it;
‘Therefore confess, affirm, and swear,
‘That she alone's the brightest Fair;
‘Or else prepare to give me Battle,
‘For Words are all but Tittle-Tattle;
‘Therefore come on, discurteous Crew,
‘By one and one, as Knights should do,
‘According to the Rules we see
‘In the old Laws of Chivalry;
‘Or altogether rudely join'd,
‘Like cow'rdly Slaves undisciplin'd,

145

That never trod in Honour's Field,
In Battle and in Arms unskill'd:
Come all, I say, and I'll depend
On my just Cause to stand my Friend.

Pray, worthy good Sir Knight, reply'd
The Spokesman on the Merchants side,
I humbly beg you, for the sake
Of all these Princes at my Back,
That you'll regard the inward ease
Of all our tender Consciences,
And for the Honour of those Queens
That reign in the Alcarian Plains,
And Empresses that bear the sway
Ith' Fields of Estramadura,
That you'd vouchsafe to let us see
The Picture or Epitome
Of the Fair Maid you love so well,
Tho' 'tis no broader than my Nail;
For Art is able to express
Much Beauty in a little Piece;

146

Then shall we all be satisfy'd,
And lay our Scruples quite aside,
And, after one judicious view,
Affirm what now we cannot do.

Nay, all, I find, as well as I,
Are so inclining to comply,
Provided you would shew her Face
In paint, or in a Magick Glass,
That tho' her Nose should be defective,
By being over kind and active;
Or should she prove a sore-ey'd Gillion,
That wept both Brimstone and Vermillion,
We're Men of Breeding, and more Honour,
Than to reflect small Faults upon her;
But shall pass by a blemish'd Feature
That's wrong'd by chance, and not by Nature,
And all agree to think her Fair,
And vow what e'er you'd have us swear.

‘Brimstone, Vermillion, (quoth the Knight)
‘Ye Scoundrel Slaves prepare to fight,

147

I'd have you know she ne'er distils
From Eyes, or any Feature else,
Such Filth, or any thing, unless
Tis Civet, Musk, or Ambergrese;
Her Eyes, I'd have you know, are bright,
And shine like Diamonds in the Night;
Her Mein most graceful, and her Waste
A perfect Spindle when she's lac'd.
Know therefore, ye provoking Rabble,
That this victorious Arm is able
To vindicate my lovely Dutchess,
Against your blasphemous Reproaches;
Nor shall you part unpunish'd hence,
Till you've recanted your Offence.
With that he grin'd and spurr'd his Horse,
Couch'd Lance, and with his utmost force,
Rid on full Tilt, to be the Death
Of him that had provok'd his Wrath,
But Fortune stepping in between
Most timely stop'd the bloody Scene,

148

And in poor Rozinante's Way
Did such a dirty Hillock lay,
That down he came, Arse over Head,
And almost laid the Knight for dead,
Who struggl'd hard upon the Ground,
And in the Dust rowl'd round and round,
But could not raise himself to guard
Against that Danger now he fear'd:
However, tho' the weight of Iron,
That did his Raw-bon'd Corps environ,
And Bruises in his Hips and Thighs,
Made him unable to arise;
Yet the poor Knight, whose heart was strong,
As in the Dust he laid along,
Thus play'd the Hero with his Tongue.

Stay, Cowards, Rascals, do not fly,
I shall be with you by and by,
'Tis not my Fear, or yet your Force,
That have o'erthrown me, but my Horse:

149

Let me but Mount, and you shall see
I'll soon revenge this Injury.

These Bugbear Words the Champion spoke,
At a bad time, did so provoke
A Merchant's Groom, ill-will'd enough
To lend the Don a Kick and Cuff,
That he attack'd the sprawling Knight,
First broke his Lance, to shew his Spite,
Then taking up that end thereof
Which he believ'd was Armour-proof,
Did on his Shoulders and his Breech
Return such Answers to his Speech,
That made, at ev'ry stubborn thwack,
His yielding Armour bruise his Back:
But still the Knight, in a Bravado,
Bore with such Grace the Bastinado,
That he ne'er flinch'd, cry'd out, or mourn'd,
Or beg'd for Mercy, but return'd,
In valiant Words, each painful Blow,
Receiv'd from his ignoble Foe.

150

Thus he that's Brave will ne'er lament
Those Suff'rings that he can't prevent,
But by his Patience still defeat
The Victor's Malice, tho' he's beat.

At length the Merchant rating off
His Groom, by crying 'twas enough;
Who now b'ing weary of the Pains
He'd taken for so little Gains,
Was glad, upon his Master's calling,
To leave the beaten Bugbear sprawling,
Giving the Champion, as he lay
Half dead in the unlucky Fray,
A parting Blow upon his Chest,
That vex'd him more than all the rest:
Which being done, they left the Knight
Bedung'd, in very woful plight.

The Don much bruis'd in Front and Rear,
Now seeing that the Coast was clear,
Made many faint Essays, in vain,
To raise his Carcass up again,

151

But finding Nature had not force,
As yet, to rise and mount his Horse,
Stretching his Limbs, lock'd up in Rust,
For Ease, upon his Bed of Dust,
Upon his Arm he lean'd his Head,
And thus unto himself he said:

Such cross Adventures and Exploits,
Alas! are common to us Knights,
Fortune's not always in the way,
But will sometimes from Valour stray.
Besides, tho' I am overthrown,
The dastard Foe is fled and gone:
Nor could their Usage make me yield,
Tho' wounded, I have kept the Field;
Therefore, altho' my Hopes were crost,
My Knighthood has no Honour lost;
For the base Scoundrels plainly see
The Fault was in my Horse, not me.

Thus the maim'd Knight reflecting lay,
Upon the past unhappy Fray,

152

Hoping to gather Strength in time,
With Rozinante grazing by'm.

When Pride and Ign'rance jointly aim
At Glory, they come off with Shame;
And hair-brain'd Fools, that run at all,
For want of Forecast, often fall.

The End of the Second Part.

153

III. PART III.

CANTO IX.

The Raving Knight in woeful Case
Advanc'd upon the Plowman's Ass:
What pass'd between the Don and Clown
As jogging to their Native Town.

The Poor Unhappy batter'd Knight
Unable yet to stand upright,
Bury'd in Dust, tho' not quite Dead,
His Coffin Steel instead of Lead;
As he thus lay stretch'd out at length
Upon his Back, depriv'd of strength,
Had nothing left, alas, to be
His Comfort in extremity,

154

But to recall to mind the Case
Of other Champions in Distress,
That by their bloody Wounds and Drubs
Receiv'd from Gyant's Swords and Clubs
And other Hardships he had read,
His own might be the lighter made;
For when we're doom'd by Evil Fate
To painful Troubles, tho they're great,
The way to bear with them the better,
Is to compare 'em still with greater.

Accordingly the pensive Knight,
As thus he lay in doleful plight,
Lessen'd his Sorrows and Mischances
By thinking of his old Romances,
Giving Refreshment to his Carcase
By Baldwin and the Mantuan Marquess;
The former Champion having fought
With Charlet to the Ground was brought
And when almost of Life bereft
Was bleeding on the Mountain left.

155

A Story often read and told
With Pleasure both by Young and Old,
Who only credited by Fools,
Like Mahomet's old Miracles,
Being forg'd upon the self same Anvil
As the Reports of Parson Glanvil.
The ancient Fable which the Don
And thus the luck to pitch upon,
He now conceited was no less
Than well adapted to his Case,
And that it suited his Mischance
In each unhappy Circumstance:
So that he roll'd from side to side,
And made his Suff'rings but his Pride,
In the warm Sun still grew the madder,
As quoil'd in Dust like Snake or Adder,
Remembring how the Knight o'th' Wood
Complain'd in melancholy mood
Against the Empress of his Heart,
For whom he had endur'd such smart,

156

Because he thought the Lovely She
Forbore to grieve by Sympathy,
And whilst he lay in sore Distress
Did not bemoan his wretched Case,
And shew her Pity and good Nature
In Sobs and Tears when his dear Creature
Alas, knew nothing of the Matter.

This old Romantick Lamentation
Of Baldwin made such deep Impression
Upon the Don, who weak and lame,
Conceiv'd his Circumstance the same,
That in the Words of that Romance
He thus began his own Complaints
Against his Dulci', whom he thought
Guilty of t'other Lady's fault.

Why haste you not, my only Dear,
To help me in Affliction here,
Or in my Absence have you quite
Forsaken your distressed Knight.

157

Fond of this doleful Lamentation,
The Don went on without digression,
Continuing the Romantick Verse
He took such pleasure to rehearse,
Till to the foll'wing Lines he came
Repeating to himself the same,
O thou my Uncle and my Prince
Marquess of Mantua, Noble Lord—
Just at this instant as the Knight
Was in his frantick raving Fit,
A sturdy Plowman with a Sack
Of Grist upon his Ass's Back,
Was passing to a neighb'ring Village,
Where he for Years had liv'd by Tillage,
And stepping suddenly upon
The poor, forlorn, distressed Don,
Struck him at first with some surprise,
And stop'd his mad soliloquies;
The Clown more frighted than the Knight
At such a strange ungainly Sight,

158

Cry'd out Deliver us from Evil,
Art thou a Monster or the Devil,
Or conquer'd Combatant whose Throat
Is cut in spite of Iron Coat?

Don Quixote, whose distemper'd Brain
Had quite mistook the Country-man,
Conceited he could be no less
Than Duke of Mantua by his Face,
Disguis'd i'th' Habit of a Clown,
Perhaps not caring to be known,
So that the Knight without the least
Regard to what the Lout exprest,
Went on with those Romantick Strains
Which wholly now possest his Brains,
Giving a solemn sad Account
Of all his Hardships in the Mount,
And other Troubles of his Life,
Occasion'd by the Jilt his Wife;
Who would in Spite of Wedlock Run
To Cuddle with the Emp'rour's Son,

159

Fancying himself to be no less
Than her 'Spouse Baldwin in distress,
And that the list'ning Country Boore
Was Uncle Marquess to be sure,
Who by some means had understood
His woeful Suff'rings in the Wood,
Was therefore in compassion come
To seek him out and bring him Home.

The Plowman much surpris'd to hear
Such frantick Bombast reach his Ear,
And that a scaly Hide, that lay
As still as Image made of Clay,
Should thro an Iron Costern vent
Such a strange whimsical Complaint,
Began to be as much afraid
As he that heard the Brazen-head,
When it in doleful Tone exprest,
Time is, Time was, and Time is past:
However, as he staring stood,
At length he found 'twas Flesh and Blood,

160

By seeing thro the Visor where
'Twas broken by the Muliteer
A humane, tho a dusty Face,
Which made the Clown take Heart of Grace,
That now he grew full bold enough
To wrench the shatter'd Beaver off,
Then wiping from his ghastly Phiz
The dusty Vizard of Disguise,
And well remembring he had seen
The Don, who had his Neighbour been:
Master Quixada, crys the Clown,
Adsheartly wounds, how came you down,
Stretcht out in this sad plight I wonder,
And your old Pad-Nagg grazing yonder.

The Knight, transported with the Fancies
He'd met with in his old Romances,
Ne'er minded what the Plowman said,
But still went on with what he'd read
Concerning Baldwin and his Bride,
The Lord knows who and what beside,

159

As poor distemper'd Bedlamites
Are wont to do in Raving Fits.
The Clown who listn'd for a time
To the Knight's frantick Prose and Rhime,
Till ready to bepiss his Breeches
To hear such strange Romantick Speeches;
At length conjectur'd by his Tattle
He had been worsted by the Bottle,
Or that some Combatant had maul'd him,
And with his Sword or Spear so gaul'd him,
That he was dying Mad with Cuts,
Or Mortal Thrusts into the Guts;
So that the Plowman in good Nature
To's Neighbour and his fellow Creature,
With much ado uncas'd the Don
Of the Old Iron he had on,
Thro Pity, being well inclin'd
To ease those Wounds he could not find,
Which were no more than Drubs too dry
To be discover'd by the Eye:

160

The Rustick having thus in vain
Search'd for the Causes of his Pain,
Which he believ'd had craz'd his Brain;
But finding neither Bruise nor Cut,
Or bloody Sign from Head to Foot,
Of any Wound that could be Mortal,
Or hinder him from being Heart-whole,
Only in shewing over Care,
By thrusting in his Hand too far,
He chanc'd unwarily to find
Some ugly Symptoms dropt behind,
Which the poor Clown no sooner felt,
But snuffing up his Nose, he smelt.
Thus when i'th' Dark one thing is grop'd for
We oft' meet others never hop'd for.

The Clown now guessing that the Knight
Was only in a frantick Fit,
And that his verbal seeming Sadness
Was nothing else but downright Madness,

161

Like a kind Neighbour and a Friend,
He rais'd the Champion up on end,
And with much Trouble laid him cross
The Sack of Wheat upon his Ass,
Considering that the Don's own Beast
In height was Sixteen Hands at least,
And pre-supposing he should fall
From off a Steed so woundy tall,
He could not well do less than break
A Leg or Arm, if not his Neck;
So that he thought his Ass in course
A safer Carrier than the Horse.

When thus the kind industrious Clown
Had mounted up his Neighbour Don,
Who as he sat with stinking Twist
On Ass's Rump, behind the Grist,
Lean'd forward o'er the swelling Sack
That lay upon poor Assins Back;
The Bumpkin careful of the Rust
That lay half bury'd in the Dust,

162

Pick'd up Don's Armour of Defence,
And e'ery Splinter of his Lance,
His Helmet by his Foe much batter'd,
And Sword and Target that were scatter'd,
Binding the Trophies altogether
In a long Strap or Zone of Leather,
Which with much Care he ty'd upon
The Steed belonging to the Don;
So leading both the Horse and Ass,
Away he walk'd a gentle pace,
Like Pedlar going to some Fair
With loaded Jades to sell his Ware,
Or a Dutch Trumpeter before
Some Monstrous Sight just brought on shore.

Thus with Dwarf Ass and Gyant Horse,
The Looby Plowman steer'd his Course
To the next Neighb'ring little Town
Where long had dwelt both Don and Clown
Whilst the Knight's dangling Legs that swung,
Like a Clock Pend'lum as they hung,

163

Swept e'ery Rut and Clod that lay
On each side cockling in their way.
So have I seen a huge Scotch Looby
Mounted on such a puny Hobby,
That had the biggest eas'd the least
The Rider must have carr'd his Beast.

The Knight, too sore almost to Ride,
Shuffl'd his Arse from side to side
To ease his Crupper, as he sat
Romancing about this and that,
Whilst the Clown santer'd in the middle
Between the Halter and the Bridle,
Reflecting on the Knight's strange Fancies,
And all his wild Extravagancies,
Who now had quite forsook the good
Old Tale of Baldwin in the Wood;
And from the Stories he had read
Fully possest his frantick Head,
He was the Moor Abindaraez,
The Clown Rodrigo de Narvaez,

164

Leading him Pris'ner to his Castle,
And there to keep him as his Vassal,
So that when e'er the Lout look'd back
Upon the Knight behind the Sack,
And cry'd, How is it with you Master,
Shall we jogg on a little faster,
The Don would ramble God knows where,
And talk of George de Monte Mayor,
From his Diana would be gleaning
Such Answers vbid of Sense or Meaning,
That made the Clown as mad almost
As he that on his Ass rid Post,
The Don saluting honest Pedro
The Plowman, as the fam'd Rodrigo,
A doubty Knight, a fighting Blade,
Of Antequera the Alcayde,
Conceiting, as exprest before,
Himself to be the Captive Moor.

The Rustick gap'd at what he heard,
And scratch'd his Ears at e'ry word,

165

Wond'ring what Fever in his Noddle
Had made his Neighbour such a Doodle,
Who now had given the Clown full proof
By all his wild Romantick Stuff,
That he was gally'd sure enough,
So that he whipt both Horse and Ass,
And made them mend their Spanish pace,
That he might ease himself the sooner
Of such a strange Division-runner,
And free his punish'd Ears and Brains
From Madness and Impertinence;
But still the poor disorder'd Don,
From Tale to Tale went rambling on,
At length being thoughtful of his Dear
Hogs-pudding Dame, that lovely Fair,
He strait into a Rapture fled,
And thus unto his Guide he said,

Most Fam'd Rodrigo, Valiant Knight,
Who does in Feats of Arms delight,

166

Know that the Charming Beauteous Lady,
Whose Worth I have set forth already,
Is Fair Dulcinea del Tobosa,
A lovely Damsel that does grow so
Divinely graceful, that her Features
Outshine all other Female Creatures,
Therefore, Rodrigo, her Renown—

‘'Nouns Master, Quoth the scratching Clown
‘Why make you me your Sport and Game
‘Pedro Alonso is my Name,
‘I doubt you scarce know what you say,
‘I am no Duke of Mantua,
‘No, What d'ye call him, Don Rodrigo,
‘No more than you're an Assinego,
‘I'm a poor Fellow, to my Sorrow,
‘That's forc'd to follow Plow and Harrow
‘I live not many Furlongs off,
‘Your Worship knows me well enough,
‘Nor are you Baldwin I am sure,
‘Or him with that long Name, the Moor,

167

Senior Quixada by this Light
You are, or I have lost my Sight.
With that Don Quixote growing Rusty
Reply'd, Why how now Goodman Crusty,
I'm old enough to know my Name,
And who I am, and whence I came,
Yet I can be, Sir, if I please
Both Baldwin and Abyndaraez;
Nay, the Twelve Peers of France beside,
Or the Nine Worthies, were I try'd,
Because my Valour far exceeds
Their Strength and all their mighty Deeds;
Therfore I'm greater than 'em all,
And am what I my self shall call.

Discoursing thus the Clown and Don
With Horse and Ass went jogging on,
Talking sometimes most complaisantly,
At other times extravagantly,
That in their turns both Knight and Rustick
Were very thwarting and Robustick;

168

At length they gladly came in sight
O'th' Little Village e'er twas Night;
But the kind Plowman taking Caution
Of the Mad Senior's Reputation,
Was not so silly, tho a Clown,
T'expose his Neighbour to the Town,
Upon the Rump of long Ear'd Beast,
Turn'd up behind a Sack of Grist,
Therefore lay by that they might spend
The Time till dark at Village end,
Taking a melancholly turn
By Hedge of Crab-tree and of Thorn:
So there we'll leave the doubty Frantick
To tease the Clown with Tales Romantick,
Till the kind Nocturn Goddess spreads
Her Sable Mantle o'er their Heads.
Thus he that strives to serve or save
A Fool, a Madman, or a Knave
E'er he goes thro' stich will be cloyd
With Troubles which the Wise avoid.

169

CANTO IX.

In the Don's Absence what was said
By th' Curate, Barber, Niece and Maid:
The Champion by the Plowman's Care
Brought Home, and his Reception there.

The sad Report, thro all the Town,
That Senior from his House was flown,
By this time brought the Neighb'ring Rout
T'enquire the Truth of Matters out,
So that the Curate and the Barber,
Whom the Don often us'd to harbour,
Hearing the News, together paid
A Visit to his Niece and Maid,
That they might shew their mighty care for
Their Friend, and ask how, why, and wherefore

170

He thus had plaid at Hide and Seek,
And shew'n them such a slip'ry Trick;
Just so, when any Bad or Good
Has happen'd in the Neighbourhood,
Dame Sly must know of Gammar Bounce,
How many Farts will make an Ounce.

Amidst their Chat, good Doctor crys,
The House-keeper with pissing Eyes,
What shall we do in this Disaster,
And whither run to seek our Master;
We've sent his Man and others out,
On Horseback some, and some on Foot,
Dispers'd the Swains by Night and Day,
To make enquiry e'ery way,
Nay, search'd our selves like frightened Wretches
The Neigh'bouring Grotto's Grounds and Ditches
But cannot hear of Horse or Man
Since he his Ramble first began,
Who stole out early in the Morning.
T'hout giving any Mortal warning.

171

Besides, where e'er, alas! he's gone,
I'm sure he has his Armour on,
Because of late, both Day and Night,
He took such Pains to make it bright,
And now upon our searches round
The House, it is not to be found;
Also, he'as taken from the Wall
Those Arms which hong adorn'd the Hall.

'Tis strange, reply'd the Man of God,
There's something in't seems very odd;
But Dear Sweet-Mistress Abigial,
I pray be free and tell me all:
I doubt that you have vex'd the Senior,
By some unfriendly Misdemeanour,
Or by your scornful Frowns and Slights
Caus'd some disorder in his Wits;
From his own Words I can assure you,
He has no little Kindness for you;
Besides, Dear Nabby, Day will show
Its self, thro' little Holes, you know.

172

I've heard and seen sweet pritty Creature,
Such things perhaps—But that's no matter—
Poh, poh, the Barber cannot hear us,
You see he's not at present near us.

Doctor, quoth Abigial, I swear
You've told me that which makes me stare,
By my warm Cheeks I feel I blush;
The Barber's coming tow'rds us, hush.

Bless us, quoth Nicholas, in troth
This is a sudden change Forsooth;
'Tis strange, a Man of so much Sense,
Who wanted neither Wit nor Pence,
Should leave his House, and ride away
Unseen from Home, by break of Day;
When I first heard the News, that Minute
Said I, there's something wondrous in it.
What! would a Gentleman of Learning,
Wise, Wealthy, Frugal and Discerning,
Forsake his Ancient Dwelling House,
His Niece, and all his Servants thus;

173

No, no, I tell you what I say,
I wish he'as met with no foul Play:

Don't be too forward in your Censure,
(The Priest return'd by way of Answer)
But first with Patience let us hear
How Mistress Nab makes things appear;
For he who let's his foolish Mouth
Give Judgment e'er he learns the truth,
Is worse than he who loves to cast
His reckoning up before his Host.
Doctor I must confess, quoth she,
That rul'd the little Family,
I have been guilty of a Crime,
In not acquainting you in time,
With what I fear has craz'd my Master,
And been the cause of our Disaster:
Nay, I am sure the Books he read
Of late, have so disturb'd his Head,
Those idle Tales of Errant Knights,
Their Hardships, Courtships, and their Fights,

174

With Knight's and Gyants, to redress,
Fair Dames and Ladies in distress,
Have so bewitch'd him that he's rid
In Armour Out upon his Steed,
In quest of that Romantick Glory
Found only in fictitious Story;
Therefore had I in time but told ye
What a strange Fabulous old mouldy
Collection of preposterous Stuff
Lies pil'd beneath his Study Roof,
You, Doctor, who are Learn'd and Wise
Mgiht have remov'd his Enemies,
And stop'd his frensical Condition,
By Pennance, Prayer and Admonition:
Therefore I own his frantick ailment
Is owing much to my concealment,
For had his Study been reform'd
He'ad never rid away thus arm'd,
And left us in this Care and Sadness,
To mourn his Absence and his Madness.

177

It was a mighty fault, reply'd
The Jolly wellfed Parish Guide,
Then squeezing Madam by the Fist,
Who Cross-leg'd sat annext the Priest,
Says he, We'll overlook to morrow
The Fables that have caus'd this Sorrow,
And the most Guilty we'll condemn
To bottom Pies or to the Flame;
And if you please 'tis likely some.
I may reprieve and carry home.

The Niece then turning to the Shaver,
For whom she had some little Favour,
Betwixt a Simper and a Cry,
Did thus her pretty self apply,
Laud, Nicholas, I vow and swear,
As I'm God's Child, and sitting here,
I've seen my Uncle play such Tricks
When in his frantick fighting Freaks,
That as I've peeping stood I oft
Have burst my Stays I have so laugh'd;

178

Sometimes when he for Forty eight
Full Hours has in his Study sat,
Tiring his Brains with Fights and Fancies
He met with in his old Romances,
He'd of a sudden from his Seat
Start up in such a violent Heat,
First pause, then throw away his Book,
And put on such a frightful Look,
As if he meant to kick and beat
His Study Walls into the Street,
Then, flinging out some blustering Word,
Would from the Shelf snatch down his Sword.
And drawing out the stubborn Blade
Push at the Wall like any mad,
Poke at this hole, that spot or speck,
Sometimes thrust forward, then draw back;
And when he did each Shove begin
Cry'd Ha, and then he stuck it in;
Thus would he fence with Walls and Chairs
Till Sweaty Pearls run down his Hairs,

179

Then strutting rave and swear he'ad kill'd
Four Gyants in the open Field,
Who were as big and full as tall
As any Steeple, Spire and all,
Fancying the trickling Sweat he felt
To be the Blood his Wounds had spilt
In the advent'rous lucky Fray
Wherein he 'ad nobly won the day.
This done, he'd call for me to bring
A huge great Jug full from the Spring,
Then would he swallow down just a'ter
A cooling Gallon of the Water,
And fancy 'twas some Cordial Draught
To heal the bleeding Wounds he 'ad got,
Brought him by some kind She Magician,
Dame Allcoife, Surgeon and Physician;
Therefore how strangely must his Head
Confounded be by what h'ad read,
That he should fancy me, his Niece,
Who is not such a homely Piece,

108

To be some wither'd hagged Beldam
That conjures Champions out of Thraldom.
But when he'ad taken off his Pitcher,
Fancying no Cordial could be richer,
He'ad then sit down and be as tame
And quiet as a Cosset Lamb,
Talk with such gravity and state
As if he'ad been a Magistrate.
Now I confess I've been remiss
In my so long concealing this,
For had I but in time made known
His frantick Actions when alone,
And all those Freaks he has been in,
Which thro the Key-hole I have seen,
You his kind Friends whose good advice
He took as Counsel from the Wise,
Might, by your laying Heads together,
Have stopt his Rambling God knows whither,
And burnt those Antichristian Books
That turn'd his Senses off the Hooks,

185

For they deserve the Flames much more
Than e'er did Heretick I'm sure.

‘Be patient, Lady, quoth the Priest,
Yout Sorrows shall be soon redrest,
My Neighbour Nicholas and I
To Morrow will the Traytors try,
And be assured that we shall shew 'em
No Mercy when we come to view 'em,
Since they have spoil'd the wisest Head
That ever fam'd La Mancha bred.

By this time Pedro by the Light
O th' Moon had brought Home Ass and Knight,
With Rozinante, and the Lumber
That did his aged Back incumber,
But passing by the Hall that stood
Adjacent to the dusty Road,
And hearing of a vocal din
Come thro a Window from within,
He made a stop and overheard
The whole of what the Niece declar'd;

182

And being now inform'd thereby
How Quixote's Brains were turn'd awry.
The Rustick as without he stood
Cry'd Out as loud as e'r he cou'd,
Soho, Where are You there, Who waits?
Here, Open wide the Castle Gates,
For Baldwin that pussant Lord,
His Horse, his Armour and his Sword,
And I that am his Noble Grace
Of Mantua, I think's the Place,
Make haste, for here's a goodly Crew
Of Champions, and the Lord know who,
The Captive Moore Abindaraez
Whom Don Rodrigo of Narvaez
Brings on his Ass a Pris'ner hither
Sick, Drunk or Mad I know not whether,
Some sadly wounded in Conceit,
Some in Reality Besh---t,
And others in as bad Conditions,
All wanting Cooks or good Physicians.

183

The Curate, Barber, Maid and Niece
Pon hearing such a Speech as this,
Came running to the Door in haste,
The nimble Priest before the rest,
And, greatly srighted, at his Tail,
Run sodden Mistress Abigail,
Young Tonsor next, the Niece close a'ter,
All wondring what could be the matter;
No sooner did they see whose Face
Peep'd o'er the Sack upon the Ass,
But all got round him in a Cluster
To welcome Home Friend, Uncle, Master,
Each striving who should first express
Their sudden Joy and Happiness,
Warmly contending to embrace him,
Pulling on both sides to uncase him,
The Senior crying out in vain
Forbear good Friends, for I'm in pain,
Much injur'd by my heedless Horse,
Who o'er his Noddle pitch'd his Arse,

184

Therefore I pray, dismount me gently,
For I can stand or move but faintly;
Good Doctor, let me straight be led
Into my Room and put to Bed,
Send for Urguna, Niece the while,
Th' Enchantress of the Burning Isle,
That with her Balsam she may heal
My painful Wounds, and make me well.

See now, cry'd Housekeeper and Niece,
‘How right we both were in our Guess,
‘I knew, says One, those plaguy Books
‘Of Wounded Lords and Fighting Dukes,
‘And cursed Lies of Errant Knights,
‘Had been the Cause of all our Frights;
‘Go, as you said, to Bed, Dear Master,
‘And we'll take care to find a Plaister
‘Shall cure your Wounds 'twixt this and Sunday
‘Without that Sorceress Ugunda.

With that they led him up to Bed
That he might ease his crazy Head,

185

Where his She-Vallet stroak'd him round
With her soft Hand, to find a Wound;
Who, tho' she search'd his Flesh all over
She could no broken Skin discover,
Only his Buttock end she might
Have felt before in better plight,
Cause now 'twas smear'd with what the Clown
Had finger'd when the Knight was down.
Who told the busy Crew, that tho'
Is Ailments made no bloody show,
Ye was he bruis'd and maim'd most sorely
In an advent'rous Hurly-burly,
Wherein his heedless Horse had thrown him,
And pitch'd his heavy Arse upon him,
As he was bidding bold Defiance,
T'at least Ten hugeous Looby Gyants,
The most discurteous and ungracious,
Outrageous, cruel, and audacious,
That e'er were bang'd and put to flight,
By trusty Sword of Doubty Knight.

186

How! quoth the Curate, Is it so:
Do Gyants in such Numbers go?
Have we so strong and stern a Crew
Of frightful Monsters to subdue?
Nay then, cry'd Parish-Guide, Adsbobs,
May I be strip'd of Holy Robes,
If I don't burn the Books that bred
These o'ergrown Maggots in his Head,
And turn, to Morrow, into Flames,
The hurtful Pile of Lyes and Shams;
For if we take the Cause away,
Th' Effect must cease, the Learned say.

No sooner had the weary Don
Stretch'd out his painful Limbs upon
His Downy-Bed, an easier Place
Than dusty Road or Rump of Ass,
But he began to think that Eating
Before he slept was very fitting;
For now his Guts were tir'd with Fasting,
As much as were his Limbs with basting.

187

He therefore rav'd for that which might
Suffice his craving Appetite;
For Hunger, that tormenting want
Of Food, was grown predominant:
Accordingly that wither'd Piece
His servile Thornback, and his Niece,
To cooking went, that he might pick
The roasted Bones of Dunghil-Chick,
Whilst Tonsor and the Priest went down
To tattle with their Neighbour Clown,
And to examine in what manner
It met their worthy Friend the Seignior,
From whence and how it came to pass
It brought him home upon his Ass:
The Plow-man told them all his Freaks,
His Bedlam Speeches and his Tricks;
Which hearing, jointly they renew'd
Their Resolutions to intrude
Into his Study next Day Morning,
To see what Books deserv'd their Burning,

188

Hoping thereby to mend his Wits,
And bring his Brains again to Rights.
Then walking back each lent a Kiss
To Mistress Nabby and the Niece,
So left the Lasses in the Kitchen,
To mind the Cook'ry of the Chicken,
Each promising his Kind-look'd Dowdy
To come next Morn to purge the Study.

Thus Idle-Tales, adorn'd with Wit,
And hurtful Books with cunning writ,
In shallow Brains strange Maggots breed,
And make Men Act the things they read.

189

CANTO XI.

The Don's Romantick Books survey'd
By Priest and Barber, Niece and Maid;
The Righteous Judge secures the best,
And to the Flames condemns the rest.

Next Morning by the time the Sun
Had his diurnal Course begun,
The Parish-Guide and Parish-Shaver
Came to the Seignior's House together,
Where Mistress Nabby and the Niece
Had set out Wine and Bread and Cheese,
That they might break their Fast before
They look'd the Seignior's Study o'er;
A Task of Time as well as Labour,
To punish what had craz'd their Neighbour.

No sooner had they chear'd their Hearts,
With three or four repeated Quarts

190

Of humming Liquor mull'd and brew'd
With costly Spice, to make it good,
But up the Stairs they gently crept,
Whilst Quixote very soundly slept,
In order to inspect and rummage
The Study that had done such Damage;
The Niece admitting, by the Key,
Her trusty self and t'other Three;
The House-keeper, who having heard
Strange Nigromantick Stories, fear'd
The Room might be with Spirits haunted,
Or by her Master's Spells Inchanted,
Because his Custom 'twas to start
Most frightful Tales of Magick Art,
And us'd to Lard his Conversation
With Wonders done by Conjuration;
Therefore she'd carefully brought a'ter
The Priest, a Pot of Holy-Water,
Humbly beseeching him to take
The Sprinkler, and for Heaven's sake

191

To shake it o'er each Hole and Creek,
For fear the subtle Fiend Old-Nick,
Or some Infernal Sprite should in
The sinful Study lurk unseen,
Who by its Power might circumvent
Their pious friendly good Intent
Of burning what had brought her Master
Beneath so fatal a Disaster.

The Guide reply'd, There is no fear
Of Satan whilst a Priest is near;
The Devil always flies the Room,
Where-e'er our Holy Function come.
So calling, when he'ad made this Answer,
To his Friend Nicolas, the Tonsor,
He order'd him to hand him down
The Heath'nish Volumes one by one,
That with due Care he might o'erlook
Each idle individual Book,
And pass such Judgment upon those
Who'd been his Friend's seducing Foes,

192

That might at once prevent their further
Occasion of his sad Disorder,
But save, by vertue of his Gown,
The Good and Guiltless as his own,;
Consid'ring that no humane Laws
Should damn the Innocent, because
Unknowingly they chance to be
Betray'd into bad Company.

The angry Females pleaded hard
That not one Volume should be spar'd,
Of several Hundreds that were pil'd
On Shelves, but all be burnt and spoil'd,
Since they themselves could witness bear
That each bewitching Volume there,
Had, in their turns, contributed
To craze his studious Worship's Head:
They therefore beg'd all might be thrown,
Thro' Study-Casement, headlong down
Into a bleeching Yard, that lay
Behind, convenient ev'ry way,

137

Where none could see or smell the while,
The smoaky Exit of the Pile.

But still the Curate was too wise
To mind their Importunities,
Resolving to inspect 'em first,
At least the Titles, that the worst
Might be condemn'd for their Abuses,
And the best sav'd for better Uses:
So putting on, as Judges do,
An awful Magisterial Brow,
Looking most gravely and discreet,
He now assum'd his Judgment-seat,
Where Culprits bound in Leathern Hide
Were haul'd before him to be try'd.

The first that to the Bar were brought
To be arraign'd of God knows what,
Were the Four Volumes of Amadis,
Handed by Nic'las and the Ladies;
I own, quoth Sacerdotal Judge,
To these old Books I owe a grudge,

138

Because they were the first Romances
That introduc'd those Idle Fancies,
And sow'd in Spain, as most agree,
That freakish Vice Knight-Errantry;
Therefore as they originally
Were the Four Founders of that Folly,
And Teachers of that Frantick Fighting,
As well as of Romantick Writing,
I think 'tis fit they should be doom'd
To be in fatal Flames consum'd.

‘Hold (quoth the Barber) I desire
‘To save these Volumes from the Fire,
‘Because they are allow'd, we find,
‘To be the wittiest of their kind;
‘I therefore humbly crave your leave
‘To beg both them and their Reprieve.

Well, honest Nic'las, cry'd the Curate,
To shew I'm not a Man obdurate,
I'll grant a Pardon for your sake,
Altho' I know their Crimes are black:

139

However take them to thyself,
And hand some other from the Shelf.

The next Romantick Volume brought
To hasty Judgment for its Fau't,
Was the fam'd Actions of that Man
Of Valour, Don Esplandian,
The lawful Issue of Amadis
De Gaul, who fought so for the Ladies.
Nay, cries the Priest, with shaking Head,
Sure none in thy Defence can plead,
Nor shall thy Father's Wit atone
For want of Merit in the Son;
No Mortal shall for thee prevail,
Here take him Mistress Abigail;
He's a meer Hector, poor and nought,
The Scoundrel is not worth a Groat;
Pray toss him down into the Yard,
For he's too wicked to be spar'd,
Use him as the Foundation-Stone
To erect the Learned Pile upon,

140

Which your fair Hand shall set on fire,
That in a blaze they may expire,
According to your own desire.

‘Here's a huge Volume, (cries the Shaver)
‘I think I never felt a heavier:
‘This, for its Bulk, deserves no Quarter,
‘'Twould load the Shoulders of a Porter;
‘This is Amadis, born in Greece,
‘A notable deluding Piece;
‘This Book, so wond'rous edifying,
‘Contains the very Art of Lying:
‘Nay, outdoes, in that sort of Wit,
‘All that the Jesuits ever writ;
‘And is, I'll swear, enough to crack
‘The Brain not only, but the Back.

I've heard enough, (reply'd the Priest)
E'en pack him downwards with the rest
That do their Readers so deceive
With Lies, they merit no reprieve.

141

‘This upper Classis (cries the Barber)
‘Does none but such like Lumber harbour;
‘By their unweildy Bulk I see
‘They're all upon Knight-Errantry,
‘Books that their Authors did devise,
‘To fill the giddy World with Lyes,
‘And tempt us to mispend our Prime,
‘In fighting Prose and am'rous Rhime.

Down with them all, (cries Holy Guide)
And let the Vermin be destroy'd,
That we may then proceed to try
Those other Imps, the lesser Fry;
For rather than I'd save or skreen
Antiquinestra, that fair Queen
From burning, or from flaming Pile,
Protect the Shepherd Darinel,
His Eclogues, and the Author's worse
Intolerable dull Discourse,
I'd burn my Grandsire should he be
Bound up in old Knight-Errantry.

142

The Housekeeper and Neice b'ing glad
To hear this Sentence, toil'd like Mad,
To fetch those bigger Loobies down
That did the Senior's Study crown,
Tossing them out, without regard
To their old Fellows in the Yard,
Where the dull Crowd were forc'd to wait
Confus'dly mix'd, to share their Fate.

Cries Nich'las, Here's another Shelf
Of Lumber, in a Nook by'ts self,
Come forward one of you that skulk
Behind to hide your mighty Bulk:
Here's Olivant de Laura, Doctor,
A worthy notable Instructor,
The famous Author, alias Father,
Of this huge Muckhil pil'd together,
Has writ another noble Piece,
By some thought ten times worse than this,
The Gard'n of Flowers is the sweet
Inviting Name to's shallow Wit;

143

Both being stuff'd with little else
Than worthless Whims and monstrous Tales,
Alike fit only to surprise
The Reader with stupendious Lyes;
Therefore e'en let 'em downwards go,
Among the rest that wait below.

Here's more Antiquity (cries Tonsor)
This Book is older than my Grandsire:
Here you may read how Florismart,
The fam'd Hyrcanian play'd his Part.

‘Is Florismart, (replies the Priest)
‘That Noble Lord, among the rest?
‘Neither his Valour, nor his Worth,
‘Or yet the strangeness of his Birth,
‘Or his incredible Exploits,
‘Shall save him from his Brother Knights;
‘For his rough, dull, insipid Style
‘Deserves at least a flaming Pile,
‘E'en turn him down into the Yard,
‘For he may very well be spar'd;

144

Which Orders gladly were obey'd
By Niece and Nab as soon as said.

Next, (cries the Barber) comes Don Platir,
That famous fighting Fornicator,
I guess he'll merit nothing more,
Than those old Champions gone before.

‘Truly, (replies the Priest) I own
‘I have no Favour for the Don,
‘E'en turn him downwards, for at best
‘He's an old Lyar like the rest.

Then busy Tonsor chanc'd to look
Upon another Errant-Book,
Nam'd in its Front, The Knight o'th' Cross,
Which put the Curate to a loss:
Says he, This Book deserves a little
Compassion for its Holy Title:
But since the Devil lurks behind
The Cross, as we in Proverb find,
We shall no great Injustice do
In case we send him packing too;

201

For Holy Names to Heath'nish Books
Are like a Pious Villain's Looks,
Us'd only to disguise the Sin,
And impious Lusts that lurk within:
E'en toss him down into the Yard,
He may do Mischief if he's spar'd.

Then Tonsor reaching down the next,
Cry'd to th' Expounder of the Text,
Now, Doctor, if you want to see
The Quintessence of Errantry,
This Book of Knighthood you will find
The only Mirrour of its kind.

Quoth Priest, I know him by his Looks,
I own him as the Book of Books,
That is, with due Consideration
To's Lying or Romantick Station;
There you may find the Noble Lord
Rinaldo brandishing his Sword,
With such Companions as he lov'd,
Horse Thieves than Cacus ever prov'd;

202

With them the Twelve bold Peers of France,
Who did their Fame so high advance;
Among the rest that faithful Man,
Turpin, the Just Historian.
I own I have an itching Mind
To be to these a little kind,
Am therefore willing to prevent
Their Fate by only Banishment,
Because the Story does contain,
As 'tis agreed by Learned Men,
Something of Boyardo's Invention,
Which gives unto the whole a Sanction,
For nothing can partake his Spirit,
But what must in itself have Merit;
Besides, that famous Christian Poet,
Ariosto's Writings, plainly show it,
That thence the Subject he derives,
Wherein his Mem'ry chiefly lives,
And his bright Fame his Dust survives;

203

Yet should a Bard of his Degree
Keep such notorious Company,
And he should stamm'ring turn his Tone
To any Language but his own,
No more Indulgence shall be shown him
By me, than if I'd never known him;
But if he speaks his Mother-Tongue,
I vow I cannot do him wrong,
Because his Excellency claims
A just exemption from the Flames,
And so deserves our estimation,
That none can wish his Conflagration.

‘I've one at home, (cries Tonsor Nick)
‘But mine does in Italian speak;
‘So that I am not so politely
‘Bred as to understand him rightly.

No reason that you should, reply'd
The solemn, grave, judicious Guide;
For Works of Authors so discerning,
Are only fit for Men of Learning.

204

Nor can I much commend the Whim
O'th' Captain who translated him,
And forc'd him so against the Grain,
To hoarsely speak the Tongue of Spain;
Because he's wrong'd in many places
Of all those beauteous Thoughts and Graces
That in his native Stile appear
So sweet, so excellent and clear:
A Fault that few escape who venture
On Tasks so difficult to enter:
For he that undertakes to shew
A Poet in a Dress that's new,
If the Original be fine,
His Numbers flowing and divine,
Is but like that officious Ninny
Who gives us Silver for a Guinea.
'Tis true, what we receive is more
In Bulk, but 'tis in baser Ore.
Therefore, Friend Nich'las, I desire
To save this Volume from the Fire;

205

Likewise all other Books that chance
To treat of the Affairs of France,
Pray let them be with Care laid by
In Vault or Closet that is dry,
Till we find Methods to dispose
Of those as Friends, instead of Foes:
But one Exception I must make,
And beg you for right Reason's sake,
That if you meet with in your way,
Bernardo, stil'd del Carpio, pray
Deliv'r him freely up at sight,
To th' Dames that wait to do him right:
Or if you should, in Hole or Nook,
Find Roncesvalles, that fam'd Book,
O! let him be excepted from
All Mercy, and receive his Doom;
For certain they must lurk among
This empty, vile, romantick Throng;
Therefore, Friend Nich'las, prithee watch 'em,
For they're condemn'd before we catch 'em.

206

Cries Tonsor, ‘Be assur'd, Good Doctor,
‘I'll do the Will of my Instructor;
‘But, by the way, what is't you say
‘To Palmerin de Oliva,
‘For here he is, and in my view
‘Stands Palmerin of England too.
‘What Sentence does your Worship please
‘To pass judiciously on these?

Ha! (cries the Priest) Do you appear?
I thought that we should find you here:
As for de Oliva, be sure
You give him up to Female Pow'r,
Let the Fair make him, Page by Page,
A Sacrifice to Woman's Rage;
Rend him, unbind him, burn him a'ter,
And let the Wind his Ashes scatter:
But as for t'other Palmerin
Of England, 'twould be thought a Sin
To doom his noble ancient Style,
To perish in the flaming Pile;

207

Not 'cause his Tales are finely told,
And that he's singular and old;
Or for neat Management and Care
At Miraguarda-Castle, where
The Author shows his Wit and Art
Discreetly mix'd in ev'ry part:
Not that I say it only shou'd
Escape, because it's old and good,
But for its high Degree, much rather,
Because it had a Royal Father;
For some, who know the growth of Wit,
Affirm, this famous Book was writ,
Most part thereof, if not the whole,
By a Learn'd King of Portugal;
Therefore let's keep the Offspring back
From Execution, for the sake
Of that renown'd Majestick He,
Who got the spritely Progeny;
For tho' a better Book should be
Compil'd by one of low Degree,

208

Yet due regard should still be shown
To th' meanest Issue of a Throne.

‘Burn him, or save him, which you please,
(Quoth Nick) ‘I long to be at Ease:
‘My Shoulders are so tir'd, I vow,
‘With lifting such a lumbring Crew,
‘That I must rest, and take off just
‘One Glass of Mountain and a Crust,
‘And then (Fair Ladies) you will see
‘The Work go on most chearfully.

Well said, Friend Nicholas, (reply'd
The Priest) I must be of your side;
Continual Labour and no Play,
Makes Jack a heavy Boy, they say.
Quoth Niece & Nabby, ‘Pray good Neighbours,
‘If you're grown weary cease your Labours,
‘And we'll go fetch whate'er you think
‘Is best for you to eat and drink.

Thus all desiring to be Idle,
They cut their Work off in the middle,

209

Sending some respite in enjoying
The sweets of Junketing and Toying.

Thus when the Head, that bears the Rule,
Turns Madman, or a Careless Fool,
Those who obey'd whilst he was wise,
Will then Command and Tyrannize.

CANTO XII.

Worse havock with his Books they make,
Before the Seignior does awake.
At length he starts, from Bed arises,
And raving, the Cabal surprises.

When Drinking, Sitting-still, and Eating,
And eas'd their Arms, and stop'd their Sweating,
They laid aside the Glass, to make an
End of the Work they'd undertaken,

210

So that they briskly now went on,
With what for Ease they'd left undone.
Thus, taken in due time, a Whet
Will prove a Spur, instead of Let.

The Curate very brisk and crank,
In his high Seat, with what he'd drank,
Finding sharp Conduct in his Post,
And quick dispatch oblig'd the most,
Cry'd out to Nich'las, Prithee Neighbour
Don't take such Pains, but spare your Labour
You need not spend such time in reading,
Or be so nice in your proceeding,
But pull at once those Folio Books
From off their Shelves, and out their Nooks,
And, without searching for their Names,
Condemn 'em all unto the Flames;
As Judges do by Rogues sometimes,
More for their Looks than for their Crimes.

Quoth Nicholas, ‘Tho' Judges have
‘Sometimes a Pow'r to hang or save,

211

‘Yet we should think that Judge stark mad
‘That should condemn both Good and Bad,
‘And cause the Innocent to share
‘The Fate of those that Guilty are:
‘Therefore, Good Doctor, I beseech you,
‘For want of Brains enough to teach you,
‘That in your Post you'd use a Conscience,
‘And not condemn good Wit with Nonsence.
‘Here's Don Bellianis, that fam'd Piece,
‘What Judgment will you pass on this?
‘In my Opinion, (quoth the Shaver)
‘This Volume may deserve some Favour.

Truly, (replies the Curate) I
Conceive him to be dull and dry,
He, with his Second, Third, and Fourth
Insipid Parts, are little worth:
His Choler does so far exceed
Due Bounds, that he should purge and bleed.
Besides, he wants to be new polish'd,
His Castle of Fame should be demolish'd,

212

And other Rubbish be remov'd,
Before he can be well approv'd:
However, Nich'las, since I find
To save him you are much inclin'd,
For once I'll grant him Transportation,
In hopes some Pen of Moderation,
In time, may work his Reformation:
Therefore as you have snatch'd him from
The fatal Flames, pray take him home;
For he that does from Gallows save
The Ruffian, or the filching Knave,
Ought to command him as his own,
In lieu o'th' Favour he has shown.

‘Doctor, (cries Nicholas) I vow,
‘You have so highly pleas'd me now;
‘That since you've been so very kind,
‘Do what you please with those behind;
‘For, as you say, I dare to swear,
‘That all those Folio Loobies there,
‘By their old tatter'd leathern Cloathing,
‘Are but dull Lumps, just good for nothing

213

I told you so before, (replies
The Curate, very grave and wise)
Therefore, pray Ladies, take 'em all,
And let no Mercy stop their fall;
But let 'em be confus'dly cast,
Where Flames, e'relong, shall be their last.

The Lasses, fond to be imploy'd,
Were at this Sentence overjoy'd,
Running as gladly to the Books,
As if to make their Wedding-Smocks,
Tearing them down from off the Shelves,
With so much Pleasure to themselves,
As if their Authors and Translators
Had all been beastly Woman-haters,
Working to answer their Desire,
Like Helpers lab'ring at a Fire,
Lugging whole Armfuls in a Heat,
From Shelf to Window, to compleat
Revenge, that's said to be so sweet.

214

At length the Niece, by taking up
Too many, chanc'd to let one drop,
Which being by the Barber found
At's Foot, he took it from the Ground;
And after he had paus'd a little
Upon the Book, and read the Title.
Now Doctor, (smiling cries the Shaver)
Here's an old Book that merits Favour;
This is call'd, Tirante the White,
That famous fighting doubty Knight.

‘Have you got him, (replies the Priest)
‘He shall be my old Friend and Guest,
‘That merry Knight shall sup with me,
‘I'll secure him from Jeopardy;
‘His Tales will yield me much delight
‘Upon a tedious Winter's Night;
‘He's rare obliging Conversation,
‘Brim-full of Life and Recreation:
‘No Miser's Banquet can exceed
‘His Dainties, and a Pipe of Weed.

215

‘Besides, there's not a Page therein
‘But what's rare Physick for the Spleen:
‘Nay, you may find some places out
‘That will divert the Stone or Gout,
‘Or charm the Tooth-Ach, with Proviso
‘You meet Don Kyrie-Eleiso,
‘That valorous successful Man,
‘The famous Knight of Montaban,
‘His Brother Thomas, and the doubty
‘Fonseca, who would ne'er fight Booty:
‘And the fierce Combat bravely fought
‘Long since, about the Lord knows what,
‘Between the Valiant Detriante
‘And Mastiff, who had worry'd twenty:
‘The Humours of that pleasant Jade,
‘That witty, wanton, merry Maid,
‘The Fair Plazerdimivida,
‘And all the Tricks she us'd to play:
‘Also the Jilting Ways and Wiles,
‘False Favours and deceitful Smiles

216

‘Of the brisk Widow, whom, some say,
‘Was therefore call'd Reposada,
‘Together with the Empress, who
‘Was charm'd with young Hippolyto,
‘Tho' but her Usher, and no more,
‘To lead her to her Chariot-door;
‘Yet did her Royal Heart beguile,
‘By tickling of her Palms the while.
‘This Book for noble Style at least,
(Continues the Judicious Priest)
‘Is sure the best the World can find
‘'Mongst all the Volumes of its kind;
‘For here Knight-Errants Eat and Drink,
‘Talk Sense, and regularly Think;
‘Sleep in their Beds, as Men should do,
‘And when they're Ancient die there too;
‘First make their Wills, and in their Age,
‘Like other Mortals, quit the Stage.
‘Whilst all of the Romantick Strain
‘Besides, are so profusely vain,

217

‘That they will scarce vouchsafe a Word
‘Of things beneath the Lance and Sword,
‘Fair Ladies, Gyants, Dwarfs, Magicians,
‘Young Damsels in distress'd Conditions,
‘Knights wounded in tremendous Fights,
‘And Lovers kill'd with Beauty's Slights,
‘All vanishing at last together,
‘Like Fiends and Witches, God knows whither.
‘However, tho' a Man may profit
‘By this one Book, the Author of it,
‘I must confess, deserves to be
‘Chastis'd with some Severity,
‘For writing such an Ass's Load
‘Of silly things to please the Croud;
‘For one Good-Work will not atone
‘For all the Follies he has done:
‘But take this Home, and for thy Pleasure,
‘Friend Nich'las, con it o'er at leisure,
‘And with thy own Opinion then,
‘Return it back to me again.

218

I'll take your Counsel, quoth the Shaver,
But see what little Books we have here;
These lesser Fry sure cannot be
A Nurs'ry of Knight-Errantry.

‘No, (cries the Curate) they're too small
‘For fighting Knights, they're Poets all;
‘They have not room enough to hold
‘Such Gyants as were born of old.
‘View them, and I'll engage you'll find
‘Those Dwarfs are of another kind.

With that the Barber took in hand
A Volume that did nearest stand,
And op'ning it, cry'd out, I'll swear,
Here's a rare Piece of Montemayor;
His fam'd Diana, I protest,
I've singl'd out from all the rest:
What think you of this beauteous Dame,
She cannot sure deserve the flame.

‘No, truly, (cries Judge Advocate)
‘She merits not so harsh a Fate;

219

‘Such Past'ral Books can never be
‘So hurtful as Knight-Errantry,
‘Because they treat of harmless Matters
‘That rather soften rugged Natures,
‘Than animate our headstrong Passions
‘To seek out mischi'vous Occasions;
‘Therefore, I think, the Dame commands
‘Mild Usage at her Judges hands.

Good Doctor Perez, (then reply'd
The angry Niece unto the Guide)
Gave not such Witches, no not one,
For if you do we're all undone;
Their Sorceries will do more harm
Than those that made my Uncle Arm;
Nor should we, by our Care and Pains,
Discover his distemper'd Brains,
And conquer those Knight-Errant Frenzies
That now deprive him of his Senses,
Tho' robb'd of all that cursed Store
Of Books that made him Mad before.

220

Should we again but give him leave
To read what you would now reprieve,
He'd then turn Shepherd, range the Plains
In search of beauteous Nymphs and Swains,
And wander thro' the Woods and Groves,
Where Turtles moan their absent Loves:
Nay, Poet turn, run mad in Meter,
To make the Mischief still the greater,
And fill his Head with foolish Dreams
Of murm'ring Brooks and purling Streams;
A Madness which so strangely pleases
The jingling Brains of him it seizes,
That 'tis incurable, they say,
And never will be chas'd away;
Therefore, dear Doctor, for the sake
Of us whose Welfare lies at Stake,
And in Compassion to your Friend,
Postpone the Mercy you intend.

‘Why truly, Madam, (cries the Priest)
‘'Tis but a reasonable Request,

221

‘What you have ask'd I must allow
‘Is really to the purpose now;
‘Care shall be taken to remove
‘Those Stumbling-Blocks you disapprove;
‘Not that a Volume that does bear
‘The worthy Name of Montemayor,
‘Shall perish in the Flames among
‘So worthless a Romantick Throng;
‘Therefore, Friend Nich'las, I desire,
‘Rather than doom him to the Fire,
‘That you'll tear out, by my Commission,
‘Felicia, Montemay'r's Magician,
‘With that dull part that follows a'ter,
‘Concerning the Inchanted Water:
‘Also those tedious Poems where
‘Great length, but little Wit appear,
‘And let the rest escape the Flame,
‘In Honour to its Author's Name,
‘Because we Men of Reading find,
‘'Tis the best Book of all its kind.

222

Doctor, (quoth Nich'las) your Commands
Shall be obey'd with both my hands:
But here are two Dianas more,
Which make up three, with that before;
One by Salmantino, whose Name,
I doubt, will scarce preserve the same:
The other by Gill Polo writ,
He was, I think, a Man of Wit.
What say you, Sir, shall we dispose
Of these as worthy Friends, or Foes?

‘Salmantino (reply'd the Priest)
‘Is a dull Rogue, without a Jest;
‘I'm sure 'tis worth no Mortal's while
‘To save his Rubbish from the Pile.
‘But (good Friend Nich'las) as for t'other,
‘Which claims Gill Polo for its Author,
‘Pray take him home, and lay him by,
‘Tend'r him as th' Apple of your Eye;
‘For scarce Apollo ever writ
‘With finer Thought or keener Wit.

223

Sa'ye so, (quoth Nich'las) by my Life,
I'll hug him as I do my Wife.—
Here are Ten Books upon Love's Fortune,
Yet all bound up in one, for certain,
Written by him (if you would ask who)
Whose Name was Tony de Lafrasco,
A merry Wag, who was (some say)
A Poet of Sardinia.

‘Now, by my Function (cries the Guide)
‘And all my holy Robes beside,
‘I do not think since Poets first
‘With pensive Poverty were curst
‘Or since that sublunary Time,
‘When Madmen first began to Rhime,
‘That e'er a more diverting Fool,
‘So silly, yet so Comical,
‘Appear'd before in Print, to make
‘His Reader's Sides with Laughing shake.
‘Pray, Neighbour Nich'las, give it me,
(Continu'd Father Domine)

224

‘For I am much more pleas'd to find
‘So quaint a Darling of its kind,
‘Than if some Penitent, to shew
‘The last good Office they could do
‘Within my Parish-Bounds, had dy'd,
‘And left new Mourning to their Guide:
‘But, prithee, Neighbour, make more haste,
‘This is hard Labour, I protest.

Cries Tonsor, I am tired too
Of this confounded Rhiming Crew:
What say you, Doctor, now you're weary,
To the fam'd Shepherd of Iberia,
Also the Nymphs of Enares,
Those witty pritty Baggages;
And with those two, to make up three,
Here comes the Cure of Jealousie.

‘Take 'em good Jaylor, (quoth the Priest)
‘For burning they deserve at least;
‘But pray forbear to ask their Crime,
‘Impertinence prolongs the Time;

225

‘Judges, you know, when tir'd with sitting,
‘Or faint for want of Ease or Eating,
‘Have never patience with Debates
‘When Gout torments or Dinner waits,
‘But by a Figure in the Laws,
‘Apostrophe the tedious Cause.

The next (cries Tonsor) in my way,
Is call'd the Swain of Filida,
Or Shepherd I should stile him rather,
I think 'tis no great matter whether.

‘He was no Shepherd, I aver it,
‘But a wise Courtier, (cries the Curate)
‘He shall not be condemn'd for Fuel,
‘Pray save him, he's a precious Jewel.

Now (cries Friend Nich'las) here comes
The Treasury of divers Poems;
If Bulk or Greatness is a Sign
That Goodness is contain'd therein,
Then this, methinks, should be the best,
Because it's bigger than the rest.

226

‘Had there been less of 'em (replies
The Judge) ‘the Poet had been wise:
‘But that which has his Weakness shew'd
‘Is, they're too num'rous to be good:
‘However we'll their Doom suspend,
‘Because the Author is my Friend.
‘For Kissing does by Favour go,
‘The Wise by old Experience know,
‘In ev'ry Court it will be so.

Then Tonsor taking in his Hand
The next, cry'd, What art thou, my Friend?
Ha! a rare merry Fa-la-lado
Of Songs, by Lapez Maldonado.

‘He's a rare Lyrist (cries the Guide)
‘Sings well, and is my Friend beside;
‘His Lyrick Poems too we find
‘Are well approv'd of in their kind,
‘And better when he does repeat
‘The chearful Strains himself has writ;

227

‘But when he sings 'em, then he warms
‘The Fancy with a thousand Charms.
‘As for his Eclogues, I confess
‘They're tedious, tho' I like their Dress;
‘As if he thought no Reader cou'd
‘Have too much of a thing that's good.

Cries Tonsor also, I pretend
To claim this Lapez as my Friend;
For Barbers and Musicians chime
Together, just like Tune and Rhime;
Therefore I find we both agree
To save this Book from Jeopardy.
Now, Doctor, pray prepare to be a
Kind Advocate for Galatea;
For here among the rest I've found
Her Ladyship most neatly Bound:
You'll spare her, I suppose, the rather
'Cause your Friend Miguel was her Father;
For he that does so well approve
The Parent, must the Daughter love.

228

‘Truly, good Nicholas (reply'd
The grave, judicious, partial Guide)
‘That Miguel de Cervantes is
‘My Friend, I own, and what is his
‘I'm bound not only to respect,
‘But at this Juncture to protect.
‘Judges, you know, will strain the Laws
‘In favour of a friendly Cause,
‘And run the hazard of Repentance,
‘To serve an honest old Acquaintance;
‘Therefore, tho' Miguel has, for certain,
‘Been more Conversant with Misfortune,
‘Than with those nice Poetick Rules
‘Observ'd and taught us in the Schools;
‘And that, as yet, we scarce can find,
‘In his first Volume, what's design'd;
‘Yet since he aims and does pretend
‘To something Noble in the End,
‘We'll wave our Judgment of its worth,
‘Until his Second Part comes forth;

229

‘Because in that we find his Friends
‘Expect he'll make the World amends;
‘Therefore were I myself Astrea,
‘I'd not condemn his Galatea;
‘But take her Home, from Danger skreen her,
‘Till the next shews us what is in her.

Now, Doctor, that we may go on, Sir,
The faster, (quoth the weary Tonsor)
Here are three Volumes all together,
I suppose, Birds of the same Feather:
First Don Alonso's Auricana.
This far excels your fine Diana;
Next Juan Ruffo's Austriada,
This Book has giv'n me many a Play-day;
I've left my Victuals oftentimes
To feast upon his dainty Rhimes:
Thirdly, I give unto your view,
The famous Monserrato too;
A Book much valu'd for its Wit,
By Christopher de Virves writ;

230

For these transcendant Poets sure
You must have Mercy still in store;
These merit not alone Compassion,
But claim respect and veneration.

‘I must allow (replies the Priest)
‘You've brought me now the very best
‘Heroicks in the Spanish Tongue,
‘We therefore must not do 'em wrong;
‘For these melodious happy three
‘Are th' only Beauties, I agree,
‘That Spain can boast in Poetry.
‘These precious Works, as wealthy Jems,
‘I'll save not only from the Flames,
‘But keep 'em safe from Female Fury,
‘Lest they destroy 'em in the hurry.

Now Priest and Barber both were grown
So weary with the Work they'd done,
That they resolv'd to damn the rest,
Without enquiring which was best;

231

And turn 'em down into the Yard,
Unview'd, unpity'd, and unheard;
But just as they had thus agreed
To give the rest no time to plead,
There chanc'd to fall in Tonsor's way,
The Tears of fair Angelica,
Which Book unto the Priest was handed,
And's Judgment of the same demanded.

Had this dear Book (reply'd the Guide)
With its ill Neighbours been destroy'd,
And after I, by chance, had known
The fatal Wrong I'd rashly done,
I should have curs'd the Evil time
I'd been so great a Foe to Rhime,
Because its Author, all agree,
Did so excel in Poetry,
That he's not only justly thought
One of the best that ever wrote
In Spain, but all the World can scarce
Produce a greater King of Verse.

232

As Nich'las and the Holy Father
Were ord'ring Matters thus together,
The Seignior, who had long been dreaming,
Of Gyants, Knights, and pretty Women,
Awak'd i'th' middle of a deep
Engagement he had had in's Sleep,
And was as raving Mad as if
His Rest had giv'n him no Relief:
So that the Roaring and the Noise
He made did the Cabal surprise,
And cause them to condemn the rest,
Without a view, in fear and haste.

Thus we may see how Servants reign
When they the upper-hand can gain;
And when our Rulers once run Mad,
How the Good suffer for the Bad.

The End of the Third Part.

233

IV. PART IV.

CANTO XIII.

The Knight's Deportment in his Pains,
Till Sleep had reconcil'd his Brains;
The Priest, the Niece, and t'other Dowdy,
Contrive to cheat him of his Study.

The waking Don, whose Bedlam Skull
Of Tilts and Turnaments was full,
His climbing fancy grew the Prouder,
Thus to himself he rav'd the louder:

Come all ye brave Puissant Knights,
Expert in Arms and Bloody Fights,
Now is the only Time to shew
Your Discipline and Valour too:
For lo the Courtiers bear away
The Fame and Honour of the Day.

234

These mad Excursions of the Don
Soon scar'd the Priest from going on,
And also eas'd his trimming Neighbour,
As well as self from further Labour,
Who giving over their Survey,
To the Don's Chamber made their way;
Where at the Door they stood unseen
Some time before they enter'd in,
That by his mad Ejaculations,
His frantick Whims and raving Passions,
The cause that so disturb'd his Brain
Might in his Talk appear more plain,
Leaving the Lasses to compleat
The Work themselves were glad to quit;
Who being thus both Judge and Jury,
And in the height of Female fury,
Tumbl'd the rest unto the Pile,
Fav'ring no Author with a Smile,
But quick did their Revenge pursue,
As angry Women always do,

235

By whose rash Judgment many far'd
The worse, that merited Regard,
And Wits and Fools without debate
Were doom'd to share an equal Fate:
Just so when Subjects have ingrost
The Pow'r their Prince hath madly lost,
The Innocent too oft partake
Of Ruin, for the Guilty's sake.

The Priest by this time, and the Shaver,
Who'd listen'd to their Friends Behaviour,
Hearing him rise from out his Bed
With Fifty Meagrims in his Head,
Raving and ranting like a Bully
Inflam'd with Drunken Rage and Folly;
Now grinning forth a blust'ring Word,
Then Brandishing his Trusty Sword,
Laying about him here and there,
Stabbing the Wainscot, then a Chair,
As if beset with Twenty Ruffins
Imploy'd to fill Church-yards and Coffins;

236

So that the Barber and the Priest,
Finding the Signior thus possest,
Like Bailiffs, bolted in upon him,
Fearing some Inj'ry might be done him
By his own Hand, in these mad Freaks,
'Less manag'd in his Bedlam Tricks,
And running of a sudden tow'rd
The Don, caught hold of Man and Sword
Then wresting from his stubborn Arm
The Weapon, to prevent all harm,
They forc'd him to his Bed again,
That Rest might ease his crazy Brain;
Where first he rattl'd, rav'd and swore,
And whilst they held him, kick'd and tore
Like Horn-mad Cuckold, by the Jade
His Wife, to Bedlam just betray'd;
But finding after all his bust'ling,
That Two to One were odds at wrestling
And that the Gyants had most Strength,
He grew discreetly Mad at length,

237

And turning tow'rds the Parish Guide,
Most gravely thus Don Quixote cry'd:

My Lord Archbishop Turpin, sure
We the Twelve Peers must not endure,
To see the Honour of the Day
By the Knights Courtiers born away,
And all sneak off in this Condition,
Without a further Opposition;
When we the Twelve Puissant Peers
Of France, the Knights Adventurers,
Obtain'd, to our Immortal Praise,
The better for the first Three Days.

My Noble Valiant Lord, reply'd
The Curate, pray be pacify'd,
Bad luck to Day, may be to morrow
Turn'd into Good, to ease your Sorrow;
Let not vain Honour as you lye,
But your own Health your Thoughts employ;
For both your Speech and Aspect shew,
You're weary, if not wounded too.

238

Wounded I am not, crys the Signior,
But bruis'd in an ignoble Manner,
A huge Gygantick base born Knight,
Full of unmanly Rage and Spite;
That Don Orlando Furioso,
Has us'd me I confess but so so,
For envy'ng that Immortal Fame
My bold Atchievements justly claim,
And in his Travels meeting me,
His Rival mounted Cap-a-pe,
With Pride and Malice, Mad and Drunk,
He tore up by the Roots the Trunk
Of a tall Oak, that long had stood
The Guard and wonder of the Wood,
And coming unawares upon me,
Had like at once to've over run me;
Gave me such mighty Thwacks and Stroaks,
Sufficient to have fell'd an Ox,
For e'ery blow I'm sure I bore
Ten load of solid Wood or more;

239

But finding I despised his Club,
And stood the force of e'ery Drub,
At last he clap'd the Trunk between
His Legs, then gave a snarling grin,
And o'er the Mountains steer'd his Course,
Upon his huge long Hobby Horse;
Then coolling, I began to find
Each Blow had left a Bruise behind;
But since he has so basely maul'd
My Ribs, may I no more be call'd
Rinaldo, if I e'er forget him,
Or not revenge it when I meet him:
First bring me a Supply of Food,
And Wine that's relishing and good,
Then shall the vile Orlando feel
The force of my revengeful Steel.

Accordingly they now proceeded
To what the Signior chiefly needed,
And brought him a voluptuous Meal
That did his craving Stomach heal,

240

Who Eat like any famish'd Horse,
Or Grey-hound sharpen'd by a Course,
Till active Jaws had conquer'd quite
The fury of his Appetite;
Which when he'ad done, like pamper'd Beast,
He soon compos'd himself to rest,
Leaving the Lasses, Priest and Shaver,
Once more unto their good Behaviour,
Who now began in woeful Sadness
To Convass his uncommon Madness,
And to lament with flowing Eyes,
His and their own Calamities;
Which Sorrow made their Malice grow
So great against the common Foe,
The Books they had condemn'd to Flames,
That the two weeping furious Dames
Set Fire unto the Learned Pile,
Shedding their spiteful Tears the while;
And as the Flames encreas'd and spread,
The Gypsies wept as Nero plaid.

241

Thus Women ripe to perpetrate
Revenge, with Tears their Malice wet,
As Smiths on Cynders sprinkle Water,
To make 'em burn the fiercer a'ter.

No sooner had the She Controller
O th' Houshold, full of Spleen and Cholor,
With Madam Niece, by help of Lights,
Giv'n Fire to all the Errant Knights,
And to the Guiltless Poets too
That lay condemn'd among the Crew;
But they began to dry their Eyes,
And turn their Sorrows into Joys,
Still nimbly fetching new Supplies
To make the Flames the higher rise:
Till many worthy Volumes, writ
By Men of Learning, Fame and Wit,
When Female Passion grew too warm,
Were Martyr'd in the fiery Storm:
So when the hair-brain'd Rabble feel
The mad Effects of Dogstar Zeal,

242

The Righteous for the Wicked's sake
Are often injur'd thro' mistake.

The Priest and Barber, who had staid
To see the Don compose his Head,
Now left him Snoaring, when they found
His Sleep not Counterfeit but sound,
And came just time enough to see
The Study's sad Catastrophe;
Where, like great School-boys by the Fire,
They stood to see the Flames expire,
Commending Female Resolution
For so expert an Execution,
Pursuant to the rigid Sentence
Themselves had given without Repentance
On such Enchanting Books, that had
Made their Wise Friend so wondrous Mad
So partial Judges, when they strain
A Point to serve a Wicked Reign,
And to confirm some Plot, condemn,
With worthless Wretches, Men of Fame,

243

They flatter those that dare presume
To execute the sinful Doom.

The Learned Pile which long had burn'd,
Bring now to Dust and Ashes turn'd,
The Lasses next were at the Pains
To carry off the burnt Remains,
That should the Don by chance herea'ter
Cast Eye upon the place of Slaughter,
He should have no just Grounds to guess
That fatal spot to be the place,
There all his Valiant Knights were slain,
And sturdy Gyants met their Bane;
Where Princes fell, and mighty Lords,
In spite of Shields and trusty Swords,
And fair Enchantresses of Hearts,
With all their Spells and Magick Arts,
Were burnt for Witches till they smoak'd,
To pleasure those they had provok'd.
So she that carries Corn to Mill,
And lets Young Roger kiss his fill,

244

As soon as e'er she'as plaid the Jilt,
Brushes her Cloaths to hide her Guilt,
Because the Meal from off his Jacket
Should not be seen upon her Placket.

No sooner had they nicely done
This private Execution,
But the Wise Curate had projected
What further ought to be effected,
That doubtless might conducive be
To his Dear Friend's Recovery,
And be a means of ever hiding
The Business they had been employ'd in,
Which was, that they should now go stop
The Study Door so nicely up,
That when his Friend should be inclin'd
To gratify his Studious Mind,
He never more should find the way,
To th' Room where once his Volumes lay,
And that in case he ask'd concerning
The Darling Fountain of his Learning,

245

In Answer to his Inquisition,
They then should tell him some Magician,
Conjur'd the Books away together,
Study and all, the Lord knows whither.

This Stratagem as soon as mov'd,
By all the rest was well approv'd;
So that to work they jointly run,
That 'twas no sooner said than done,
With so much Art it could no less
Than be attended with Success.
If therefore Priests can pass their Cheats,
On Madmen who have lost their Wits,
How eas'ly may the same impose
On Fools, who have no Wit to lose.

When they had thus remov'd with gladness
The Causes of the Seignior's Madness,
And by their Marring and their making
Had fitted all things for his waking,
The weary Barber, and the Priest,
Took Leave, and so went home to rest,

246

Leaving the Lasses to bemoan
The loss of two such Friends, when gone,
Who both however were so kind
To leave fair Promises behind,
That they their Visits would renew,
At farthest in a Day or two.
Thus Friends when parted have no prop,
But hopes to keep their Friendship up.

The Don, who had been sore opprest,
With Blows upon his Back and Breast,
Also fatigu'd with tedious Watching,
And many harms he had been catching,
In spite of Bruises, and of beating,
Slept very soundly after Eating;
Like merry Toapers who for Ease
Had tak'n a Dose against the Fleas.
Next Day he wak'd, tho scarce so soon
As the Church Clock proclaim'd it Noon,
And having by his Rest reliev'd
His Senses, sound his Sides aggriev'd;

247

His Arms so stiff, his Legs and Thighs
So sore, he had no mind to rise,
But like a Wiseman had the Grace
To think his Bed the safest Place:
So that his Bruises, Sleep and Lameness,
Having thus brought him to a Tameness,
He now began to only crave
Such things as Sickmen ought to have,
And taking Counsel, fed his Chops
With Caudles, and with Sugar-sops,
Which so compos'd him, that he lay
Till almost Noon the second Day:
Then rising from his Downy Bed,
Which greatly had reliev'd his Head,
And finding his exalted Mind
To Feats of Chivalry inclin'd,
He wanted now to feast his Senses
With fighting Tales in Old Romances;
So walking tow'rds the Room which he
Had turn'd into a Library,

248

He groap'd and gaz'd; and search'd about,
But could not find his Study out,
Or in the Wainscot see the Door
Which he had enter'd oft before.
This made him pause, stare, fret and fume,
Grin, bite his Lip, and then his Thumb,
Like careless Hussy, who has lost
Her Wedding Ring she valued most.
Under this great Dissatisfaction,
Which he express'd in Word and Action,
He rang'd about from place to place,
But found out neither Door nor Case;
Mov'd up and down from Room to Room,
Search'd e'ery Wall about his Home;
Till at length put into a Passion,
By fruitless long Examination,
And then he call'd in Words morose
For the She-Ruler of his House,
Asking of her the ready way
To's Study where his Volumes lay.

249

Lord, Sir, reply'd the Jilting Quean,
I can't imagine what you mean;
You have no Books or Study left,
But have been long of both bereft;
When you were gone the Lord knows whither,
Some Wizard, or the Devil rather,
The Ev'ning to our mighty Wonder,
Came in a Storm of Wind and Thunder,
And carr'd 'em off upon his Back,
Just as a Pedlar does his Pack.

No Uncle, crys the pretty Niece,
'Twas not the Devil, but I guess
Some spiteful Conj'ring Politician,
Call'd an Enchanter, or Magician,
Half Witch, and to'other half Physician;
For he came mounted on the Back
Of a huge Dragon, Red and Black,
Cloath'd with a Sable Morning Gown,
Embroider'd with the Sun and Moon,

250

A Mounteer Cap beset with Stars,
Hung flapping o'er his Leather Ears;
A Bag of Female Fern-seed, ty'd
With Crabs Guts, to his Dexter Side.
Thus in a Stormy Cloud he came,
Compos'd of sooty Smoak and Flame,
Making his Entrance with a fierce
Tremendous Whirl-wind at his A*se,
And when he'ad forc'd your Study Door,
And look'd your Learned Volumes o'er,
He tore it down in half a Minute,
With all your Books and Writings in it;
Which, tho' enough to fill a Waggon,
He clap'd behind him on his Dragon,
And carr'd them off upon my Life,
Just as a Bumkin does his Wife,
Leaving so strong a choaking Scent
Of melted Brimstone when he went
As if the Wizard Stern and Dread
Had like a Helborn Fury fed

251

Upon Sulphureous Smoak and Flame,
And backward fizzl'd out the same,
That he more spitefully might shew
His foul Revenge to us and you:
For as he flew away in haste,
Upon his frightful winged Beast,
He cry'd aloud, I am the Sage
Muniaton, who in my Rage
Have nobly Gratify'd my spight,
In tricking the pretended Knight.

I tell thee Cozen, quoth the Don,
His Name was not Muniaton,
It must be Freston, that Old Gransir,
A famous cunning Necromancer.

I am not certain, I protest,
Whether 'twas Freston, quoth the Niece,
Or Friston, 'cause the Wizard broke
His Silence in a Cloud of Smoke;
But whatsoe'er he call'd his Name,
Ton was the ending of the same.

252

I'm sure, reply'd the Don, 'twas he,
That did me this base Injury;
I know he bears Ill-Will unto me,
And was he able would undo me,
Because he by his Art foresees
That I shall conquer whom I please,
And notwithstanding all his Charms,
Perform such Wonders by my Arms,
That I shall still Victorious prove
O'er Knights, for whom he has a Love;
Crush, Vanquish, bear 'em down, and beat 'em,
Where e'er it is my Chance to meet 'em:
'Tis therefore the Revengeful Wizard
Has such a grumbling in his Gizzard,
And for that Cause that he has done me
This Wrong, and put this Trick upon me;
But I assure that angry Sage,
That all his Malice and his Rage,
His Dark Infernal Operations,
Magical Spells and Conjurations,

253

Can neither hinder, thwart, abate,
Or alter the Degrees of Fate.

You're in the right, replies the Niece,
All Persons must agree with this;
But why, Dear Uncle, will you run
Such dang'rous Risques as you have done,
Range Desarts, Woods, and Plains, beyond
Your Knowledge, like a Vagabond;
To Quarrels pick with Bulls and Bears,
And stake your Precious Life 'gainst theirs;
Encounter Gyants in your way,
Kill Knights, and Scaly Dragons slay,
And undergo such painful Strife,
For nothing but a starving Life,
As if you thought no Bread to Eat
Better than what we make of Wheat,
And that a Slumber was as good,
Beneath a Hedge, or in a Wood,
As on an easy Bed of Down,
Whose Comforts you so long have known.

254

Besides, I pray what Honour is't,
To Fight a Gyant or a Beast,
And to come off ill bruis'd with Blows,
Subdu'd and batter'd by your Foes,
And then brought home upon an Ass,
Like Vagabond convey'd by Pass,
And all perhaps to raise the Fame
Of some strange distant Beauteous Dame
You know no more of than her Name.
So Cats who run a Catter waulling,
In hopes by scratching and by squalling
To beat their Rivals, oft come Home
Well feretted from Pole to Bum.

Therefore, Dear Uncle, I assure you,
I think 'twould be much better for you,
To lay aside your Thoughts of Rambling,
Of Fighting, Squabling and of Scrambling,
And like a Prudent Man prefer
Pleasure to Pain, and Peace to War;
For who that has his Senses right
Would such engaging Blessings slight,

255

To lead a Life much worse than they
Who Conquer for a Groat a Day.
O Lord help thee, crys the Don, poor Creature,
How ill thou understand'st this Matter,
Know that, before I'd suffer wrong
From Ruffains Arm or Sland'rous Tongue,
I'd take a Thousand Knights and Gyants
By th' Beard, and bid 'em all Defiance.
But, Sir, consider (crys the Niece)
That many go to seek a Fleece,
Who oft, alas! at their return,
Spear themselves most basely shorn.
Nouns, quoth the Signior in a fume,
Should any Knight or Knights presume,
I touch the tip but of one Hair
Of these Mustachoes that I wear,
I'd rend their Beards from off their Faces,
And beat 'em into Slaves and Asses.

The Niece and House-keeper not daring
To Answer when they heard him swearing,

256

Drew wisely off; and left the Don
To cool his Heat when they were gone.

Thus good Advice against the Grain,
Provokes misjudging wilful Men.
And seldom works those good effects
The Giver wishes or expects.

CANTO XIV.

How fam'd Don Quixote de la Mancha,
Chose for his 'Squire poor Sancho Panca:
How they stole out by Night together,
And Rode away they knew not whither.

Full Fifteen Days our Doubty Knight
Remain'd at Home in Peace and Quiet,
Shewing for's loss of Books no Sadness,
Nor any freakish Signs of Madness;

257

But in his Actions seem'd to be
A Man of decent Gravity,
As if he'ad re-assumed his Wits,
And laid aside his rambling Fits;
All which was but a meer Disguise,
To seem less Frolick and more Wise,
A subtle force he put on Nature,
To carr' on his Designs the better.
Thus as all sober Men have Passions,
So Lunaticks have their Cessations,
And both their Shams and Politicks
T' accomplish their intended Freaks;
For the sly Seignior during this
His Residence at Home in Peace,
Was fully bent to still pursue
Those Honours which he thought his due;
But recollecting that a Knight
Was not Equipp'd or fitted Right,
Till furnish'd with a Trusty 'Squire,
According to his Heart's Desire,

258

And having fix'd his Eyes upon
A lusty Neighb'ring Country Clown,
Nam'd Sancho Panca, bred to Plow,
Sow, Harrow, Reap, and thrash the Mow,
A downright Honest lab'ring Fellow,
His Purse but low, and Brains but Shallow,
Plagu'd with a Wife and Bearns good store,
Whose craving Mouths still kept him poor;
And this was he the Knight pick'd out
From all the Bumkins thereabout,
To win by private Applications,
Fair Words and kind Solicitations,
And all his soothing fine Preambles
T'attend him in his fighting Rambles,
Telling the poor unthinking Lout,
That in a little time no doubt,
But they should Conquer wealthy Isles,
And Castles full of Golden Spoils,
O'er which he surely should be made
Chief Governor, or Great Alcay'd,

259

And that he then might hope to see
A Time of such Prosperity,
That might not only be Enjoy'd
By him, but Wife and Bearns beside.

This frantick wild alluring Stuff,
With artful Gravity set off,
Was to poor Sancho so bewitching,
Above his Hedging and his Ditching,
That he consented soon to be
The Knight's Esquire in Errantry,
And to renounce the Scythe and Flayl,
Those Arms he understood so well,
For the broad Sword, that he might learn
To Mow down Men, instead of Corn,
And Thrash those Foes he could o'erpow'r,
As he had done his Grain before.
Thus Men are oft decoy'd to quit,
Their scanty Meals for ne'er a bit,
Just as the Mastiff was betray'd,
To drop the Substance for the Shade.

260

The Knight most highly pleas'd to find,
He'ad got a Sword-Mate to his Mind,
A lusty Looby, who was able
To scuffle stoutly in a Squabble,
And bear in any desp'rate Case
A baisting with a Manly Grace,
Began to think of Ways and Means
To raise that useful Friend the Pence,
Remembring that upon his Knighting,
His Host who had been us'd to fighting,
Enjoin'd him never more to ride
Without his Pockets well supply'd;
Therefore to keep the Vow he'ad made
When dub'd by dint of Trusty Blade,
He now convey'd away by Stealth,
Substantial Lands for Pocket Wealth,
Mortgag'd one part, another sold,
Thus turn'd his Acres into Gold,
That Sancho Panca and himself
Might fight and fool away the Pelf;

261

But why at Quixote should we wonder,
Since other Madmen daily squander
Estates away, that they may be
Much more Ridiculous than he.

When thus the Knight was flush of Money,
He walks unto his Trusty Crony,
Consults him, and appoints the Day
On which they were to steal away,
Biding him make all due Provision,
For their intended Expedition,
And that he should be sure to take
A good large Wallet at his Back,
Sufficient to contain their Luggage,
And carry off their Bag and Baggage.

Poor Sancho who was glad at Heart,
To hear the Knight such News impart,
Reply'd, his Will should be obey'd
In each Commandment he had said:
But hark ye me, Sir Knight, I pray,
There's one thing I have more to say,

262

I've Corns upon my Feet and Toes,
And cannot Trot on Foot, God knows;
But I have got a sturdy Ass,
Who, tho' not fit to run a Race,
Yet is he Good to an Extream,
And truly sound both Wind and Limb;
Well built before, and strong behind,
A perfect Beauty in his kind;
And as for Weight, his Strength and Force,
Will make an Ass of any Horse;
Besides, I'm sure he'll never tire,
Therefore since I am made your Squire,
I'll freely venture Life and Limb
Upon no other Beast but him.

At this the Knight began to pause,
And mumbl'd many Hums and Haws,
Wracking his busy Brains to find
A Precedent of such a kind,
But could not recollect that e'er
A Knight permitted his Esquire

263

To mount his Fundamental Twist
On such a dull disgraceful Beast,
Whose pricked Ears he fear'd might be
A Scandal to Knight Errantry:
However, he at length comply'd
That Sancho should his Ass bestride,
Till he could purchase for his 'Squire
A mettl'd Courser that was higher,
Or put him into better plight
By 'nhorsing some Discourteous Knight.

Thus having fix'd the Time and Place,
And got their Arms in readiness,
New vamp'd and mended whatsoe'er
Had suffer'd by the Muliteer,
And carefully supply'd their Bags
With Salves, clean Shirts, fine Lint and Rags,
And all things fit and necessary
For Doubty Knight and 'Squire to carry:
According to the Midnight Hour
They had prefix'd not long before,

264

Both stole from Home when dark and late,
And at the Place appointed met,
Don Quixote Hors'd in Armour Clad,
And Sancho on his prick-ear'd Pad,
With Wallet at his Crupper ty'd,
And Leathern Bottle by his Side,
To ballance which a mighty Weapon
Hung down, whose Scabbord had no Chape on;
So that the threat'ing point where Death
Was seated, hung below the Sheath,
And serv'd him now and then, in case
Of speed, to spur his sluggish Ass:
So have I seen a Highland Clown,
On puny Tit Trot thro' a Town,
With a huge Bag of Oatmeal ty'd
To's Girdle, on his Dexter Side,
And on the Left a Sword, whose Blade
Thro' unstitcht gaping Scaboard made,
Ill favour'd grins to e'ery Eye
That view'd him as he travel'd by.

265

When thus they had began together,
Their Midnight Ramble, God knows whether,
And from their Homes, with equal Art,
Had made an unsuspected Start,
Both jointly fearing a pursuit,
Each spur'd on his unwilling Brute,
That they might make such speedy way,
And gain such Ground by break of Day,
As to be past all doubt of Danger
From those they'd left at Rack and Manger,
The Knight, tho' stout, b'ing much afraid,
Of the Priest, Barber, Niece and Maid;
And his 'Squire tim'rous of the Clamour
Of crying Brats and scolding Gammar,
Both knowing should they be o'ertaken,
By means of those they had forsaken,
That it must frustrate or postpone
The great Designs they were upon,

266

And stop their Journey made by Stealth,
Tow'rds endless Honour, Fame and Wealth;
Poor Sancho thinking now of nothing
But dainty Bits and costly Clothing,
And larger Pockets in his Breeches,
As big as Sacks, to hold his Riches,
Expecting soon to be a King,
Or some such mighty pompous thing.
Thus those who enter upon Arms,
Ne'er think of Hardships or of Harms,
But Dream of rising to be Great,
Till Want or Wounds compleat their Fate.

The Knight and 'Squire alike possest
With vain Conceits of being blest,
By some strange accidental Fortune
As yet conceal'd behind the Curtain,
Jog'd on repleat with mutual Joy,
Altho' beneath a sullen Sky,
Which neither shone with Moon or Stars
To guide the wand'ring Travellers;

267

But Resolution knows no fear,
And in the dark its Course can steer,
Makes Night as pleasant as the Day,
When hope of Int'rest paves the way.

Yet, tho' the Heavens were as Cloudy
As ill-look'd Æthiopian Dowdy,
Poor Rosinant, whose doubtful Sight
Was not exceeding Young or Bright,
Made shift to keep the very Road
Which he before had often trod,
In which his worthy Knight and Master
Had met with such a sore Disaster;
So that by th' time the Morning Goddess
Began to fumble for her Bodice,
And with her charming Eastern Blushes,
To gild the Meadows and the Bushes,
They found themselves upon the Plains
Of Montiel, where the early Swains
Were moving from their Rural Huts,
To Milk their Kine and tend their Goats,

268

And to Enjoy, exempt from Pride,
Those Blessings unto Kings deny'd.
As thus they beat the Heathy Ground,
Which Eccho'd back their Steps in sound,
Quoth Sancho, ‘What your Knightship said
‘I vow runs strangely in my Head,
‘I hope your Worship won't forget
‘The Island, tho' unconquer'd yet;
‘I question not but I've Discretion
‘To govern any Land or Nation,
‘Altho' as big as all La Mancha;
‘Besides, methinks, Duke Sancho Panca
‘Would sound as nobly in the Ear
‘As any Title one should hear.

Friend Sancho, quoth the doubty Knight,
Ne'er fear but I will do thee right;
'T'as always been and still must be
The Custom in Knight Errantry,
For Knights who fight for Honours sake,
By way of recompence, to make

269

Their Trusty Squires the Governors
Of Kingdoms, they have won in Wars;
For he who with a Valiant Heart,
In Conquest bears a noble part,
In Justice ought to do no less,
Than share the Fruits of the Success:
Tis true, I must confess, we're told
In Hist'ry, that the Knights of old,
Their Bounties and Rewards delay'd
Till their poor Squires were quite decay'd,
By the hard Service they had done,
And Wounds receiv'd in risques they'd run:
But I, Friend Sancho, thou shalt find,
Will prove more generous and kind;
For the first Empire I subdue,
A Kingdom will I give to you,
Add Royal Honours to your Name,
And Crown thee Monarch of the same;
All which I'll do thou need'st not doubt,
Before six Days are gone about,

270

For mighty Things, if well projected,
May be in little time effected.

Sancho transported with Delight,
Reply'd unto his Master Knight,
‘And shall I be a King d'ye say,
‘I wish to see that happy Day;
‘It makes me laugh to think how Joan
‘My Wife, would look upon a Throne;
‘For if I rise to Kingly Pow'r,
‘Then Joan must be a Queen besure,
‘And all our Bearns, who now are Clad
‘In Rags and Tatters, and are glad
‘To run upon their naked Tentoes,
‘Be made rich Princes and Infanta's.

You need not fear, reply'd the Knight,
But all these Things will happen right;
How oft have Rural Nymphs and Clowns,
Been rais'd from Shepherds Crooks to Crowns.
And climb'd by Fortunes Smiles from nothing
To dainty Bits and costly Clothing;

271

Therefore ne'er doubt but by my Sword,
Or Lance, I'll soon make good my Word,
And honest Joan and you shall share
A Kingdom, tho' I know not where,
And your fair Progeny shall be
Successors in the Monarchy.

‘Master, quoth Sancho, all I fear
Is, that if Joan should come to wear
A Crown, 'twould sit I know not how,
Just like a Saddle on a Sow;
For tho' she carries, I confess,
The Milk-pail with a wondrous Grace,
Yet such a Golden Badge of Honour
Would hang so awkwardly upon her,
That I dare swear she'd look therein
Like a coarse Tapstry hanging Queen,
Who by her stiffness seems to be
Unworthy of her Dignity;
Therefore on second thoughts poor Joan
Will never well become a Throne,

272

‘Her Bulk, her Breeding, and her Stature,
‘Her Ruddy Face and homely Feature,
‘May, if she strains a Point, agree
‘With Countess, but not Majesty:
‘So that indeed I don't desire
‘She ever should be rais'd much higher,
‘'Cause she's too headstrong, loud and little,
‘In short for any Royal Title.

Quoth Quixote, never Entertain
A Thought so scandalous and mean,
I can foresee that You and She
Are Born to Soveraignity,
And must e'erlong, in spite of Fate,
Be both Majestically Great.
‘Nay, replies Sancho, if our Stars
‘Will force such Favours unawares
‘Upon us, we must be Content,
‘And manage well our Government;

273

‘But I'd be glad methinks to know
‘In what strange World those Kingdoms grow,
‘O'er which your Worship, as you say,
‘Intends to bear Imperial Sway,
‘And under whom, my Dame and I
‘Are jointly doom'd to Majesty.

Thus as they jog'd along the Plains,
The one infected t'other's Brains,
Till the poor trusty Squire was quite
Deluded by the frantick Knight.
Since groundless hopes of Gain we find
Sometimes will Humane Reason blind,
How far must real Int'rest sway
The Mind, and lead the World astray.

274

CANTO XV.

Don Quixote thro' mistake, attacks
A Windmill, and his Lance he breaks;
Poor Sancho, at a distance, prays
That Heaven may give the Knight Success.

As o'er the Plains by break of Day
The Knight and Sancho made their way,
Don Quixote happen'd to e'spy
A Row of working Windmills nigh,
On which he fix'd his Eyes with dread,
And thus unto his Squire he said:

This Day, Friend Sancho, shall we be
Crown'd with a glorious Victory,
And by our Arms and Valour raise
Our selves, above the reach of Praise;

275

Behold those mighty Gyants yonder,
Did'st ever see so great a wonder?
Mind how they brandish in the Air
Their nimble Arms that stretch so far,
As if they cuff'd the peaceful Winds
To ease the Malice of their Minds:
In Times of Yore such monstrous Brutes,
Who fought with Trees pull'd up byth' Roots,
And made Barn Doors and Waggon Wheels
Their pondrous Bucklers and their Shields,
Thought it a Scandal and Disgrace
To shew above one murd'ring Face
At ouce, but here there comes a Troop
To meet us, and to Eat us up.

‘I doubt, quoth Sancho to the Knight,
‘The Haisy Morn confounds your Sight;
‘Those Monsters you mistake to be
‘So full of Rage and Cruelty,
‘Are only Wind-mills, I'll be sworn
‘That eat up nothing else but Corn,

276

‘And those long Arms in your Conceit,
Are Sails by which they grind their Wheat.

Poh, poh, thou silly Wretch, replies
The Knight, do's think I have no Eyes,
I find thou art a perfect Stranger
To brave Adventures and to Danger;
I tell thee, they are monstrous Gyants,
Huge Cow'rdly Lubbers, whose Relyance
Is on their Number, and their Strength
Of Arms, of such a wondrous length
And bigness, that one angry Grasp
Would give a Foe his dying Gasp,
Except a Vall'rous Knight like me,
Expert in Feats of Chivalry.

Poor Sancho in a Fume replies,
‘Why sure your Worship is more Wise
‘Than fancy, as you seem to do,
‘You've any Monsters here in view;
‘The Dev'l a Gyant's there before you,
‘They're Wind-Mills all I can assure you;

277

‘Or you're a Dragon, and no Knight,
‘My self an Owl, my Cap a Kite.

Poh, quoth the Don, thou hast not Skill
To know a Gyant from a Mill;
Thy fear I find has Rob'd thee quite
Of Reason, or at least of Sight,
Since I conceive thou art affear'd
To take a Gyant by the Beard:
E'en go aside, Kneel down and Pray,
Whilst I prepare to Fight and Slay,
Or to disperse that monstrous Race,
So daring cruel and so base.

‘Strange ways crys Sancho to himself,
‘Of winning Kingdoms full of Pelf;
‘Nouns does his Worship mean, I wonder,
‘To Ride o'er all those Wind-Mills yonder,
‘Let him Conceit whate'er he will,
‘And make a Monster of a Mill,
‘If they are Gyants, by the Mass
‘I dare be bound to eat my Ass;

278

‘However, let him take his Freak,
‘I'll pray the while and save my Neck.

No sooner had the Valiant Knight
Made all things for the Combat fit,
Couch'd his bright Lance, and fix'd his Bum
In his War Saddle, close and plumb,
But he cry'd, Stand ye Cowards all,
So Big, so Mighty, and so Tall,
That I a single Knight may try
Your Strength and Valour e'er you fly;
What, tho' your Whiskers are so long,
Your Looks so fierce, your Arms so strong,
Your Number Thirty Three or Four,
Know that I'd fight ye were you more.
Then making a Concise Oration
To his Dear Dulci in a Passion,
Imploring her prevailing Charms
To give a Blessing to his Arms,
He rais'd his spacious Target over
His Head, and did his Body cover;

279

Then spurring his Dim-sighted Horse,
He boldly Rid with all his force,
T'attack that Mill which nearest stood,
That sturdy Gyant made of Wood,
And hitting with his Lance the Sail,
Blown round with a refreshing Gale,
The Wings, which were in so much haste,
And whirl'd about so wondrous fast,
Shiver'd the Handle from the Spear,
And tost the pieces here and there;
Giving the Knight so sad a Cant
From off the Back of Rozinant,
That he was forc'd sometime to dwell
'Twixt Heaven and Earth before he fell;
Where twice or thrice, if not more oft,
He turn'd the Somerset aloft,
Then nicely pitching headlong down,
Stood bolt upright upon his Crown,
Whilst Rozinant, his Aged Horse,
Far'd e'ery Jot as bad, or worse,

280

And by a spiteful Sail that crost
His stubborn Sides, was fairly tost
Three times his length, from off the Hill
Where stood this Gyant of a Mill.
Thus those who blindly will engage
With Foes they know not, in their Rage,
Come off sometimes, tho' ne'er so Stout,
With broken Bones and batter'd Snout.

Poor Sancho seeing Horse and Master
In this unhappy sore Disaster,
Left Pray'rs, and, with his utmost speed,
Spur'd on his long-ear'd braying Steed,
That he might help the groaning Knight,
Who lay in very doleful plight,
As if he fear'd, in case he stir'd,
A rising Blow with Fist or Sword.

How fares it Master, quoth the Squire,
I hope you've found me now no Lyer,

281

Did not I, o'er and over, tell you,
Before this sad Mischance befel you,
That all those huge gygantick Blades,
With monstrous Arms and mighty Heads,
Were nothing else but Mills that grind
Our Wheat and Barly Corn by Wind:
Why therefore would you madly go
To Combat such a wooden Foe,
Whose grumbling Guts are Stones and Cogs,
And Ribs made up of Planks and Logs,
When you beforehand knew full well,
There was no Fence against a Flail?

‘Peace, prithee Sancho (cry'd the Knight)
‘These things you understand not right,
‘War, ev'ry Wiseman must agree,
‘Is full of great Uncertainty,
‘None know which Side will be befriended
‘With Vict'ry till the Battle's ended,
‘Tho' I, too late, can make appear
‘The Cause of my Misfortune here,

282

‘And know full well to whom I owe
‘This unexpected Overthrow;
‘Freston, that cunning old Magician,
‘Has brought me into this Condition,
‘That subtle Knave, who stole away
‘My Books and Study, t'other Day,
‘Has now transform'd, by Magic Charms,
‘Those Gyants that appear'd in Arms,
‘Into base Windmils, to confound
‘My Strength, and cast me to the Ground.
‘Curse of his Malice and his Spite,
‘That ruin'd such a brave Exploit,
‘And hinder'd me from hacking down
‘Those monstrous Brutes who now are flown.
‘But still I'll make him know, that all
‘His Wiles shall never work my Fall;
‘For by my Sword and Lance, tho' broke,
‘I'll make the spiteful Wizard smoke.

Amen, (quoth Sancho) I could wish
The Devil had him in his Dish.

283

I fear the Rogue has disappointed
My being made the Lord's Anointed.
But pray recover your surprize,
And try if you have strength to rise:
I wish you find, when off the Ground,
That all your Bones are safe and sound;
For you have had, I must declare,
An ugly Tumble thro' the Air.

With that Squire Sancho lent the Knight
His Hand, and set him bolt upright,
Who faintly without Motion stood,
Like Image made of Stone or Wood,
Till, by degrees, his Limbs began
To lose their Numbness and their Pain.
Then Sancho led him to his Steed,
Who, in the Fray, had spoil'd his speed,
And was become, by his Disaster,
A far worse Cripple than his Master:
However, Sancho, by main force,
Mounted the Knight upon his Horse,

284

Who, when he once was got a Straddle,
Could make a shift to keep his Saddle;
Then striding his obsequious Asse,
Away they jogg'd a gentle Pace,
Making the fatal Windmil Battle
The Subject of their Tittle-tattle.
So Rakes, when they've a Brothel storm'd,
And come off beaten and disarm'd,
Their greater Pleasure is, at last,
To prattle of the Danger past.

Thus on they travel'd tow'rds the Pass
Of Lapice, a noted Place.
The Valiant Don b'ing still inclin'd
To Fight, tho' beat by Wood and Wind,
And therefore chose that publick Way
To meet with some advent'rous Fray,
Wherein he might, by dint of Steel,
Repair his Honour which the Mill
Had sorely wounded with the Blow
That prov'd his fatal Overthrow;

285

So valiant Generals, when they're beat,
And forc'd to Fly or to Retreat,
Strive by new Hazards to restore
The Honour they had lost before.

The only Sorrow now that hung
Upon the Knight's complaining Tongue,
Was the Ill-fortune and Mischance
He had to lose his trusty Lance,
Which at his first bold manly Stroke,
Th' enchanted Mill to shivers broke.
This sad Affliction almost gravel'd
His working Fancy as he travel'd.
At length he was resolv'd to try
The following Method of supply:
And having thought a while upon it,
He cry'd to Sancho, Now I've done it,
I've read, says he, a Spanish Knight
Who broke his Sword, by chance, in Fight,
In this Distress with Fury ran
To an Oak growing on the Plain,

286

And rending from the sturdy Trunk
A mighty Limb, full siz'd for Plank,
Return'd again unto his Foes,
And ground whole Legions with his Blows,
Slaughter'd such Numbers that he trod
Full Ancle deep in Moorish Blood;
From whence, 'tis said, he was surnam'd
The Grinder, and for ever fam'd;
Therefore do I intend, like him,
From the next Oak to tear a Limb,
That I, Don Quixote, may surpass
Don Diego Perez de Vargas,
For that's the Name of that bold Knight
Who kill'd so many Moors in Fight;
But yet, Friend Sancho, thou shalt see
I'll do much braver Deeds than he,
That thou may'st bless thyself, and warm
Thy Soul with Wonders I perform.

‘I wish I may, (replies the Squire)
‘For your Success is my Desire,

287

‘I must allow, an Oaken-Club
‘Will give a Foe a dev'lish Drub;
‘'Tis true, a Lance might spill more Blood,
‘Or else a Cudgel is as good.
‘But pray don't sidle so and waddle,
‘But sit more upright in your Saddle,
‘That plaguy Mill has been no Friend
‘To your poor Worship's fizling End;
‘I have some cause to fear, an't please ye,
‘Your Bruises make you sit uneasy.

'Tis true, Friend Sancho, (quoth the Don)
My Rump is disoblig'd I own,
But Knights, altho' they're almost slain,
Must never of their Wounds complain,
Or pine, like other dastard Wretches,
Tho' their Guts drop into their Breeches.

‘Nay then (quoth Sancho) 'tis no wonder
Your Worship is so patient under
The Danger you so lately past,
With a damn'd break-neck Fall at last,

288

A trifling Blow that made you fly
‘Twelve Yards, at least, 'twixt Air and Sky;
‘And yet, if I the truth could know,
‘'Tas only broke a Rib, or so;
‘But such small puny Hurts, I'll warrant,
‘Can never move a brave Knight-Errant:
‘However, if your Worship's Back,
‘Or Sides, are maim'd in your Attack,
‘Or that you find you've broke a Bone,
‘I should be glad to hear you Hone,
‘Or I shall never have the Skill
‘To know when you are Well or Ill.

The Laws of Knighthood (quoth the Don)
To thee, I find, are quite unknown,
I tell thee, Knights must not complain,
Or make Wry-faces when in Pain,
But, by their Patience, Chance defeat,
And, tho' o'erpowered, ne'er submit;
For he who, when he's overthrown,
To Foes will no Subjection own,

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Tho' worsted, can't be truly said
To be subdu'd, unless he's dead.

‘Enough of this, (replies the Squire)
‘I'm glad I am advanc'd no high'r;
‘For tho' I fancy I could fight,
‘With any of my Bulk or Hight,
‘Yet should I make a sorry Knight;
‘For were I to be beaten soundly,
‘I'm sure that I should Hone most woundly;
‘Nay, without Wounding, truly Master,
‘My Guts are grumbling for a Plaster,
‘They wamble much, as I'm a Sinner,
‘I hope it's time to go to Dinner.

Whene'er you please (replies the Knight)
Stuff you your craving Appetite;
But I am not dispos'd, as yet,
Like common Slaves, to drink or eat;
My Mind's Intent on something greater
Than the dull drudgeries of Nature;

290

But you that are my trusty Squire,
May feed as oft as you desire.

No sooner had poor Sancho won
This pleasing License from the Don,
But the Squire lugs from out his Wallet,
A luncheon suited to his Palate,
And fixing rightly on his Asse,
Fell-to without one thought of Grace,
Grinding some Morsels of his Food,
And swall'wing others quite unchew'd,
With horny Claws supplying still
His Mouth, as Miller does his Mill;
Sometimes committing to his use
The Bottle fill'd with noble Juice,
Taking such hearty Swigs thereof
Till almost choak'd 'twixt Wine and Cough,
Conceiting, like his Master Don,
The Life he now had enter'd on
Was the most happy, and the best
That ever mortal Man possest.

291

So the fresh Soldier that receives
The Premium that his Captain gives,
With his new Choice is well content,
Till all his Bounty-Money's spent.

Sancho of Drowth and Hunger eas'd,
Now jogg'd along extreamly pleas'd,
Fearing as little as his Master,
Knight, Gyant, Combat, or Disaster,
Pratling and Jesting with the Don,
Till Darkness unawares came on,
So that Chance throwing in their way
A Hedge-row at the close of Day,
Wherein were planted Oak and Ash,
Sloes, Wildings, Crabs, and other Trash;
'Twas here they stop'd from further trudging,
And chose this Umbrage for their Lodging,
Where Rozinant found Weeds and Grass,
And Thistles grew for Sancho's Asse.
Thus, tho' unhappy Man forsakes,
His Welfare to pursue his Freaks,

292

Yet Providence, altho' we stray,
Flings needful Blessings in our Way.

The Knight, who had no Pow'r to bridle
His active Thoughts, which ne'er were Idle,
Instead of praying to the God
Of Sleep that he might take a Nod,
Began to make his lovely fair
Dulcinea now his only Care,
So fam'd for Butter and for Cheese,
Hogs-puddings, Tripe, and Sausages,
That now 'twas Gluttony or Sloth
To think of Hunger, Sleep, or Drowth,
Since pond'ring on the Charms possest
By Dulci was both Food and Rest.
But Sancho having much more Wit,
To the Hedge-bottom ty'd his Tit,
And making of his Arms his Pillow,
Slept all the Night beneath a Willow;
For having stufft, but just before,
His Guts with Food and Wine Galloure,

293

He did his weary Limbs requite
With one sound Nap of all the Night,
Whilst thoughtful Quixote waking sat,
Brim-full of Love, and God knows what.

So the poor Slave that's doom'd to wait
At the proud Elbows of the Great,
With Pleasure takes his peaceful Rest,
Whilst Cares disturb his Master's Breast.

294

CANTO XVI.

How the two Champions spent the Night,
Beneath a Hedge-row, 'till 'twas Light.
The Contest with the Monks in Vizards,
Whom the Don fansy'd to be Wizards.

The Day appear'd and Sun arose,
E're Sancho did his Eyes disclose;
Nor could the Birds, whose chearful Strains
Welcom'd the Morn and rais'd the Swains,
Awake or Charm him from the Ground,
He slept so easy and so sound:
But soon as e'er the watchful Knight
With pleasing Eyes beheld the Light,
B'ing thoughtful of the great Mischance
He'd had so lately with his Lance,
He rang'd the Hedge from End to End,
In hopes some Tree might stand his Friend,

295

And yield him, in Distress, but one
Strait Branch to mount his Spear upon,
Which useful part he had the luck
To save, altho' the rest was broke:
At length a proper Bough he found,
But so far distant from the Ground,
That on his Horse's Back, the Knight,
With much ado, stood bolt upright,
Then catching hold o'th' taper end,
Did with his utmost weight descend,
Which caus'd the slender Bough to yield,
That Thump came Don into the Field;
His Armour rattling, when he fell,
Like a Brass-Pot with Iron-Bale,
Which hasty drop was near as bad,
As that he at the Windmil had:
However, tho' he hurt his Haunch
And Huckle, down he brought the Branch,
Which pleas'd him more than Bruise cou'd vex him,
Or any broken Bone perplex him.

296

So have I seen a Noddy climb
Aloft and hazard Life and Limb,
Encourag'd by no other Gains
Than a poor Crows-Nest for his Pains.

The Don thus fitted to his Mind,
Repair'd his Lance as he design'd,
Then gave his drowsy Squire a Jog,
Who snoaring lay like any Hog.
No sooner had poor Sancho rais'd
His Head, and star'd as if amaz'd,
Shrug'd, scratch'd his Ears, gap'd twice or thrice
And rub'd the Gum from out his Eyes.
But turning from the Knight he slips
The Leathern-Bottle to his Lips,
And does by hearty Swigs prepare
His Stomach 'gainst the Morning Air,
But griev'd, when he had clear'd his Sight,
To find the Vessel grown so light,
Shrewdly mistrusting, when the Juice
Was gone, of which he'd been profuse,

297

That he must live some time without,
By smelling to the Bottle snout,
Took therefore t'other Swig, to drown
The present Fears that teas'd his Crown.
So Spend-thrifts live at large and borrow
To Day's Expences of to Morrow.

But the grave Don, who all the Night
Had feasted, with unknown Delight,
Upon Dulcinea's Charms and Graces,
And all the sweets of her Embraces,
So far as Fancy could supply
The want of more substantial Joy,
Would not be tempted to forsake
His lusheous Thoughts, his Fast to break,
Preferring Beauty so divine,
To grosser Food, and Love, to Wine.
So wise Philosophers, we find,
Are so far of Don Quixote's Mind,
That on Ideas they can Feast,
And stile the happier Man a Beast,

298

Who on the real Substance feeds,
And ne'er denies what Nature needs.

The Sun by this time having flown
Some Leagues above the Horizon,
And drank up all the Dews and Fogs
That rose from Rivers, Fens and Bogs,
The Knight, with Sancho at his Breech,
Their Farewel took of Hedge and Ditch;
And, like two stroling Gypsies budg'd
From off the Ground where they had lodg'd,
Having no half-dry'd Sheets to pay for,
Nor Landlord's saucy Bill to stay for,
But unmolested bent their speed
Tow'rds Lapice, as they'd agreed,
Hoping its Pass would soon afford
Adventures worthy of the Sword,
Wherein Don Quixote and his Horse
Might shew their Valour and their Force,
That Sancho might be made an ample
Bravado by the Knight's Example,

299

And also boldly try how far
His Courser was an Asse of War.

Thus on they travel'd, Man and Master,
A Milk-maid's Pace, and not much faster,
Till near the Publick Place they came,
Where both were to advance their Fame.
The Knight then turning to his Squire,
Bid him advance a little nigher.
Sancho (quoth he) thou art, I see,
Unread i'th' Laws of Chivalry;
I therefore charge you, whilst I live,
To mind these Cautions I shall give.
Whene'er thou seest me draw my Sword
'Gainst Knight or Knights say not a Word;
And tho' I'm ne'er so much opprest
With Numbers let your Whinyard rest;
For 'tis against the ancient Law
Of Knighthood for a Squire to draw,
Or shew his Valour and his Rage,
When any Knight with Knights engage,

300

Or at such times t'assist his Master,
Tho' fallen beneath the worst disaster;
None, except Knighted, must defend
A worsted Knight, when Knights contend;
For he that suffers, in a Fight,
His Squire to draw upon a Knight,
Shall be unhors'd, the Gauntlet run,
And lose all Honours he has won.
But should I chance to have a squabble
With Ruffians, or a scoundrel Rabble,
There you may draw, if you are willing,
And kill till you are tir'd with killing,
Without restraint your Valour show,
And chine a Slave at ev'ry Blow.
But once more let me set you right,
Be sure ne'er draw 'twixt Knight and Knight.

‘If this is all that you require,
(Quoth Sancho) ‘never doubt your Squire,
‘Such easy Laws a Man may keep,
‘Not only waking, but asleep;

301

I ne'er was fond to run my Nose
Into a Quarrel 'twixt two Foes;
Or to affront or fight a Stranger:
I always hang-on-Arse in Danger.
Just as poor Sancho and the Don
Were talking thus, and jogging on,
Two well-fed Benedictine Monks,
With brawny Limbs and burly Trunks,
And Blubber-Cheeks blown roundly up,
Between the Kitchen and the Cup,
They chanc'd t'espy approaching near 'em,
Mounted on Strammels fit to bear 'em,
Strong pamper'd Mules, as full and fat
As those who cross their Shoulders sat,
Whilst their stretch'd Bellies and cram'd Guts
Hung o'er the Withers of their Brutes.
Half Masks their Faces did disguise,
To save the Dust from out their Eyes,
By Glasses which were fix'd therein,
To keep their rowling Eye-balls clean.

302

Umbrellas in their Hands they bore,
Against the Sun's oppressive Pow'r,
For fear his painful scorching Heat
Should melt their Blubber into Sweat.
Behind 'em came a Coach full trot,
Where, with her Maid, there lolling sat
A fair Biscayan tempting Devil,
Flying with all her Charms to Sevil,
To give her Spouse a parting Night
Of Sorrow, mingl'd with Delight,
Who stood consign'd to th' Spanish Indies,
But had lain Wind-bound eight or nine Day
Behind came four or five, some riding
On Mules, some Gennet-Pads bestriding,
Two nimble Muleteers on Foot,
Who, to keep Pace, were hard put to't.

No sooner had the Knight set Eyes
Upon the Monks, but in surprise
He check'd his Rozinante's Head,
And thus unto his Squire he said:

303

Sancho behold the monstrous Statures
Of these approaching frightful Creatures,
In black infernal Gowns and Vizards,
These, by their Habits, must be Wizards,
Who, by the Art of Necromancy,
Are basely Conjuring, I fancy,
Some Princess in that Coach behind,
To some dark Cave against her Mind,
That they may ravish and deflow'r her,
Then set their Devils to devour her;
Therefore it is my Duty here
To stop 'em in their full Career,
And rescue from their hellish Clutches
The poor distressed beauteous Dutchess.

Quoth Sancho, ‘Sure your Worship dreams,
Or Sol half blinds you with his Beams;
They're Benedictin Fryars both,
'Nowns, you may know 'em by their Cloth,
Nor will you find the Coach to wait
Upon the Monks, or they on that,

304

‘They only formost do advance,
‘As others follow them, by chance,
‘By reason, as a Man may say,
‘Their Bus'ness lies the self-same way.

Thou'rt blind (replies the Don) and wilful,
As yet in Arms and Arts unskilful,
Thou know'st not how to judge or enter
Upon so prosp'rous an Adventure;
I've told thee Truth, and to thy sight,
I'll prove what I have said is right.
Then spurring on his limping Horse,
Much giv'n, poor Jade, to hang on Arse:
Into the middle of the Road
He rid, and there he boldly stood,
With his broad Shield upon his Arm,
To face the Monks, who meant no harm,
But on their Mules came jogging on,
Till pretty near the furious Don,
Who, in a posture of Defence,
Let fly this rude Impertinence.

305

Stand, ye curs'd Implements of Hell,
By your Glass-Eyes I know ye well,
Release that Princess in the Coach,
Whose Virgin-Charms you would debauch;
And from your base Enchantments free
Such high-born Worth and Quality,
Whom you are carrying to some Cave,
Or Gyant's Castle to enslave,
Else will I instantly advance,
And pierce your Bodies with my Lance,
That all your magic Spells may be
Dissolv'd in your Catastrophe.

The Monks surpriz'd at such a Figure,
And frighted with the Champion's Rigour,
Whose Threatnings seem'd an Introduction
To sudden subsequent Destruction,
Soon stop'd at such a dreadful sight,
And humbly cry'd, Pray good Sir Knight,
With-hold your Fury, we implore,
We're not the Men you take us for,

306

But Monks, in verbo Sacerdotis,
As these our Habits give you notice;
No Conjurors, but honest Fryars,
Or else chastize us both for Lyars:
We're utter Strangers to the Coach
Behind, that's making its approach;
Nor do we know what beauteous Lady
Is coming in't, by him that made ye,
Whether a Virgin or a Matron,
A lovely Princess or a Slattern;
Therefore pray cool your Indignation,
And give no further Molestation,
But drop your Weapon, move your Steed,
And grant us freedom to proceed.

‘False Caitiffs (cries the Champion grining)
‘Fair Words shall not disguise your Meaning,
‘What I have said I'm sure is true,
‘I know your base Designs and you;
‘But I'll prevent your wicked End,
‘And stand the Captive Lady's Friend.

307

With that he couch'd his Lance, and rid
Full-tilt at one poor Fryar's side,
And in his Guts had made a hole,
But that he drop'd from off his Mule;
And by his falling in the Dust,
Happ'ly escap'd the fatal Thrust,
Whilst t'other Monk, who, in a fright,
Beheld the Fury of the Knight,
Thinking his Brother had been Slain,
Spur'd on his Mule and cross'd the Plain,
Signing as many Christian Types
Upon his Breast, with Finger-wipes,
Making such speed from Death and Slaughter,
As if the Dev'l was posting a'ter,
Or that some old fanatick Witch
Had been behind him at his Breech.
Thus Monks grow Pious when they find
Danger pursuing close behind;
Tho' with their Nuns, the Holy Brothers,
Some say, will be as loose as others.

308

Sancho, as soon as he beheld
One Fryar scowring o'er the Field,
And t'other scrambling on the Ground,
Half dead with either Fright or Wound,
Away he runs to him that lay
Dismounted in the dusty Way,
And strips him with such Art, as if
He had been born and bred a Thief:
At sight of which the Muleteers
On Foot, that waited on the Fryars,
Came running up with all their speed,
To serve the Monk in time of need,
And ask'd poor Sancho, what the Devil
He meant by being so uncivil;
Who told them, that whene'er a Knight
Had vanquish'd any Foe in fight,
That 'twas his Squire's undoubted Fee
To strip the conquer'd Enemy;
And that his Master, who was yonder,
Allow'd it him as lawful Plunder.

309

The rugged Grooms not well content
With Sancho's selfish Argument,
Fell foul upon him, whilst the Don
To th' Coach was at a distance gone,
To tell the Princess she was free,
And rescu'd out of Jeopardy:
In the mean time the Muleteers
Half tore off Sancho's Beard and Ears,
Thump'd him and kick'd him up and down,
Rent his Apparel, crack'd his Crown,
Not only bled him at the Nose,
But also purg'd him with their Blows,
That something worse than rotten Eggs
Flow'd down his painful Thighs and Legs;
Whilst the poor Fryar stole away,
Thro' Fear, from out the dang'rous Fray,
And mounting his prepost'rous Steed,
Did after t'other Monk full speed;
Who, at a distance, staid to see
The Fight, and what th' event might be.

310

But when one frighted Holy Brother
Had gladly overtaken t'other,
The safest way, they both agreed,
Was not to tarry, but proceed,
For fear that when the Knight had found
His Servant sprawling on the Ground,
It should provoke him to pursue 'em,
And do some further Mischief to 'em:
Therefore they rid away pell-mell,
Both pleas'd they had escap'd so well.

Thus Men of Prudence never stay
To see the upshot of a Fray,
Nor into Danger run, but when
Spur'd on by Glory or by Gain.

Poor Sancho being slun'd and laid,
With Knocks and Blows, three quarters dead
Was left in such a bad Condition,
That needed Surgeon and Physician,
Not being in sufficient plight,
At present, to attend the Knight;

311

Still rowling, as he gather'd strength,
From Clod to Cart-rut, till, at length,
His Senses by degrees returning,
Upon his Back he thus lay Mourning.

Where am I, O this batter'd Noddle!
Adsheartly wounds t'as bled a Puddle!
How my confounded Shoulders Ach!
Let's try to rise: Nowns, O my Back!
I scarce can feel my Legs: a Pox
Of all these plaguy Thumps and Knocks.
How my numb'd Arms begin to prickle!
I'll swear a very pritty Pickle!
I maun't lie here this scorching Weather:
I can't get up a Tip-toe neither!
I find there's little in this Squiring,
As yet, that's worth a Man's admiring.
Should such hard Fare be oft my Doom,
I soon should wish myself at Home;
For one had better bear with Joan's
Damn'd Rattle, than with broken Bones.

312

Thus the poor Squire a while lay honing,
His Bruises and his Kicks bemoaning,
Till he had strength to rise and mount
His Asse, who had escap'd the Brunt,
That he might seek his doubty Master,
Who'd left him in this sad Disaster.

He that will join with, or attend
A fighting Master, or a Friend,
Must share each ill Event that waits
On all their Quarrels and Debates.

The End of the Fourth Part.

313

V. Part V.

CANTO XVII.

Don Quixote's Speech to th' beauteous Daughter
Of some Great Monarch, as he thought her,
The fiery Threats and dreadful Fight
'Twixt the Biscayan and the Knight.

Don Quixote having overthrown
One Monk, the other being flown,
And routed those who, in his Fancy,
Profess'd the Art of Necromancy,
The Lady next he did approach,
And boldly stop'd her Fly-ing-Coach,
Paying this Compliment unto her,
As if he'd been about to wooe her.

Most High-born Princess, for I guess,
Your awful Self can be no less,

314

Know that I've set your Beauty free
From magical Captivity,
And, by my Valour and my Arms,
Dissolv'd those Necromantick Charms,
Which forc'd your Royal Person hither,
And would have carr'd you God knows whither;
But I have vanquish'd both the Wizards
Who rid before you in their Vizards,
Pronouncing Spells that might enslave you,
And draw you where they meant to have you;
Therefore that you may ken my Name,
The better to enlarge my Fame,
Know that I am the val'rous Knight
Don Quixote, who has done you right,
And sav'd your Innocence and Vertue
From hellish Fiends design'd to hurt ye:
Nor shall I, for the Service done you,
Impose the least return upon you,
Only that you with speed, this day,
Will to Tobosa make your way,

315

And seek out the Illustrious Fair
Dulcinea who inhabits there,
And thank her, prostrate on the Ground,
For this deliv'rance you have found
By me, her Captive Slave, whose Hand
And Heart are both at her Command,
And at whose charming Feet I lay
The Honours I have won this Day.

The Lady frighted at the sight
Of the strange Figure of the Knight,
And more astonish'd still to hear
The Nonsense that alarm'd her Ear,
For a Reply was quite to seek,
And knew not what to think or speak:
But Madam having, to attend her,
A Servant able to defend her,
A lusty Lout in Biscay born,
Well built to serve a Lady's turn,
Tho' mounted on a hireling Mule,
That was but a decrepit Tool;

316

However taking great Offence
At the Don's rude Impertinence,
And hearing him about to send
The Coach to his Tobosa Friend,
The bold Biscayan spurr'd his Tit,
And bore up briskly to the Knight,
Laying a rugged Hand upon
The new-vamp'd Weapon of the Don,
Expressing in a manly Passion,
The following Words of Indignation.

Thou daring Bugbear of a Knight,
Why thus do you my Lady fright,
Draw back thy mangy Scrub and ride
This Instant from the Coach's side,
Or by my Beard, with all my force,
I'll knock thee down from off thy Horse.

Tho' this was spoke 'twixt bad Biscaynish,
And worse adult'rate broken Spanish,
Yet Quixote understood his Meaning,
By's mode of speaking and his grinning,

317

And gravely, full of Scorn and Pride,
To the Biscayan thus reply'd:

Wert thou a Gentleman or Knight,
A proper Match for me to fight,
This Arm should punish, thou should'st see,
Thy Insolent Temerity;
But thou, poor Wretch, escap'st the danger,
Because unworthy of my Anger;
For 'tis Ignoble for the Brave
To Combat with a servile Slave.

The stout Biscayan's Fury rising,
To hear Expressions so despising,
Proud as a Shentleman of Wales,
Let fly worse Oaths than Splutteranails,
Replying, full of Rage and Fire,
Tho' thou'rt a Knight thou art a Lyar,
I'll make thee know that a Biscayan
Can shew himself a Gentleman,
Throw by thy Hop-Pole of a Lance,
And draw thy Sword in thy defence,

318

That I may let thy Knightship see,
Thou'rt not a Man, but Mouse to me;
I'll make thee know by this my Hand,
I'm Gentleman by Sea and Land,
A Gentleman who scorns to fear
Those rusty Ironsides you wear,
A Gentleman that dares to fight
Thief, Ruffian, Devil, Rogue or Knight,
And he's a Coward that's so free
To question my Gentility.

‘Say you me so (replies the Knight)
‘I'll try your Courage by this Light,
‘And wave my Honour for this once,
‘To cool the heat of such a Bounce.
With that he throws aside his Lance,
And does his naked Sword advance;
Then grasping of his Shield prepares
Himself and Horse for bloody Wars.

The bold Biscayan, when he found
The Knight resolv'd to stand his Ground,

319

Now entertain'd some Thoughts of quitting
His Jadish Mule, too weak for fighting,
Conceiting he might Combat better
On Foot, than on so dull a Creature;
But the Don spurring Rozinant,
Came on so like a John of Gaunt,
That's Foe had just but time to snatch
A well stuff'd Cusheon out the Coach,
Which useful Furniture he made
A Target to secure his Head.
No sooner was the poor Biscayan
Thus arm'd, but both began to lay on
With so much Vigour, Heat, and Passion
That none could give determination
Which made the most courageous push on,
The Sword and Shield, or Sword and Cusheon.

The Lady frighted at the sight
Of such a dang'rous dreadful Fight,
Scream'd out aloud, O Murder, Murder!
Giving her flogging Driver order

320

To turn a little out o'th' Way
Left she shou'd suffer in the Fray,
And that some spiteful Stroke awry,
Should make her Chariot-Windows fly;
For Blows sometimes in Quarrels light
On those they ne'er design to hit,
And Standers-by receive, by chance,
More Mischief than the Combatants.

By this time some that lag'd behind
The Coach came up, amaz'd to find
So fierce and terrible a Fight,
'Twixt the Biscayan and the Knight,
And caring not for Blood and Slaughter,
Endeavour'd to compose the Matter;
But still the bold outrageous Foes
So follow'd their malicious Blows,
That neither would with-hold their Arms
To listen to pacifick Terms;
For when engag'd it is no season
For Peace to be enforc'd by Reason.

321

When thus the Standers-by beheld
The Cusheon work against the Shield,
And that no Measures would asswage
Their mutual Envy and their Rage,
They stood aside to see fair play,
And to their Pastime turn'd the Fray,
Some crying out, Now Cavalier.
Others, Well fought brave Cushioneer.
Now Horse, now Mule, now Hog in Armour;
Have at him Boy, Now Country Farmer;
For so the Gazers, who were three,
Took the Biscayan Lout to be.
At length the Lady's bold Defender
Did o'er Don Quixote's Target tender,
A Blow so spiteful on his Shoulder,
That twang'd and startl'd each Beholder,
And would have cleft him sure enough,
Had not his Armour been Sword-proof.
The Knight b'ing much enrag'd to feel
The weighty Stroke quite thro' his Steel,

322

Cry'd, O! Dulcinea, let thy Charms
Inspire my Breast and guide my Arms,
That this discurteous daring Knight,
With whom, for thee alone, I fight,
May own thy Pow'r, or not outlive
The next tremendous Blow I give.
Then binding Knees unto his Horse,
And grasping with a strenuous force
The Handle of his trusty Blade,
And cov'ring with his Shield his Head,
With angry Heels he spurs the Sides
Of foaming Rozinant, and rides
Full tilt, to cleave and overthrow
His hardy and presumptuous Foe,
That fiercely charging, without Mercy,
One Blow might end the Controversy.
But the Biscayan taking Caution,
From the Knight's Posture and his Motion
With equal Bravery prepar'd
To stand undaunted on his Guard,

323

Resolving to sustain the Brunt,
Or furious Stroke, what e'er came on't;
So covering, with Cushion large,
His Head and Breast against the Charge,
He sate well fix'd upon his Mule,
Who stood immovable and dull,
His passive Strength being fitter far
To stand the Shock than fly the War;
For Work and Age had so decay'd
The Sinews of the sullen Jade,
That neither Whip or pointed Spur
Would make the Hobby care to stir;
So that the Rider and his Steed,
As things fell out, were well agreed,
For neither were for basely shunning
The Danger by their hasty running.
No sooner had the furious Knight
Began his Charge, with all his Might,
But the Biscayan nimbly shew'd
His Strength, and the Attack withstood,

324

Giving no Ground unto his Foe,
But bravely answer'd Blow with Blow,
Whilst those that stay'd to see the Fight
With Terror trembl'd at the sight,
Expecting ev'ry Stroke would Lop
A Head, or that a Limb would drop.
The Lady gazing from her Coach,
As pale as Death, her Fear was such,
Praying to all the Saints of Spain,
That they'd assist her poor Biscayan,
And from the loss of Life or Limb
Deliver safe herself and him.
Thus Women, who can Smile to please,
And Frown to interrupt our Ease,
Oft set their Lovers by the Ears,
Then crown the Fray with Pray'rs and Tears.

The brave Biscayan now grew warm
With struggling in this ugly Storm,
In which a show'r of Blows, as well
Upon the Shield as Cushion fell,

325

That both were almost out of Breath,
By bravely disappointing Death;
Nor could the Combatants foresee
Which Side should gain the Victory;
So that the bold Biscayan Foe,
Now watch'd for a deciding Blow,
And finding that the Knight, at length,
Lay open, he renew'd his Strength,
And gave so smart a Stroke upon
The crazy Head-piece of the Don,
That from the left-side of his Crown
He cleft it to his Shoulder down,
Dividing with his stubborn Blade,
His Ear from his astonish'd Head,
Which fell to th' Ground, by great mishap,
With a large Sliver of his Cap,
And there lay bury'd in the Dust,
O'erwhelm'd with monumental Rust.

Don Quixote much enrag'd to find
His Stars so spitefully unkind,

326

Began again aloud to pray
Unto his dear Dulcinea,
That she'd enable him to perform
Some Wonder with his strenuous Arm,
And to revenge the fatal Blow
That had debas'd his Knighthood so,
And so defac'd his Ear as if
He'd been some Pill'ry cheating Thief,
Or taken that unthankful labour
To bear False-witness 'gainst his Neighbour;
Therefore when he had clos'd his Prayer
Unto his dearest charming Fair,
He briskly summon'd all his Force,
And spur'd new Life into his Horse,
Then looking fierce and grasping hard
The Handle of his nut-brown Sword,
He rais'd himself upon his Stirrups,
And gave his Steed some heart'ning Cherups,
Then pushing close upon his Foe,
He lent his Noddle such a Blow,

327

Which if the Edge had been but true,
Must needs have cleft his Trunk in two,
And made him fall with cloven Twist,
On both sides of his scrubby Beast;
However the revengeful Stroke
Surpris'd him both with Cut and Knock,
And tho' the Wound was not o'erbig,
It made him bleed like any Pig,
And fell'd him down, with drooping Head,
Upon the Withers of his Jade;
Which Posture so provok'd the Mule,
That tho' in Fight he prov'd so dull,
Yet now he ran about the Field
Like Forest-Colt, and seem'd as wild,
Till he had shaken off his Load
Upon a Greenswerd near the Road,
Which the Knight seeing spur'd his Steed,
And rid unto the place with speed,
Where, lighting from his Horse, he put
His Sword-point to the Victim's Throat,

328

And gravely vow'd, unless he'd yield,
He'd, with his Blood, manure the Field,
And cut his Head from off his Shoulders,
In sight and spight of the Beholders,
Whilst the poor Foe, beneath his Sword,
Lay stun'd, and could not speak a Word.
The frighted Lady, with her Maid,
Came running, and beseech'd and pray'd,
That for her sake he would not slay
Her Servant, who at Mercy lay,
But spare his Life, and what he wanted
Should instantly by them be granted.

Ladies, (reply'd the Don) 'tis true,
I shall be glad to pleasure you,
Provided you will pass your Word,
That he who lies beneath my Sword,
Shall on this very Day bestride
His Mule, and to Tobosa ride,
There prostrate on the Ground submit
Himself at fair Dulcinea's Feet,

329

And let her know that I the Brave
Don Quixote send him as her Slave,
A Victim conquer'd by my Arms,
And made a Captive to her Charms.

The Lady, full of Fear and Trembling,
Scrupl'd no Soothing or Dissembling,
But gave her Word that ev'ry Task
The Victor could demand or ask,
Should be perform'd, altho' she made
But small Account of what he said:
Nor did sh' enquire about his Fair
Dulcinea, who she was, or where
The Noble Lady's Palace stood,
Near what Town, River, Plain, or Wood,
That the poor Victim might the better
Know how or which way to come at her:
However, Madam pawn'd her Honour,
His conquer'd Foe should wait upon her,
And that th' Injunctions he had laid,
Should all be punctually obey'd.

330

Then let him live (reply'd the Don,
With all the State he could put on)
Upon your Honour and your Word,
Great Princess, I withdraw my Sword,
And at your gen'rous Intercession,
Pardon his Life and his Transgression;
But still expect your vanquish'd Knight
Should do the Fair Dulcinea Right.

The Lady wanting not the Grace
Of a true Woman in Distress,
Vow'd once more what she ne'er intended,
And so the mighty Contest ended.

Success on rash Attempts bestow'd
Make Fools grow Insolent and Proud,
And Fear will cause the Fair to make
Those very Vows they mean to break.

331

Canto XVIII.

Poor Sancho, in a woful plight,
Returns to the victorious Knight.
The Squire's Petition to the Don,
And the coarse Fare they fed upon.

Poor, beaten Sancho, e're the Knight
Had ended his successful Fight,
In spite of all his Kicks and Drubs,
With clumsy Shoes and Oaken Clubs,
Had rais'd his Corps, made black and blue,
From out the Dust, with much ado,
And by some easy Steps had found,
Tho's Flesh was bruis'd, his Bones were sound,
So crawl'd to mount his passive Brute,
And seek his stragling Master out:
But looking round him saw the Don
With naked Trusty laying on,

332

As if he meant to cleave his Foe,
From Head to Rump at ev'ry Blow.
Poor Sancho having had so lately
More basting than he fancy'd greatly,
Conceiv'd the best and safest way
Was not to go too near the Fray,
For fear fresh Drubs should be his Lot,
Before the last were quite forgot:
He therefore at a distance stay'd,
Knelt down and very wisely pray'd,
That the kind Saints would give his Master
Success, and save him from Disaster;
But when he saw the worthy Knight,
Had got the better of the Fight,
And that the Foe, who'd lost the Day,
Upon the Ground at Mercy lay,
Then up he leap'd from Pray'rs, and took
His Asse, and all his Saints forsook,
Posting with haste unto the Don,
To wish him Joy of what he'd won,

333

Begging that he might share the Spoils
That crown'd the Days victorious Toils,
And that his Worship would bestow
An Island, or a Town, or so,
That he might now become a Lord,
According to his Worship's Word;
And his Wife Joan and he command
Some pretty little wealthy Land,
For that no two could manage Pow'r,
Or Govern better he was sure.

Truly, Friend Sancho, (quoth the Knight)
Thou art beside the Cusheon quite;
For these Adventures never tend
To Islands, or to Wealth, but end
Alone, as here your Eyes may see,
In Blood, and glorious Victory.
These are Rencounters by the bye,
In which we Knights our Valour try;
Nor do the Combatants propose,
At such times, any Gain, but Blows.

334

Quoth Sancho, ‘Much good do 'em all,
‘On whom those plaguy Profits fall,
‘I hope such Fees and Perquisites
‘Belong not to the Squires but Knights;
‘Let 'em be theirs who fight about 'em,
‘I own I'd rather go without 'em.

Thou talk'st at random, honest Sancho,
(Reply'd the Champion of La Mancha)
Be patient and thou soon shalt find,
I'll Conquer and be largely kind;
You shall have Kingdoms to command,
E're you're much older; (Here's my Hand.)
We've round us now such fine Dominions,
And Thrones and Crowns for our Convenience,
That some, e'relong, shall call me Lord,
Or I'm unworthy of my Sword.
And then, Friend Sancho, from the rest,
I'll give thee leave to chuse the best,
Such a sweet Country that may be
Pleasant to Joan as well as thee.

335

Sancho b'ing highly pleas'd with all
The gen'rous Words the Knight let fall,
Return'd due Thanks and humbly bow'd
In the best manner that he cou'd,
Kissing his Glove and Armour-Skirt,
As if bred up to cringe at Court;
Then help'd his Worship to remount
His Steed, who'd bravely stood the Brunt,
And, tho' so old, was forc'd to take
Many short Blows for's Rider's sake.

No sooner had the Don clap'd Arse,
And fix'd himself upon his Horse,
But, silent as a Thief, he spurr'd
His Courser, dropping not a Word
To Foe or Lady at his parting,
But rid away with Prancer, farting,
As if the stinking Brute, instead
Of Oats, made Cabbage-stalks his Feed;
Away the Don thus jog'd apace,
And Sancho after, on his Asse,

336

Whose sullen Tit would make no way,
That he was forc'd to call and pray
The hasty Knight to slack his speed,
Which the complacent Champion did,
Till with much thrashing Sancho's Foal
And Quixote's Horse came Cheek by Jowl,
One, looking on his monstrous Beast,
Who was full sixteen Hands at least,
More like a Vision than a Warrier,
The other like a Country-Carrier.

They now bling got into a Wood,
Where Nature's tall Umbrella's stood,
Fit to defend them from the Pain
Of scorching Sun or chilly Rain;
So that the Knight seem'd well inclin'd
To tarry here till they had Din'd;
But Sancho soon made this reply,
Suppose the wounded Knight should dye,
Whom you have left with bleeding Head
Upon yon Mole-hill Pillow laid,

337

The Brotherhood would surely grant
Their Warrant upon such Complaint;
And should the Country Apprehend us
The Gallows then would surely end us,
Unless some Miracle defend us.

‘Poh! (quoth the Don) thou silly Wretch,
‘Didst ever know a Champion stretch,
‘Or read of any Errant-Knight,
‘Who tho' he's kill'd a Score in Fight,
‘That e'er was try'd for a Defaulter,
‘Or made his Exit in a Halter?
‘No, no, we fear no crabbed Judges,
‘We kill not to revenge old Grudges,
‘But for the sake of Fame and Glory,
‘That we, like Kings, may live in Story.
‘No Knight was e'er so much as try'd
‘For Riot or for Homicide,
‘The very Laws of Arms forbid.

Quoth Sancho, Say what e'er you please,
About your Rites and Homilies,

338

What are those odd-nam'd things, I trow?
They may be Monsters f'rought I know.
But he, I say, that runs the danger
Of murd'ring either Friend or Stranger,
Whether he be a Knight or Squire,
Or lower in Degree, or higher,
If out of Sanctuary taken,
I doubt would hardly save his Bacon;
Therefore I think 'tis best to fly
For safety to some Church that's nigh.

‘Poor worthless Mortal (quoth the Knight)
‘To put thyself in such a fright,
We Knights, by precedent, have long
Had Pow'r to Judge of Right and Wrong,
And when we spare, or when we kill,
It always goes for Justice still.

But tho' you are a Knight (reply'd
Friend Sancho) and a Judge beside;
Yet if your Worship chance to save
From Punishment the guilty Knave,

339

And when provok'd extend your Wrath
Toppress the Innocent, i'faith,
I think you ought to shew good reason,
Why you do things so out of Season.

‘Thou silly Caitiff (quoth the Don)
‘How wrong thou art! Is't ever known
‘That any partial Judge, who favours
‘The Guilty, try'd for Misbehaviours,
‘Or dooms the Innocent to Slaughter,
‘Give Reasons for his Judgment a'ter?
‘I tell thee no, his Sentence must
‘At all times be accounted just;
‘For the Law's ever on the side
‘Of him by whom the Cause is try'd.

Quoth Sancho, Now your Worship strains
A Point beyond my shallow Brains,
You're a far better Argufier
Than I, that am but a poor Squire;
But all your Worship yet has said
Won't beat it into my weak Head,

340

That Knights or Judges, at their pleasure,
May do such wicked things as these are;
And that their say so, and no more,
Still warrants the Mistakes of Pow'r;
If so, then all is just and right,
That's said or done by Men of Might.

‘True, (quoth the Knight) I must allow
‘Thou hast improv'd thy Notions now;
‘But let's suspend this knotty Matter,
‘To talk more fully on't herea'ter;
‘And be assur'd my strenuous Arm
‘Has Pow'r to save us both from harm,
‘That should an Army here attend us,
‘This Sword is able to defend us.

Quoth Sancho, When you're vex'd, I know
Your Worship is all Fire and Tow;
But yet, methinks, if Conistable,
Attended by a Country-Rabble,
Well arm'd with Prong and Flayl, should come
To seize us here, so far from home,

341

Your Worship, were you ne'er so stout,
Could never Conquer such a Rout:
As for my part, their very looks
Would put my Courage off the Hooks,
And make me think, I know full well,
Of nothing else but Bayl or Jayl.

Quoth Quixote, ‘Thou shouldst see that I
‘Alone would make the Scoundrels fly;
‘The Eagle can, with little Pains,
‘Destroy a thousand Tits and Wrens;
‘And such a cow'rdly Crew would be
‘No more than little Birds to me.
‘Dost think the World (thou'st seen me fight)
‘Can boast of such another Knight,
‘A Champion who has equal Valour,
‘Altho' he's bigger made and taller?
‘No Knight can be more Resolute
‘To undertake or prosecute;
‘None can attack with greater Vigour,
‘Or shew more Mercy or more Rigour;

342

‘None has more Pow'r and active Strength,
‘Or Breath to fight it out at length;
‘Nor can the most experienc'd he
‘Strike home with more dexterity,
‘Or shew more Judgment in his Blows,
‘To conquer or defeat his Foes.

Quoth Sancho, What your Worship says,
I must acknowledge in your Praise;
No Squire can serve a bolder Master,
Or one that seeks out Quarrels faster;
Nor does the best Game-Cock in Nature,
I dare to swear, love fighting better;
But, after all, I wish this Brav'ry
Don't bring us into Prison-Slav'ry.

‘No Knight (reply'd the Don) has cause
‘To dread a Jayl, or fear the Laws,
‘No Bars or Fetters can detain him,
‘Or stern imperious Judge arraign him;
‘We never want old wise Magicians
‘To give us Aid in such Conditions;

343

‘Men who, i'th' twinkling of an Eye,
‘Can make Bolts, Bars, and Fetters fly,
‘And in a Minute free their Friends,
‘In spite of Iron-Grates or Chains.

Quoth Sancho, This is News indeed,
I'm glad to hear, against we've need,
You have such cunning Friends in store,
That can unlock a Prison-Door;
For if you fight as you begin,
It can't be long before we're in;
And if a starving Jayl, God wot,
Should chance to be our scurvy Lot,
Your What-d'ye-call-'em Friends, I doubt,
Must conjure hard to fetch us out;
For even Lawyers are a kind
Of Wizards, and the Law we find
Such a strange piece of Conjuration,
'Twill cheat the Dev'l upon occasion.

But, Sir, you quite forget your Ear,
It bleeds, and pains you much, I fear,

344

I've Lint and Salve too in my Wallet,
Which in a day or two may heal it;
'Tis a dishonourable Scar,
But Wounds will be the Fate of War.

‘Bless me! (quoth Quixote) I've a noble
‘Receipt that would have sav'd this trouble,
‘By which I might have made a Balsam,
‘So very Sanative and wholsome,
‘That one salubrious Drop would cure
‘The biggest Wound in half an Hour;
‘Nay, raise a Champion or a Knight,
‘Who has been kill'd a Week in Fight,
‘Provided down his Throat they pour
‘A Spoonful, or a little more.

Pray Sir (quoth Sancho) what d'ye call it?
I wish I'd some on't in my Wallet,
I'd make it bear our whole Expences,
By raising dead Folks to their Senses.

‘'Tas a hard Name, (reply'd the Knight)
‘I think, if I remember't right,

345

‘'Tis call'd Balsamum Fierbrassum,
‘And in a little time we'll ha' some;
‘For he that carries it about him,
‘Should any Foe in pieces cut him,
‘May command Health, prolong his Breath,
‘And live in spite of Wounds or Death;
‘Therefore, when I have made a Quart
‘For thee to carry'n case of Hurt,
‘And thou should'st see me cut asunder,
‘By a back-stroke, which is no wonder,
‘Because it happens oft, when Knights
‘Engage in desp'rate bloody Fights,
‘Then take that part which falls from off
‘The Saddle, down to th' Horse's Hooff,
‘And clap it nimbly on again,
‘With all th' exactness that you can,
‘Then gently pour a little draught
‘Of this same Balsam down my Throat,
‘And in an Instant it will glue
‘My Trunk, which was before in two,

346

‘And make me full as strong and sound
‘As any Man that walks the Ground.

If this be true, (replies the Squire)
No Recompence will I desire,
No other Perquisites or Gains,
For all my Service and my Pains,
Than true Directions how to make
This Stuff for wounded Knights to take.
Adsheart, had I but this Receipt,
How richly would I drink and eat,
I'd soon with Balsam stuff my Wallet,
Turn Riding-Mountebank and sell it;
A Business better worth desiring,
Than this Drub-Jacket Trade of Squiring,
I'd quit you of those promis'd thingdoms,
Rich Islands, Castles, Towns, and Kingdoms,
And be most heartily content
With only this Medicament.
But, pray, Sir, what Expence must you
Be at, to make a Quart or two.

347

‘Poh! (quoth the Don) the Cost is little,
‘I'll make a Gallon for a Trifle.

Nouns, Sir, (quoth Sancho) I declare it,
You're much to blame you don't prepare it;
Or else teach me the way, that I
May do it for you, by and by;
For I protest your Worship's Ear
Looks bad, and will be worse, I fear,
And this same What-d'ye-call't, you say,
Would make it well in half a Day.

‘Ay, that it would, (reply'd the Knight)
‘In half an Hour, if manag'd right:
‘And since 'twill be of Service to thee,
‘The way to make it will I shew thee;
‘But I design thee many more
‘Such Secrets, which I have in store,
‘And other Favours that are greater,
‘As soon as e'er I know thee better.
‘But, prithee, Sancho, clap a Plaster
‘On this unfortunate Disaster;

348

‘For tho' we Knights must ne'er complain,
‘Yet, as a Friend, I tell thee plain,
‘This Remnant of an Ear's in pain.

Faith, Master, 'twas a shaving Stroke,
(Reply'd the Squire, by way of Joke)
A Man by t'other Ear might guess,
Its Fellow once stood in this place:
But it's quite gone, for, by my Soul,
Here's no remains but just the Hole;
Besides, 't'as cut your Head-piece thro',
And carr'd away a Sliver too.

‘How! (quoth the Don) stark staring wild,
‘And is my good old Helmet spoil'd?
Then claping Hand upon his Sword,
And turning up his Ogles tow'rd
The shining Heavens, in a Passion,
He made this Oath of Abjuration.

‘By both their sacred Dusts that got me,
And by the Blood of him that fought me;

349

‘By Fair Dulcinea's awful Charms,
‘And by my Armour and my Arms;
‘By Rozinant, my trusty Steed,
‘By all the Living and the Dead,
‘I'll lead a Life like the Great Duke
‘Of Mantua, when he forsook
‘His Wife, his Children, and his All,
‘T'revenge his Cousin Baldwin's Fall.
‘Like him I take a solemn Oath,
‘To dine without a Table-cloth,
‘To wipe no Fingers when they're foul,
‘On Linen-Napkin or on Towel;
‘Nor will I evermore embrace
‘Dulcinea's Charms, or see her Face,
‘Till I revenge myself on him
‘Who put my Helmet out of trim,
‘And with his Weapon made so wide
‘A Breach on the sinister side.

Pray, good your Worship, (quoth the Squire)
Don't be thus hasty in your Ire,

350

I think your Worship's wrong in taking
So rash an Oath, not worth the making;
For if the vanquish'd Knight, whom you
Had the good Fortune to subdue,
Recovers and performs his Duty,
In kissing your Dulcinea's Shoe-tye,
I think that you and he are even,
Until some new Affront be given;
And that it is not fair or right
You should revenge what past in Fight;
For Blows the consequence must be,
When two contend for Victory,
And either side may chance to lose
An Ear i'th' Battle, or a Nose.

‘As for my Ear (reply'd the Don)
‘I do not value't, since 'tis gone,
‘'Tis only for my Helmet's sake
‘That I these Protestations make.
‘However, right is right, I must
‘Confess, what thou observ'st is just.

351

‘I therefore my Revenge revoke,
‘As to the Foe that gave the Stroke;
‘But all the rest that I have vow'd
‘Is sacred, and shall stand for good,
‘Protesting solemnly to lead
‘That very Life the Marquis did,
‘Till I, by force of Arms in Fight
‘Dispoil the Helmet of some Knight,
‘That's temper'd well of Metal fine,
‘And is, at least, as good as mine:
‘Nor would I have it thought or said,
‘The Vow is rash that I have made,
‘Since other Knights of ancient Fame,
‘In the like case, have done the same;
‘We know the Judges of the Laws,
‘By Precedents, decide the Cause:
‘Examples therefore ought to be
‘Of equal force in Errantry.
‘Mambrino made a solemn Vow,
‘On this Account, as I do now,

352

‘And ne'er dissolv'd his sacred Oath
‘Till Sacrapante felt his Wrath.

Quoth Sancho, Pray renounce this Evil,
Let Oaths and Curses go to th' Devil;
If broke, your Soul must suffer for't,
If kept, your Body's Health be hurt;
Therefore 'tis madness first to make 'em,
And wickedness, in short, to break 'em:
Besides, Suppose no armed Knight
Should chance to come within your sight
These three Months, that in all that while
You meet no Helmet to dispoil,
Would you lie rough so long, and feed
On Acrons, as the Marquis did;
Like Vagrant range the dusty Roads
All day, and sleep at Night in Woods,
Only because your Helmet's broke
In fight, by an unlucky Stroke.
F'rought I know you may wander o'er
These Plains for half a Year or more,

353

And never meet, I dare to say,
A Knight or Helmet in your way;
For few but Waggoners and Pedlars,
Swains, Gypsies, Rogues, and Country Fidlers,
Frequent these Roads who are so far
From bearing Arms, like Men of War,
That they ne'er saw an Iron bright-Cap,
Or know a Helmet from a Night-Cap.

‘Poh! (quoth the Champion of La Mancha)
‘Thou'rt much mistaken Sancho Pancha,
‘We cannot cross this spacious Plain,
‘But we shall meet more armed Men,
‘And val'rous Knights than e'er were known
‘To lie before Albraca Town,
‘When they besieg'd it Foot and Horse,
‘And storm'd it with their utmost Force,
‘That they might win and bear away
‘The lovely Fair Angelica.
‘If so (quoth Sancho) Heaven send us
‘Good Fortune, and the Lord defend us.

354

Those plaguy Grooms have made my Hide
So tender, and so sore beside,
That I'm not able, without Jesting,
To bear with such another basting.
However, I can do no less
Than wish and pray for your Success,
That you may win some wealthy Sov'reign
Dominion for your Squire to govern,
Such a kind Plaster soon would heal
The smarting Drubs and Blows I feel;
For were I once to be a King,
'Twould make me quite another thing.

‘A King thou shalt be (quoth the Don)
‘This Sword of mine shall make thee one.
‘But should we miss of Islands, then
‘Thou may'st be sure e'relong to reign
‘O'er Cimbrica or Sobradisa,
‘Or never more believe what I say.
‘But first, Friend Sancho, loose thy Wallet,
‘I'm now inclin'd to please my Pallat,

355

‘This shady Wood, and Air so sweet
‘Gives me an Appetite to eat.

I've nothing left (reply'd the Squire)
But two or three hard Onions here,
And a few Crusts, just fit to try
Your Worship's Jaws, they are so dry,
With a small modicum of Cheese,
Enough to smell to, if you please.
And this is all, upon my Word,
My Bag, at present, does afford;
Therefore I hope your Worship's Birth,
Your Knighthood Quality and Worth,
Can never condescend to share
The Fragments of such homely Fare;
Tho' I can eat, I must declare it,
The mouldiest bit, if you can spare it.

‘Thou'rt out (reply'd the Champion) might'ly
‘For want of knowing Matters rightly.
‘Were you but better read in Story,
‘You'd find Knight-Errants always glory

356

‘In living, for a Month or two,
‘Without an Ounce of Food to chew;
‘Nor do they quarrel with their Meat,
‘Whene'er they are dispos'd to eat;
‘But fall on any homely Food
‘They meet with, whether bad or good,
‘And wisely shew themselves content,
‘Without Reflection or Complaint:
‘Nor do they e'er pursue their Lusts,
‘Or heed their Appetites or Gusts,
‘Like Mortals of the common sort,
‘But Nature's noble Parts support,
‘By thinking of their great Designs,
‘Filling their Bodies with their Minds,
‘Except, when some fam'd Prince is Knighted,
‘'Mong Kings and Queens they are invited,
‘As worthy and as welcome Guests,
‘To Royal Banquets and to Feasts;
‘But otherwise they never think
‘So meanly as of Meat or Drink.

357

‘Only, perhaps, sometimes they may,
‘With a short Meal their Stomachs stay,
‘When Fortune flings it in their way;
‘Because, as they are mortal Men,
‘They must have Victuals now and then.

‘Quoth Sancho to the Knight, I wish
Your Worship had a better Dish:
But such poor Fare as I have got,
Here 'tis, and you are welcome to't.
But if you'd rather fast than feed
On mouldy Cheese and hoary Bread,
My Teeth are sound, and not a Crust,
I can assure you, shall be lost.
With that they lovingly fell-too,
And strove each other to out-chew;
As if both fear'd, when this was spent,
Their Guts must keep a tedious Lent.

When Scarcity and Hunger meet,
The meanest Cupboard-scraps are sweet.

358

The Proud grow Humble when they've lost
That Plenty which they once could boast.

CANTO XIX.

Don Quixote and his Squire conclude
Their homely Dinner in the Wood;
At Night, Chance leads them to the Huts
Of Goatherds, where they feast their Guts.

The Knight and Squire, by eating fast,
And grinding Crusts with too much hast
For fear that one should chance to chew
A greater Share than was his due,
Had sooner tir'd their working Jaws
Than satisfy'd their hungry Maws;
So that they chatted now and then
A while, and so fell to't again.

359

Quoth Quixote, How divinely sweet
The Linets cherup, whilst we eat;
The Robin-Red-breast joins, and hark
How both are answer'd by the Lark:
No Monarch sure had ever finer
Melodious Musick to his Dinner:
Or ever fed on dainty Chear
With more Content than we do here.
Thus liv'd the Errant-Knights of old,
Who were so valorous and bold,
That Plenty they despis'd and Ease,
For Primrose-Beds and Bread and Cheese,
And left the Worthless to be Great
In Riches, and to live in State.
So the wise Ancients oft withdrew
From Cities into Woods, to shew
The World how much they did deride
All humane Vanity and Pride.

‘Truly, (quoth Sancho to the Don)
‘I am no Scholard, but a Clown;

360

‘By reading, therefore, ne'er could tell
‘How Knights or Ancients us'd to dwell:
‘But if they did from Plenty fly,
‘And Ease, to fare like you and I,
‘I scarce can think their Wit the greater
‘For punishing poor harmless Nature
‘With Ill-fare, when they might have better.

I tell thee, Sancho, (quoth the Knight)
They found more Relish, Peace, and Quiet,
In salutary Herbs and Roots,
Nuts, Acrons, and in such like Fruits,
Than in a vain expensive Meal,
Of costly Capon, Duck, or Teal.

‘Then (quoth the Squire) I'll fit your Pallat
‘The next time that I fill my Wallet,
‘I'll stuff it well with Garden-Ware,
‘Since Roots and Herbs are proper Fare
‘For you brave Men that ride a Knighting,
‘And take so much delight in fighting.

361

‘But as for me that am your Squire,
‘My Gutts do Grosser food require;
‘My Stomachs not so nice or Sullen,
‘But I could make a shift with Pullen,
‘I'd be content to pick the Wings
‘And Legs, of such Substantial Things,
‘And Liquor my Mustachus a'ter
‘With Wine much rather than with Water;
‘But what your worship Says is right,
‘Thin dyet best becomes a Knight.

But hold friend, Sancho, Quoth the Don,
We are not bound to feed Upon
Roots, Herbs and Akorns altogether,
We're not ty'd up so strictly neither;
But that for Change we now and then
May pick a Capon or a Hen:
I only mean, we Cherish Nature
With Herbs, when we have nothing better,
B'ing Skillfull, and profoundly Knowing,
In all such products that are growing,

362

Which useful Learning I'll impart,
And make thee master of the Art,
As well as teach thee how to make
That Balsam, which I want to take.

‘Truly the Knowledge, quoth the Squire,
‘Of Herbs, I very much Desire,
‘For I am apt to think in steed,
‘E'erlong 'twill stand us much in stead,
‘I fear 'twill be my wofull Case,
‘To mumble Thistles with my Ass;
‘And when we've Spent our Little Riches,
‘To weed the Meadows, Banks and Ditches.

Thus o'er their Fragments did they Sit,
Prattl'd sometimes, and sometimes Eat,
Till the long Shadows gave 'em warning,
That Sol to Thetis was returning;
And that 'twas time they Should be budging
In Search of some Convenient Lodging,
Where One or 'tother might prepare
The Balsam, for the Champions Ear;

363

The poor remaining injur'd part
Beginning now to Throb and Smart,
So that they Sprung from off the Grass,
And Nimbly mounted Horse and Ass,
Riding, and wandering up and down,
In Search of Castle or of Town,
Or rural Village, where they might,
With Ease and Comfort, spend the Night;
But Daylight, and their wishes failing,
And Darkness suddenly prevailing,
The Champions had not time to find,
A Noble Palace to their Mind,
But falling, in their Evening travells,
Among some Goat-herds Huts and Hovels,
The Don who oft had read in Story,
That Knights would in their hardships Glory,
Thought fit to Chuse this homely place
Instead of Better, and to Grace
The Cottages, of those poor Peasants
With Sancho's, and his worships presence,

364

Well Knowing that Contentment Dwells
With Swains, in rural Cots and Cells.
This the Knight's Suddain Resolution,
Toth' Squire was downright persecution,
Who, tir'd with Scanty Meals, was Mad
To be where plenty might be had:
However, Since his hopes were Crost,
And baulk'd by him, who rul'd the Roast,
The Squire in Complaisance thought fit,
Without much Grumbling, to Submit;
So riding to a little Dwelling,
Where Swains their merry Tales were telling,
The Squire did from his Ass alight
And ask'd Reception for the Knight:
The Goat-herds, much Surpris'd to See
An Armed Champion Cap-a-pee,
Betwixt Humanity and Fear,
Reply'd, they very welcome were;
After which words, the Don in Course,
Dismounted from his Lofty Horse,

365

And in-a-Doors his Corps be Shov'd,
His armour rattling as he mov'd,
Like Skillets mix'd with Sauss-pans ty'd
Round Tinker Tom, on E'ery Side,
Whilst Sancho Carry'd Horse and Ass
Into a Neighb'ring Croft to Grass;
Which needfull Business being done,
Among the merry Swains he run,
Attracted by the Sav'ry Smell
Of Kids Flesh, which he Lov'd full well,
Which by kind Providence was Boiling,
To Sup the Goat-herds after Toiling.
The Hungry Squire, whose Heart was glad
Of such Good fare, no Patience had,
Could Scarce forbear, tho' Scalding hot,
To dip his Fingers in the Pot;
That he might please his Liq'rsh Tooth
By tasting of the wholsome Broth;
But, as it Chanc'd, the Meat was Stew'd
Enough, and fitting to be Chew'd,

366

The Courteous Swains, to please the Squire
Remov'd the Kettle off the Fire:
And on the Ground some Sheep-skins laid
Which as a Table-Cloth were Spread,
I'th' middle Set a Homely Platter,
And Turn'd the Victuals into't a'ter;
Then, like true Christians, Saying Grace,
They beg'd Sir Knight to take his Place;
Upon a Hogt-rough which a Clown
Officiously turn'd up-siide down,
The Hungry Goat-herds Sitting round,
With their hard Buttocks on the Ground,
Whilst the poor Squire was forc'd to wait,
With Trenchard Brown instead of Plate,
At's Master's Back, and do the pennance
Of giving Lacquey boy's attendance;
Till his Kind Master well Observ'd,
It was unjust, as well as hard,
That one Should Eat while tother Starv'd,

367

So turning tow'rds the Squire, his Head,
Thus to his Man the Master Said;

Sancho, tho' waiting's but good Manners,
Which Knights Expect from their retainers,
Yet tis a priviledge we grant
Unto our Squires, in Case of want,
That they partake of Day by Day,
What E'er we meet with in our Way,
Therefore, at present 'tis my will
That you Sit down, and take your fill;
For tis not fair that I should Eat,
And thou complain for want of Meat:
From this time forward I allow
The Liberties I grant thee now;
Which are, that you Sit down at Table
With me, and guttle whilst you are able;
Drink in the same Cup, Horn or Vessel,
And oft as I do wet your Whistle,
Refresh at all times when you See,
Those needful duties done by me;

368

Except it be at Royal feast,
Where Kings and Knights are only guests,
Then your best manners you must Shew,
And wait, as Squires are wont to do;
Bow Low at Every word I Speak,
And like Court Flatterers, Cringe and Sneak,
For, Sancho, you must know the Great
Can ne'er Enlarge their pomp and State,
But by their humble Slaves that wait;
Yet Since there's none but Peasants here
Sit down and be as free as we are.

‘Quoth Sancho, I am no such Noddy
‘But I can Eat with any Body;
‘Yet had much Rather have a Luncheon
‘Of Victuals, by my Self to munch on,
‘Tho' but poor fare yet I could make,
‘A better Meal behind your Back,
‘Than when your worship Smiles, perhaps,
‘To see how fast I Stuff my Chaps,
‘I hate to Sit where I must piddle,
‘And Eat as if my Jaws were Idle;

369

‘I never care to Sup or Dine,
‘With Knights or Folks that are so fine,
‘Where one must mincing Sit as they do,
‘And wait for, Help your Self I pray do;
‘Spend half one's precious time Forsooth,
‘In wiping clean ones Hands and Mouth,
‘And be affraid to Cough or Sneese,
‘Alltho' one wants to do't for Ease:
‘I'd rather Stand by half and Eat
‘Alone, as I my Self think fit,
‘Than for your worship's Eyes to follow
‘Each Gob and Morsel that I Swallow.

Once more I bid thee, Quoth the Knight;
Sit down or you my Kindness Slight;
Make no more words about the Matter,
But Share the meat that's in the Platter;
Or by thy Looks I plainly See,
Thou'lt Soon repent thy Modesty.

Sancho Observing that the Flesh
Was Snatch'd apace from out the Dish,

370

Obey'd his Master thro the Dread
Of going Supperless to Bed;
Seating himself upon the Ground,
In the first Vacant place he found,
Then Crying By your Leave, good Friends,
He quickly made himself Amends
For the lost time that he had Spent
In waiting and in Compliment;
And without Chewing Swallow'd down
Two Mouthfulls to Each Goat-herds one;
Who star'd to see their hungry Guest
Out eat the Knight and all the rest;
Exchanging Hands from Dish to Mouth
Most notably imploying both,
For whilst one Fed his Craving Nature,
The other travel'd to the Platter,
That not a Finger Idle stood
But nimbly work'd 'twixt Teeth and Food,
Thus E'ery Member, in regard
Of Nature's wants, will Labour hard,

371

And like kind faithfull friends agree
To Serve her in necessity.

The Gazing Goat-herds, when they found
The Squire Lay on so like a Hound,
Began to mend their Sluggish pace,
And fall more warmly on their Mess,
Lest Quixote and his understrapper
Should disappoint them of their Supper;
So that by striving who should Eat
Most fast, they soon dispatch'd the Meat;
Then half a Hatchet Cheese was brought,
And in an Earthen pan or Pot,
Dry'd Acorns to be Eat instead
Of better, and more costly bread;
But all had made so good a Meal
Of the first Course, and Supp'd so well,
That this poor fare would not go down,
With Knight, Friend Sancho, or with Clown,
But stood neglected, whilst the Horn,
Full charg'd with Wine, went round in turn,

372

Which Sancho Swallow'd like a Fish
And gap'd for a Succeeding Dish,
That came as quick as he could wish.
Thus the kind Juice was dealt about,
Till they had drank one Hogskin out,
Which out of Two was very Fair,
They having but another there;
Which Sancho viewing, Sat perplext
To see no Fosset in the next;
For when the one was gone, he reckon'd
Upon the broaching of the Second;
Thus greedy Sots are ne'er Content
To move untill the Bowl be spent;
Nay, when it's Empty, look awry;
And fret for want of a Supply.

The Knight who now had warm'd his Veins
And with the Wine Enrich'd his Brains
With many Noble Thoughts concerning
His valour, happy State, and Learning,

373

Had Cull'd a Parcel of the Best
And Yellow'st Acorns from the Rest,
With which his Worship playing sat,
Tossing up this and catching that,
As Lovers do when dinners over,
To Steal a Squint at One another,
When Jealous Governant sits by
To Watch Each Motion of the Eye;
At length the Don in Pensive Mood
His Golden Pignuts gravely view'd,
And when sometime he had admir'd
Their Beauty, then, as if inspir'd,
He hem'd by way of Exaltation,
And thus began a Long Oration.

O happy Golden Age, long since,
When each Man was a free-born Prince,
And had a Right to chuse his Food,
Where e'er he found twas Sweeet and Good;
Before the Pride and Boundless Rage
Of Tyrants curb'd this worldly Stage

374

Or Men by Strife were taught to Coin
Those Spiteful terms of Mine and Thine;
When none were other's Slaves for pay,
But the Whole Earth in Common lay,
That all alike Enjoy'd its Fruits
'Thout envious Cavils or Disputes,
And might their wants supply as oft
As they would lift their Hands aloft,
And from the Sturdy Oak at leisure,
Gather such Golden food as these are.
Then to the Christal Spring repair,
And cool'd their droughty Intrails there,
Or pull, when e'er they needed Wine,
Ripe pulpy Grapes from off the Vine;
Ransack the Rich industrious Bees,
In clefts of Rocks and hollow Trees,
And reap beneath Kind Nature's Smiles
The fruitful Harvest of their Toils.

How happy then were humane Race
In those pacisick pious daies;

375

How silent, undisturb'd and blest,
When Men were Just, and Women Chast,
Sweet flowry banks their Beds of Ease,
And Rosy Bow'rs their Palaces,
Then Love and Friendship crown'd the Day,
And e'ry thing look'd Kind and Gay,
All Lying down at Night to rest
Unarm'd, unenvy'd, unopprest,
As yet no Rural Slave had found
The painful Art to Till the Ground,
Or to his care and Sorrow made
The Plow-share, Harrow, or the Spade,
To rip and skin his Mother Earth,
Who gave to humane Race their birth,
And without Labour still had nurs'd
Her Sons, who make themselves accurs'd,
And from her Bosome would have granted
What toiling Millions since have wanted.
When was the time, when comely Swains
And Beauteous Nymphs, enjoy'd the plains,

376

And when 'twas Night retir'd in peace
To shady Bow'rs and Cottages,
Where all alike so happy were
They'd nought to wish for, or to fear,
But e'ery Lover knew his Mate,
And hug'd and kiss'd without deceit,
Till the Curs'd Furies and the Fates
Unbar'd their old Infernal Gates,
An Envying humane Race, let fly
That hellish Monster, Tyranny,
Attended with those fatal three
Ambition, Lust, and Cruelty;
From whose Contagious wombs, e'erlong,
Pride, Avarice, and Malice Sprung,
And many more destructive Foes
To humane Peace, in time arose;
Then Justice did her self withdraw,
And left the Rule to bastard Law,
Hypocrisy, with Artfull Face,
Invaded Charming Vertue's place,

377

And truth and Innocence were made
The Scoff of Knaves whom Fools obey'd:
'Twas in that wicked Age of Man,
That old Knight Errantry began,
And Worthy Champions form'd that Order
To save the fair from Rape and Murder;
Also to Rescue the Distress'd,
Defend the weak, and the Oppress'd;
And boldly fight in the defence
Of Justice, Truth, and Innocence.
Of this fam'd Order I am one,
My Strength and prowess both are known,
And tho the Laws of Nature bind
All men to be to Knighthood Kind,
Yet as a gratefull Civil Guest,
I thank you for your noble Feast,
And shall at all times far and near
Well arm'd in your defence appear,
For this your Entertainment here.

378

Thus many, tho' like Quixote, Mad,
Or Foollish, yet you'll find 'em Glad,
If Complements will pass upon ye,
To Spend their Breath, to Save their Money.

CANTO XX.

Antonio Sings to please the Knight,
Who gravely listens with delight.
The Goat-herds broach their Second Wine
Which Sancho Guzzles like a Swine.

When Quixote, sitting on his Crupper,
Had Ended both his Speech and Supper
And puzzl'd Ev'ry Rural Swain,
Who listen'd, tho alas in vain;
Because his words were some degrees,
Above their Low Capacities

379

Yet all the present Country herd
Were pleas'd to see him wag his Beard,
And hear his accents Smoothly flow
From his Enchanting tongue, altho,
They could not by his worship's grinning,
Or gaping, understand his meaning:
So Fools admire those things the most
Wherein their Shallow reason's lost,
And think the Guide most fit to teach,
Who cants and prates beyond their reach;
However up the Goat-herds got,
And thank'd him for they knew not what,
Telling the Knight and Squire, to shew 'em
That they were kindly welcome to 'em,
They'd Cause a pretty Youth they had,
Well skill'd in musick for a Lad,
To entertain 'em with a Song,
Who, tho' as yet he was but young,
Could write and read like any Friar,
And tune the Fiddle or the Lyre;

380

Excelling far the best musician,
In all that Parish or division,
But was so Smitten with a Maid,
A little pestle wasted Jade,
A Shepherds, Daughter in the Town,
A Tidy Huswife they must own,
That he was staring mad t'obtain her,
But She's so Coy he could not gain her,
That in few Minutes he'd be there,
Was sent for, and he liv'd but near.

No sooner had the Swain set forth
Antonio's Character and worth,
But in he came, Surpris'd to see
The Knight in Armour Cap-a-pee,
And such a strange Rapscallion fellow,
As Sancho, very brisk and Mellow,
With a huge Sword and sorry Cloths
Sitting on's Rump with horn at Nose,
For by this time thro' Sancho's Cunning,
The Second Skin was set a Running;

381

That the Rich Juice contain'd within
Might put them on a merry pin.

The Goat-herds Glad to see Antonio
Ask'd him to Eat, He answer'd No, No;
Alledging that he Just was come
From Supper with his Friends at Home.
Now mirth on ev'ry Brow was Seated,
And Horn was after Horn repeated;
To tune Antonio's Pipes the better,
That he might play and sing the sweeter;
For wine to Songsters may be said
To be like Spur to sullen Jade,
One gives the youth a bolder Face,
The other mends the Gennets pace.

No sooner did the Goat-herds find,
Antonio by his Hum inclin'd
To sing a Song, and that the horn
Had made him fit to serve their turn,
But one and all desir'd the youngster
To shew himself an able Songster,

382

As they'd reported him to be
Before he came in Company;
And that he'd sing the Charming ditty
Upon Olalia's want of pity,
Whose Lovely Looks and killing Eyes
Had made his own kind Heart her Prize;
For whom he long had suffer'd pain,
By her Ill-Nature and disdain.

The Song you ask, reply'd the Lad,
Was by my Learned Unkle made;
Who now has (God be thanked) Got
A good fat Prebend to his Lot;
Yet tho' he's in his Fifty'th Year,
The Jolly priest delights to hear
A pleasant ditty o'er the Bowl;
Or merry Tale, with all his Soul.

This said, the Youth began to place,
An am'rous air upon his Face;
Giving a prelude undigested,
To try his voice, and then he rested;

383

Till he'd adapted to his Sonnet,
His Looks, his Posture, and his Bonnet,
That his whole Body might agree
With the approaching Harmony;
Then turning up his Eyes towards Heaven,
And beating time with Hand most even,
The Songster Lyrick'd o'er with all
His Skill the following Madrigal.

Antonio's Amorous Complaint,
Against Olalia that fair Saint;
Be'ng a Choice Ballad newly writ
To shew his Folly and her Wit.

My Bowels Burn with am'rous fire,
My passion's so sincerely true
That I am Swallow'd in desire,
And o'er my Liquor thirst for you.
By Day, alas, I never Drink,
But in the Bowl I see your Charms,
And when in Bed, all Night I think,
I hug Olalia in my Arms.

384

Why then should you be nice and Coy,
And treat your Lover with disdain,
Who only seeks to give you Joy,
Whilst you requite his Love with pain?
Sometimes I only think you try
My Heart as silly Nymphs will do,
In hopes when you my passion fly,
The faster I should still pursue.
As thus I do my self amuse
My am'rous flame the fiercer burns;
But still in vain, since you refuse
All kind and suitable returns.
I sing and play to Charm your Ears
And dress and dance to please your Eyes,
Yet daily you Encrease my fears,
That I shall lose the happy Prize.
Teresa did your Fame impair,
I fought her Swain on that account,
And made him own you were more fair
Than she that did your Charms affront

385

How then can you be Coy, and proud,
To him him so Loving Just and true,
Who has your greatest Foe subdu'd,
Yet knows not how to Conquer you.
But why, fair Nymph, will you refuse
What both might mutually possess,
And thro' ill nature daily lose
A Thousand Joys we might Embrace,
What tho you still disturb my rest,
'Tis all in vain, you must be kind,
For I shall teaze your Sullen Breast,
Till I have made you Change your mind;

The Knight, who was himself a play'r
Upon the Cittern, and Gittar;
And, therefore, did presume to be
A skillfull Judge of Harmony;
Was highly pleas'd to hear a Song,
So very Charming, tho so long;

386

And listen'd to both Words and Tune,
With all his Ears, which was but one,
Astonish'd at the Strains he heard
From a young Swain without a Beard,
Bred up in Mountains far remote,
Where none but feather'd Songsters taught,
The happy youth to tune his Throat:
Nor was the Knights harmonious Soul,
As yet of satisfaction full;
But mov'd with his prevailing Tongue,
That t'other ditty might be Sung.

Good Sir, Quoth Sancho, who was Maudling,
And tir'd with Eating and with fuddling;
'Tis time your worship should be thinking
Of Bed, Consider, we've been drinking
Besides, our honest Friends, per Lady,
Begin to wink and nod already:
Nay one or two to sleep are gone,
The rest can not forbear to yawn;

387

And I my self am forc'd to gape,
Hoy ho, I'em ripe to take a nap.
To tell you truly, I'm so drowsy,
And faith and troth so very Boozy,
That Singing after all this horning,
Would lull me fast a sleep till Morning,
‘Truly reply'd the Knight, I fear'd,
‘By often Liquoring thy beard,
‘The horn e'er long would make thee fitter
‘For Chimney Nook, or Stable Litter,
‘Than to delight thy Stupid Senses
‘With Musick's Charming Excellencies:
‘Rest therefore may be best for thee,
‘Since sleep and dullness well agree;
‘But Knighthood, to prevent Surprise,
‘Must have Minerva's watchful Eyes;
‘Strict vigilance, without Cessation,
‘Becomes a man of my Profession;
‘But thou mayst snoar like Swinish Brute,
‘As oft as nature calls thee to't:

388

‘However, Dress my Ear before
‘You stretch your Limbs upon the floor;
‘Because I find the pain Encreases,
‘As if 'twould tear that side in pieces.

Sancho, now Rising off the Ground,
Made a round stagger to the wound,
And clumbsily took off the Plaister,
In order to obey his Master;
So that a Goat-herd standing by,
And Casting on the wound an Eye,
Assur'd the Knight he soon could heal
His Ear, and make it sound and well;
So clapping on the Rag again,
Lest Air should aggravate the Pain,
He did some leaves of Rosm'ry bruise,
And casting Salt among the Juice,
Apply'd the same unto the part
Aggriev'd, which tho' it caus'd some smart
Was very speedy, safe, and sure,
Performing a mirac'lous cure,

389

And of all Balsams is the best
For a Sore Ear, probatum est,
Prime good for those who swear at Randum,
To always keep, that it may stand'em
In stead, in Case the Law should brand'em.

No sooner had the Swain apply'd,
His Nostrum to the painful Side,
And bound up the afflicted part,
From whence the Ear had made a start,
But in there came a Jolly Clown,
Belonging to a Neighb'ring Town,
Who Twice, or Thrice a Week took pains
To bring provisions to the Swains;
Fast had he trip'd it o'er the Grass,
To Shew that ill News flys apace.
A while he panted e'er he spoke,
But told bad tidings in his look:
At length in tears he fainty said,
The gen'rous Chrysostome is Dead,

390

This Ev'ning he resign'd his Breath,
And all the Country mourn his Death,
Occasion'd by that peevish Quean,
Marcella, whom he lov'd in vain,
Rich William, that old miser's Daughter,
She was, they say, his bane and slaughter:
For her he lov'd so very greatly,
And she behav'd herself so stately;
That he took pet at her proud Carriage,
And Dy'd, cause she refus'd him Marriage

Poor Chrysostome, reply'd all those,
Who heard the fatal piercing news;
And is he gone, the best of Swains,
That ever blest these Neighbouring plains:
Curse on her Charms, who had the pow'r,
To wound and to refuse a Cure:
May she lament him now he's Dead,
Live Slighted, Scorn'd, and die a Maid.

But that which has amaz'd us more,
Added the Weeping Country Boor;

391

Is that before he dy'd he made
The strangest will that e'er was read,
Desiring that he might be carry'd,
When dead, into the fields and bury'd
By th' Cork-tree Fountain near a Rock,
Where first Marcella's beauty struck
That fatal blow, of which he dy'd
A Martyr to her cruel Pride:
Besides, some other things, they say,
He's order'd in the Pagan way,
As if design'd in Imitation
Of the Moors ancient Heath'nish fashion:
Which cause some folk to think egad,
The Gypsy's slights had made him mad,
So that the Parish Heads contend,
With Ambrose his intrusted friend:
And will not suff'r 'im to fullfill
His Brother Shepherd's dying Will;
So that the Village now are all
In arms about the funeral,

392

Tho' tis thought Ambrose and his party,
Must gain the better if they're hearty.

Thus Beauty, tho' it charms the sight,
And Entertains us with Delight;
It fills the World with cares and fears
And often sets us by the Ears.

FINIS.

393

VI. Part VI.

CANTO XXI.

The News of Chrysostome who dy'd
By Fair Marcella's cruel Pride.
The Goatherd's Story to the Knight,
Who gravely listen'd with delight.

The Goatherds being much amus'd,
And all their Jollity confus'd,
At the hard Suff'rings and the Doom
Of kind and gen'rous Chrysostome,
Now rais'd their Rumps from off the Floor,
Where they had been so blithe before,
And ask'd the neighb'ring Clown that brought
The mournful Tidings, when he thought
The Contest in the Town would end,
That Ambrose might interr his Friend.

394

The Messenger reply'd, in Sorrow,
The Day appointed was the Morrow;
And that for certain there wov'd be
A pompous great Solemnity.

This Answer made the Goatherds all
Resolve t'attend the Funeral,
Except poor Petro, who had got
A Thorny Ailment in his Foot;
And therefore rather chose to stay
At home, than limp so long a way:
Which Resolution pleas'd the rest,
Since one must be oblig'd at least,
By drawing Cuts or Casting Lots,
To tarry and attend the Goats.
Thus Petro wisely was i'th' right,
To chuse the pref'rable Delight
Of Ease, before a pompous Sight.

Don Quixote who had silent sat,
And listen'd unto all their Chat,

395

Enquir'd of Petro if he knew
This Chris'tome, what he was, and who,
That such Contention should arise,
When dead, about his Obsequies.

Petro reply'd unto the Knight,
Such crabbed Words confound me quite,
But as for Chrisostome that's dead,
He was a Scholard, all Folk said,
One who had taken his Degree,
At Salamanca 'Versity;
And after sev'ral Years return'd
From College home so deeply Learn'd,
That he by Night could read and tell
The meaning of the Stars, as well
As if he did the Heavens know,
As truly as his Christ-cross-Row;
The Sun could neither set or rise,
Or the Moon wander thro' the Skies,
But he could guess what they were doing,
From whence they came, and whither going;

396

And would appoint the very Minute
O'th' Clip, and when they wou'd be in it.

‘Th' Eclipse you mean, (the Don replies
To shew himself more learn'd and wise.)

Truly, (quoth Petro to the Knight)
For ought I know you may be right,
I ne'er was taught the learned Rules
Of speaking fine, observ'd in Schools:
But all that I have said to you,
For certain, Chrysostome could do.
Nay more, for he would tell us when
We should have Sunshine, Wind, or Rain;
When cause to hope for, or to fear
A plentiful or Estil Year.

‘Steril, not Estil, Friend, you mean,
(Replies the Knight unto the Swain.)

Steril and Estil (quoth the Clown)
To us poor Goatherds are as one.
But this I know, that the Deceas'd
Was learn'd and wise as any Priest;

397

And that his Friends, in little time,
Grew Rich, by being rul'd by him,
And fill'd their Barns in Drought or Flood,
Let Seasons happen as they wou'd.
One Year he'd cry, your Uplands plow,
The next, come Till your Valleys now.
Here sow your Rye, and there your Wheat.
This Soil will Oats and Barley fit.
And that Inclosure best agrees,
This Year, with Turnips or with Peas.
The next will scarce reward your Toil,
The following will abound with Oil.
Thus whatsoe'er he did foretel,
Would come to pass, and never fail:
As if he in the Stars could see
Whatever should hereafter be.

‘That noble Science, (quoth the Knight)
By which he guess'd so very right,
Is call'd Astrology, whereby
We into Nature's Secrets pry,
That at a distance hidden ly.

398

Quoth Petro, 'tis a wondrous Art,
Whatever crabbed Name you've for't.
I wish my self bred up in College,
For nothing but this sort of Knowledge,
Which Chrisostome was so Expert in,
That he foreknew all things for certain;
However tho' his Bookish Learning,
Made him so skilful and discerning,
That he could name the Stars and Meteors,
As well as he could do his Letters;
Yet he forsook his Scholard's Gown,
And of a sudden laid it down,
To lead his Life upon the Plains,
Among the Rural Maids and Swains;
Would in no other Dress appear,
But such as Country Shepherds wear,
And took as much delight in driving
His Flocks, as if't'ad been his Living.
But what amaz'd his Friends the more,
His Father dy'd but just before,

399

And left him, as some Neighbours say,
Besides Land, Cattle, Corn, and Hay,
More Money were it in a Sack,
Then he could carry at his Back;
Yet all these Riches would not keep
This Learned Youth from tending Sheep.
I'm sure were I as Rich as he,
Old Nick might feed my Goats for me;
But Chrisostome, in hopes to spend,
His Hours more happ'ly with a Friend,
Took with him one young Ambrose, who,
They say, was a rare Scholard too,
That they might Logick chop together,
Beneath a Hedge in pleasant Weather.
Thus did they lead a Shepherd's Life,
And Lov'd like any Man and Wife,
Feeding the Poor, and doing Good
To all that wanted Cloaths or Food.
At length the hidden cause came out,
Why Chrisostome thus rang'd about,

400

Which was, that he was so besmitten.
With Beauty, and with Love so bitten,
That his poor tortur'd sighing Breast,
Amidst his Riches, could not rest,
But he must run Sheep-driving after
Rich Williams fair and only Daughter;
A Skittish Lass that overlooks
And tends her own and Uncles Flocks,
A puny thing, that, I may say,
Was a meer Brat but t'other Day,
Yet now She's taller grown and older,
She's mir'd by all that do behold her.

‘Admir'd you mean, (replies the Knight)
‘Pray mind your Words, pronounce 'em right.

Nouns, Master, (quoth the homebred Clown)
Without Corruption let's go on.
For if you will not hear me speak
My way, I shan't have done this Week;
Therefore pray mind me what I say,
Don't thwart, but give my Tongue fair play.

401

That my whole Tale may hang together,
This William, fair Marcella's Father,
Was, by the by, a wealthy Yeoman,
A Grasier Shepherd and a Ploughman;
By the good management of which,
He made himself most woundy Rich;
Then dy'd, bequeathing all he had
To this young pistail puny Jade,
Before her Body was a Span,
Some Years e're she was Meat for Man,
Leaving the little Lady Fair
Beneath a tender Uncle's Care,
Our Parish-Priest, and tho' I say't,
A good Man, notwithstanding that,
Who did so love her, that he rather
Discharg'd the Duty of a Father,
Because she had no Parent left,
But was of Mother too bereft,
Who dy'd in Childbed, and is blest,
For certain, with eternal Rest.

402

'Tis true it often was her way,
To take a Cup, as People say;
What then, there's not another Dame,
All round, who had so good a Name;
For she not only hug'd the Bowl,
But Lov'd her Neighbour with her Soul;
And had a Face, that shone as bright
As Sun by Day or Moon by Night;
And many think her handsom Daughter,
When once she grows a little fatter,
Will be so very like her Mother,
That in the one you'll see the other.
Yet is Marcella now she's fit
For Wedlock, such a pretty Tit,
That 'tis agreed by all the Swains,
There's not her Fellow on the Plains;
Her Beauty makes all Youth pursue her,
And tempts Great Persons Sons to wooe her.
There's not a Tree but bears her Name,
Or Shepherd but he sings her Fame:

403

All Men that see her seek her Favour
And many run stark Mad to have her;
Nay, Months, before she took the Dress
Upon her, of a Shepherdess,
Fine Youth from distant Places came,
To view the Beauty of the Dame:
And all the Neighbour's Sons of Note
Paid Hom'lies to her Petticoat.

‘Homage, (quoth Quixote in a Passion)
I hate this mispronunciation.

Adsheart, Sir Knight, (quoth angry Peter)
Mayhap you'd ha'me speak in Meter:
E'en hear my Tale, or you know what,
I've told you, I'm not learn'd a jot.
Give my Tongue therefore leave to run
As usual, or my Story's done.

‘Nay, nay, good Friend, (reply'd the Don)
Don't let me spoil your going on,
And rob my own desirous Ear
Of that Account I long to hear.

404

‘Proceed, I'll pardon all Abruption,
‘And give thee no more Interuption.

Well then, (cries Petro) you must know,
This Maiden did so handsome grow,
That all Men who beheld her Feature,
Bless'd Heaven for so fine a Creature.
Some to herself made wealthy Proffers,
Others to'r Uncle made great Offers;
In hopes, by gaining his Good-Will,
They should into her Favour steal;
Yet the old Parson, tho' he might
Have got, it's thought, some Hundreds by't,
Would never shew the least intent
To wed her 'gainst her own consent;
But always gave her good Advice,
To chuse a Husband she could prize;
Still telling her, from time to time,
What Suiters had apply'd to him;
Their Worth, their Family, their Name,
The Terms propos'd, and whence they came,

405

And who himself approv'd on best,
As more deserving than the rest;
But still she kept her wonted Carriage,
And by no means would hear of Marriage,
But always made it her endeavour,
To shun all those that sought her Favour.
I've heard indeed, the more we Love,
The more perverse the Women prove.

As thus Marcella older grew
Her Beauty made the brighter shew,
And drew such Crowds of Lovers to her,
That all the Youth laid wait to wooe her;
And fought and squabbl'd so about her,
The Town had better been without her.
'Twas then she chang'd her flanting Dress,
And for her Ease turn'd Shepherdess,
T'avoid the Teaze and mournful Sighs
Of those she'd conquer'd with her Eyes;
Nor could her Uncle cause her stay,
By all that he could do or say;

406

But to the Fields and Plains she vow'd
She'd go, ay marry that she wou'd;
There lead a peaceful happy Life,
Resolving ne'er to be a Wife.
No sooner had she thus beta'en
Herself unto the spacious Plain,
But then there was a greater Rout,
For all the Youngsters round about
Turn'd Shepherds too, with an intent
To worship her where'er she went.
Among the rest poor Chrisostome
Was one of those who left his Home,
On purpose to pursue the Lass,
So Beauteous, and so well to pass,
More for her Wealth than what was in her,
Because, as yet, he ne'er had seen her,
Believing that his Wit might win her.

Marcella's Care was all along
To live so Chaste that none might wrong

407

Her good Repute, and out of spight,
Report those things that were not right;
For she was Free, altho' so Fair,
With Swains, as other Maidens were;
But if they once began to talk
Of Love, in scorn away she'd walk,
And would have nothing more to say
To him who bent his Tongue that way.

Thus Coy and Froward she remains,
And as the Queen of Beauty reigns,
Doing the Country Youth more harms,
With what you Scholards call her Charms,
Than any Witch, by Satan's Pow'r,
Has done this Forty Years before.
For her fair Looks and curteous 'Haviours,
Which the young Shepherds take for Favours,
Engage 'em all to dearly love her;
And when they do their Pain discover,
From out their Company she starts,
And leaves the Fools to break their Hearts,

408

Giving no Comfort but a Frown,
Not caring if they hang or drown,
And what Relief they find poor Souls,
Is only in their Sighs and Howls,
Complaining to some shady Tree,
Of fair Marcella's Cruelty.
And to the deaf regardless Wind,
Call her ungrateful and unkind.
Here one despairing Lover Lies,
And there another Shephard dies;
Beneath this Hedge complaining Sits
An am'rous Youth besides his Wits;
At foot of yonder Rock a Swain,
Cursing his Stars for her Disdain;
By such a Murm'ring Brook there Lolls
A Brace or Two of Whining Fools,
Who 'mong the Willows sigh and groan,
And Eccho to each others Moan.
Thus the fair Tyrant Reigns and Kills
And with her bleeding Captives fills
The Plains, the Valleys, and the Hills.

409

Now we who unconcern'd look on
These Mischiefs which her Eyes have done,
Are at a heavy loss to guess
The End of all her Frowardness;
What her Pride, Coyness, and Disdain
Will at last come to, in the main;
And who of all the Swains will prove
So happy as to win her Love;
Therefore since she has slain and wounded
So many, and their Wits confounded,
I am perswaded in my Thought,
The News is true our Friend has brought;
That she has struck her Darts too home,
And been the bane of Chrisostome:
If so, his Funeral, to Morrow,
Will be a pompous Shew of Sorrow;
For he had many Friends, 'tis said,
Who wont forsake him now he's dead,
Till they have seen him safe, where he
Desir'd his resting-place should be;

410

Therefore if you so please, Sir Knight,
Methinks I'd have you see the Sight;
It is not much above a Mile
From hence, and 'twill be worth your while.

Quoth the grave Don, ‘I mean to see
‘The Funeral-Solemnity;
‘And for the Story you have told,
‘My Friend, I thank you doublefold.

Alas, Sir Knight, (reply'd the Boor)
Sh'as made a thousand Mischiefs more.
I have not told you half the Wrongs
Her scornful Pride has done among's;
But at the Funeral there you'll hear
Marcella's Life and Character;
For her ill Fame the loudest rings
At Burials, Wakes, and Christenings.

Yet, after all her stubborn Nature,
She's a most lovely lusheous Creature;
Her Eyes at ev'ry glance or squint,
Strike fire like any Steel and Flint,

411

That you may see 'em shine and sparkle,
For all the World like lighted Charcoal;
Her pouting Lips appear so red,
That one would think they always bled;
And her soft Cheeks are like two Posies,
Made up of Pinks and Damask-Roses.
When she draws Breath she does so heave,
That 'tis a pleasure to perceive
Her snowy Breasts pop in and out;
Like Dumplins boiling o'er the Pot.
And when along the Plain she trips,
She'as such a Motion with her Hips,
That any mortal Man must love her,
Tho' ne'er so much in Birth above her.
Could I believe that she would grace
The Fun'ral with her handsome Face,
I'd thither Limp for all my Thorn,
If but to see the Gypsie mourn.

Here Petro finding that 'twas late,
Made a full stop, and ceas'd to prate

412

About Marcella's further Charms,
Pursu'd by such admiring Swarms,
Advising his attentive Guest
To think it time to go to rest
Within a little Hut, for fear
The Air should hurt his wounded Ear.

Sancho, who did not relish well,
The Goatherd's dull longwinded Tale,
Back'd the good Counsel of the Clown,
And beg'd his Master to lie down;
Who took their kind Advice, and laid
Himself upon his Stubble-Bed;
Whilst Sancho found another Cabbin,
And for his Pillow took a Babbin.

No sooner did the Knight withdraw
Into his Hut, well stuff'd with Straw,
But the fair Goddess of the Plains,
Marcella, brought into his Brains
His dear Dulcinea, that he spent
The Night in Sighs and Discontent,

413

As if his Case had been the same
With theirs who lov'd the scornful Dame,
Moaning her Slights, in imitation,
To pleasure his fictitious Passion,
Which had but little other ground
Than Tales he'd in Romances found.

Thus Men too often stand in fear of
Those Dangers which they only hear of;
And by the strength of Fancy share
The Torments others really bear.

414

CANTO XXII.

The Don and Sancho ride to see
The Funeral Solemnity:
The Croud they meet with by the way,
Their Chat, and how they spend the Day.

Scarce had the dawning of the Morn
Proclaim'd Aurora's kind return,
In th' Eastern Quarters of the Skies,
Where the bright God delights to rise,
E're th' early Goatherds left their Sheep,
And from their Huts began to creep,
Lest they should miss the pompous Sight
They'd thought and dream'd of all the Night.
Or lose some Rural Recreation,
That might forerun the grand Procession.
So that as soon as each had bolted
From out his Straw, and scratch'd his Dolthead,

415

They in a Body call'd upon
Their armed Guest, the doubty Don,
To ask if he was still inclin'd
To do what he o'er Night design'd.
Quixote with Love and Valour fir'd,
Reply'd, He nothing more desir'd.
So rowsing with a wakeful Brain,
Like a fierce Lyon from his Den,
He gap'd and fizzl'd twice or thrice,
And then was ready in a trice;
Ord'ring the Squire to fetch his Steed,
And his own Ass from Grass, with speed,
That both in readiness might be,
To bear the Goatherds Company.

Sancho ill fuddl'd over Night,
Could scarce look up against the Light,
But scratch'd his Ears and rub'd his Eyes,
Like one just wak'd in a surprise.
However, when he'd paus'd a little,
He did his Errand to a tittle.

416

So up they mounted, and away
They jog'd, soon after break of Day;
But had not travel'd, Horse and Foot,
A Mile from whence they first set out,
E're they met coming from a Cross-way,
Six mourning Shepherds on the Coss-way,
Clad all in long black Lambskin Gowns,
And on their Noddles Cypress Crowns,
Adorn'd, to make the better shew,
With sprigs of Rosemary and Ewe,
Each bearing upright in his hand
A Holly Staff, or rather Wand.
And after these two Gallant Blades,
Came on well mounted on their Pads;
On Foot three Lacquies running by,
To shew their Masters Quality.
These choping on the Don by chance,
They join'd, and did one way advance.
All Sides, with civil Carriage, greeting
Each other at the place of meeting;

417

A Passage wonderfully rare,
Consid'ring that the Knight was there.

No sooner had they been so free,
To Quere, Which way travel ye?
But each by t'others Answer found,
They all were to the Funeral bound.
So Cheek by Jowl along they went,
Like Old Nick and the Earl of Kent.
As they jog'd on, from place to place,
Familiar Chat sprang up apace.
So that the Horsemen all began
To be as great as Cup and Kan;
And mutual Questions pass'd between
Don Quixote and the Gentlemen.
At length they talk'd about the Death
Of him who had resign'd his Breath,
And curs'd the Charms of poor Marcella,
For killing such an honest Fellow;
And for the Cruelty and Pride
She'd us'd to many more beside.

418

The Knight desirous not a little,
To know the Matter to a tittle,
Was very prying to discover
Whate'er had pass'd 'twixt Lass and Lover;
But could not be inform'd much more,
Than what the Clown had told before.
At length a pert young jolly Blade,
Who had the armed Don survey'd,
And view'd him round, from Head to Foot,
His Horse, his Lance, and Man to boot,
Presum'd to ask him, why in Peace
He wore so strange a warlike Dress,
And rid so fiercely arm'd abroad,
On such an inoffensive Road.

The Don, affecting much Discretion,
Reply'd, I'm bound by my Profession
To thus go arm'd in ev'ry place,
Where I my Person show, or Face.
Should I without these Arms appear
'Twould shame the Honour that I bear.

419

Luxurious Feasts and costly Messes,
Dull downy Ease and sumptuous Dresses
Were first invented to delight
Rich Courtiers, not dispos'd to fight:
But Labour, Vigilance, and Arms,
To save the Innocent from Harms,
Belong to Errant Knights alone,
Of which fam'd Order I am one.

This crazy Answer was enough
To give the Gentlemen a proof,
That Love or Study had confus'd
His Senses, and his Brains abus'd.
However, to discover wholly,
The nature of the Champion's Folly,
Vivaldo, who was entertaining
Don Quixote, gravely ask'd the meaning
Of these Knight-Errants, whence they came,
And when they first obtain'd that Name?
What was their real Occupation?
And how that Order came in fashion?

420

The Champion not displeas'd to hear
Such Questions ask'd within his Sphere,
Reply'd, I wonder Men of Birth,
Whose Equipage declare your Worth,
Should, after all your Learning, be
Such Strangers unto Errantry;
Turn but the Brittish Annals o'er,
Which treat of things in times of Yore;
And there at large you may behold,
King Arthur's famous Deeds of old,
Who, by Inchantment, long ago,
Was metamorphos'd to a Crow;
And will again, 'tis thought, recover
His former Shape, some time or other,
And reassume that sov'reign Pow'r
He was possess'd of heretofore.
Wherefore the People of that Nation
Are conscious, since his Transformation,
Of killing any Crow, for fear
Their good old Prince, to whom they bear

421

Such Rev'rence, should, by chance, be slain,
And never more appear again.
This warlike King, of ancient Fame,
The only Monarch of that Name,
Vertue and Valour's great Rewarder,
First instituted that brave Order,
Surnam'd the Knights of the Round-Table,
For Ages held so venerable;
Who prov'd, as Learned Heads agree,
The Fathers of Knight-Errantry.
'Twas also then, or I mistake,
The fam'd Sir Lancelot du Lake,
Nobly transacted the Amour,
'Twixt him and fair Queen Guinever;
Quintiniana, by consent
Of both, b'ing made their Confident,
And Manager of all between
The worthy Champion and the Queen;
For Court-Intrigues are ne'er well laid,
Without some cunning Gossip's Aid,

422

Who can pray often, look demure,
Lye gracefully, and hold the Door.

This fortunate Amour, by chance,
Produc'd that noted old Romance,
Wherein these following Lines are writ,
In Spain so valu'd for their Wit.
‘On Earth there never was a Knight
‘So waited on by Ladies bright,
‘As was Sir Lancelot du Lake,
‘When he his Country did forsake.
In such pathetick Strains as these,
Contriv'd to both instruct and please.
His Feats of Arms, Amours, and Worth,
Are well and artfully set forth,
As the Polite and Learn'd may see
In the same ancient History.
From thence Knight-Errantry began,
And, by degrees, advanc'd in Spain,
As well as in all other Parts,
Where Men encourag'd Arms and Arts;

423

Then great Amadis, stil'd de Gaul,
Made known his Valour unto all;
And by his Actions so inspir'd
His Offspring, that his Race acquir'd
An everlasting Reputation,
Down to the fourth or fifth Gen'ration.
Then Felixmart, the bold Hyrcanian,
By's Feats obtain'd the World's Opinion.
And Tirante the White became,
In those blest Times, a Knight of Fame.
Nay, had we liv'd a little sooner
We might have had the happy Honour,
To've seen that modern Champion's Face,
Don Bellianis, Knight of Greece,
Who strictly kept to his Profession,
Rescuing all Suff'rers from Oppression.
These of that ancient Order were,
According to whose Laws I bear
These trusty Arms, in the defence
Of helpless injur'd Innocence.

424

'Tis for this Cause I thus set forth,
And range the Desarts of the Earth,
All Dangers face, and Hardships bear,
Without Regret, Complaint, or Fear,
And Night and Day Occasions seek,
To succour and defend the weak.

Vivaldo being much amaz'd,
To find a Man so strangely craz'd,
Who, notwithstanding, spoke so well,
And in a Mode thus Rational,
Resolv'd, since Quixote was so free,
T'improve the Opportunity.
So riding close to t'other's Horse,
He thus continu'd the Discourse.

Methinks, Sir Knight, your strict Profession
Must be a strange Mortification.
O'th' two I should as soon desire
To be a poor Carthusian Fryer.
Nay, as your Worship states the Matter,
The easi'st Life must be the latter.

425

‘Our discipline (replies the Knight)
‘Is more severe, so far you 're right;
‘But grant that the Carthusian Fryers,
‘Laid stricter Bonds on their Desires,
‘Their pious Prayers, which are but Words,
‘Would never do the work of Swords,
‘They only sit in Peace and Ease,
‘And pray no oftner than they please;
‘Have little to disturb their Heads,
‘Besides their Paters and their Beads,
‘But danger-free enjoy the Light,
‘And unmolested sleep at Night;
‘Whilst we, with hazard of our Lives,
‘Help injur'd Widows, Maids, and Wives,
‘Lie rough, feed hard, and cut and slay,
‘For what those Fryers only pray;
‘We Knights are often forc'd to bleed for
‘What they, alas! but intercede for:
‘We travel on without retreat,
‘From Winter's cold or Summer's heat,

426

‘And daily do our Lives expose,
‘To Truth and Vertue's monstrous Foes.
‘Therefore the Justice that we do,
‘In these Adventures we pursue,
‘And Risques we run, most plainly show,
‘We're Heaven's Ministers below;
‘Not that I would be thought profane,
‘So irreligious and so vain,
‘As to condemn a Holy Life,
‘Because it's free from Care and Strife;
‘I only would infer from thence
‘We 'ndure more Hardships, take more Pains,
‘And do to humane Race more good,
‘Than all the Convents ever cou'd.

But there's one thing (reply'd Vivaldo)
I can't approve of, which you all do,
I've read that when an Errant Knight
Is just preparing for a Fight,
Instead of making his Address
To Heav'n for Safty and Success,

427

As all good Christians ought to do,
When Life's at stake and Death in view,
He only dedicates his Pray'r
To some far distant Lady fair,
Imploring her deceitful Charms,
To give the vict'ry to his Arms,
Tho' his dear Madam's quite a Stranger,
To his Adventure or the Danger;
Besides, it is a Pagan Mode,
To make a God of Flesh and Blood,
And such prepostrous Zeal can be
No less than base Idolatry:

‘We're bound (quoth Quixote) not to vary
‘From what has been accustomary
‘In Errantry, our ancient Fashions
‘Admit no modern Alterations;
‘Knights always, e'er they fight, implore
‘The Aid of Beauties they adore,
‘And in all Dangers and Surprise,
‘Conceit 'em still before their Eyes,

428

‘And strongly fancy, when they fight,
‘They Tilt to do their Ladies Right.
‘This Rule the Knights in ev'ry Age
‘Have kept, when going to engage,
‘That Love and Rage together join'd,
‘Might fire and animate the Mind,
‘And make us rush upon our Foes,
‘With greater Zeal and fiercer Blows;
‘Yet tho' we pray to those we Love,
‘We're not forgetful of above,
‘But whilst contending, still apply
‘Our thoughts to Heav'n for Victory.

Vivaldo to the Knight reply'd,
I am not yet well satisfy'd,
For I have often found in reading,
Two Knights, of equal strength and breeding,
Have first saluted one another
With How d'ye do? I thank you Brother,
And the next moment falling out,
Have turn'd their Horses Heads about,

429

Then Couching their inviduous Lances,
Have made such desperate Advances,
And at each other rid full Tilt,
Till one upon the Spot had spilt
His Adversary's Blood, and brought him
To th' Ground, whilst t'other Knight that fought him,
To keep his Saddle drop'd his Rein,
And catch'd fast hold of Horse's Mane.
All this being often done of old
In half a Minute, as we're told,
How was there time in such a space,
For both Idolatry and Grace,
That they their Love and Zeal could shew
To th' Peticoat and Heaven too.
Especially, what room have they
For Christian Thoughts, who only pray,
I'th' Onset, to some Beauteous Creature,
And dye the very moment a'ter,
But ev'ry Knight who does approve
This wand'ring Life is not in Love,

430

Or have they, I suppose, their Lasses
T'invoke in all such desp'rate Cases.

‘Sir your Conjecture (quoth the Knight)
‘I can assure you, is not right;
‘No Champion can from Love be free,
‘If he professes Errantry;
‘The Starry Orbs that shine so bright
‘And bless the neather World with Light,
‘Can never more essential prove,
‘To th' Lofty Skies, wherein they move,
‘Than Love, and the prevailing Charms
‘Of Beauty, are to Knights in Arms;
‘For 'twould be thought a great Transgression
‘In any Man of our Profession,
‘To wander thro' the World unblest,
‘Without a Sov'reign of his Breast,
‘Whose Charms the want of Spite supply,
‘When e'er he does his Valour try;
‘Besides no Hist'ry does discover
‘One Champion Knight that was no Lover;

431

‘For should we own ourselves to be
‘From Love, that gen'rous Passion, free,
‘The World would say we had no Right
‘To bear the Worthy Name of Knight,
‘But leap'd the Fence and basely came,
‘Thief-like, to th' Honour that we claim;
‘Because we have no Lady fair,
‘According as our Laws require,
‘No Beauteous Damsel in our view,
‘To dedicate our Combats to.
‘Mars had his Venus to excite him
‘To Warllke Deeds, and to delight him;
‘So ev'ry Knight must have his Lady,
‘To keep his Resolution steady;
‘For none are desp'rate, say the Learn'd,
‘Unless a Woman be concern'd.

But Sir I'm sure (reply'd the other)
I've read of Don Galaor, the Brother
Of Amadis, who ne'er had Wife,
Fair Lass, or Mistress in his Life;

432

And yet he was esteem'd to be
A valliant Knight in Errantry.

‘For Truth we can't depend upon
‘That single Instance, (quoth the Don)
‘Besides, suppose it no Mistake,
‘One Swallow does no Summer make.
‘'Tis true, I've read he would be great with,
‘And court all Ladies that he met with;
‘From whence some Readers do infer,
‘He'd no one in particular:
‘But that some Writers do disprove,
‘Affirming that he was in Love,
‘And that he had, behind the Curtain,
‘A fav'rite Lady, of a certain,
‘Whom he admir'd in ev'ry part,
‘And crown'd the Empress of his Heart;
‘Also to whom, in silent thought,
‘He made Oblations e'er he fought;
‘For 'twas his Temper to approve
‘Always of Secresy in Love;

433

‘For which Discretion ev'ry Dame
‘Admir'd him, wheresoe'er he came.
Just here the stumbling of his Horse,
At present, broke of their Discourse,
Wherein Vivaldo and the Knight,
Had such reciprocal Delight.

Mistaken Men with Zeal defend
The Cause to which they do pretend,
And, Quixote like, divert their Hearers,
In lab'ring to maintain their Errors.

434

CANTO XXIII.

Vivaldo's Banter by the way,
Upon the Don's Dulcinea:
The Croud's Deportment round the Dead,
And the Oration Ambrose made.

Vivaldo having now done whipping
His careless Gennet for his tripping,
Rid up again unto the Don,
And thus he carr'd his Banter on:
Since you allow, Sir Knight, said he,
That Love's the Soul of Errantry,
I must presume you would not bear
These Arms without some Lady Fair,
For whom you lead this wandring Life,
In hopes to win her for a Wife;
Therefore except, like Don Galaor,
You keep your Mistress and Amour,

435

As Bosom Secrets, that no Lover,
Without dishonour, can discover,
I beg you'd let us know the Worth,
The Name, the Quality, and Birth,
Of that great Lady, for whose sake
This dang'rous Course of Life you take;
That, I suppose, her matchless Charms
May reap the Glory of your Arms;
Doubtless she must be young and fine,
All over Lovely and Divine,
And in her fancy doubly blest,
To be by such a Knight Carest.

With that the Don, to ease his Passion,
And vent his Am'rous Perturbation,
Fetch'd sev'ral Sighs before he spoke,
And then his Silence thus he broke:

I wish that Object of my Flame,
Whose Charms the Universe proclaim,
Was but affected with the Pains
I take to shew the World my Chains;

436

Twould be my Pride that all should know,
To whom I do my Passion owe:
Dulcinea is the Lady's Name
Born in La Mancha, to it's Fame.
Toboso is the Town wherein
She Lives, and Reigns as Beauty's Queen.
Her Quality no less can be
Than Princess, since ador'd by me,
And in my Breast the only Fair
That's crown'd and rules as Empress there.
Her Charming Beauty's so transcendent,
No mortal Eye can see the End on't.
She far exceeds all Female Creatures,
As well in Vertue as in Features.
Her Golden Locks outshine the Sun,
Upon a Summers Day at Noon.
Her Forehead looks, when e'er it's seen,
As smooth as Cupid's Bowling-Green;
And to the Sight more Pleasure yields,
Than found in the Elysian Fields;

437

Her Brows, those two Celestial Bows,
Point at the Beauty of her Nose,
Which stands admir'd amidst her Face,
And adds to ev'ry part a Grace.
Her Eyes like Glorious Stars appear;
Her Cheeks two Beds of Roses are;
Her Lips are of a Coral dye;
Her Teeth with Orient Pearl may vye;
Her Neck is of the lovely hue
Of Alabaster, vein'd with blue;
And her dear Breasts more whiteness boast,
Than new-par'd Turnips in a Frost;
And as for those sweet parts that lie
Conceal'd and veil'd from humane Eye,
The strength of my Imagination
Must not break forth into Expression
But drown in silent Admiration;
For Lovers ought not to unfold,
What they're not suffer'd to behold.

438

‘But, Sir, (Vivaldo then reply'd)
‘To what great Prince is She ally'd,
‘A Lady of her Worth must be
‘Of some Illustrious Family;
‘Therefore we beg you'd give your Tongue
‘The leave to tell us whence she sprung.

This Question puzzl'd and perplex'd
The Knight, and caus'd him to be vex'd;
However first he scratch'd his Head,
And this Evasive Answer made:

She's not descended of the Gods,
And drop'd on Earth from blest Abodes.
Or does she from those Emp'rors come,
Who once bore Rule in Greece or Rome,
She scorns to any Kindred Claim
With Helen, that fair wanton Dame,
Who did so many Kings Enjoy,
And cost so many Lives at Troy;
Yet is her Pedigree and Blood,
Tho' not so ancient, full as good,

439

As ever ran within the Veins
Of Consuls, Tyrants, or their Queens;
Nor could the greatest Prince on Earth
E're boast a more Illustrious Birth,
From Adam to this very Day,
Than can the fair Dulcinea;
For from the fam'd Toboso she
Derives her Vertuous Pedigree,
A worthy, tho' a Modern Race,
That in La Mancha thrive apace;
From whence the World in time will see
The most Victorious Progeny,
And greatest Emp'rors, I'll engage,
That e'er sprang up in any Age.
Let therefore none presume so far
To contradict what I averr,
Before he hears what Zerbin wrote
With his own fingers, at the foot
Of fam'd Orlando's Armour bright
In mem'ry of that worthy Knight,

440

‘Let none but he, these Arms displace,
‘Who dares Orlando's Fury face.

Sir I believe you, (cries Vivaldo)
And so I'm positive we all do.
By skilful Heralds I am told,
Our House is venerably Old,
That we're descended from the Loins
Of the Laredo Cachopines;
But yet we can't pretend to show so
Renown'd a Lineage as Toboso;
Tho' I ne'er read or hear'd, I vow,
Of this Great Family till now;
Nor did I think La Mancha blest
With such a Princess, I protest;
Or that indeed there could be found
In the whole Province, search it round,
A Lady so divinely bright,
Deserving of so Brave a Knight.
‘Tis strange (quoth Quixote) that the Fame,
‘Which spreads abroad Dulcinea's Name

437

‘Should never reach the Ears before
‘Of you that are a Travelour,
‘But what Men hear of and not see
‘Too oft escape the Memory.

The Moving Troop of Foot and Horse,
All list'ning to the Don's Discourse,
Were now convinc'd by what he said
Some Frenzy had confus'd his Head,
That Love, or some Mishap more scurvy,
Had turn'd his Senses topsy turvy,
Except Poor Sancho, who for Truth
Took all that fell from Quixote's Mouth,
Because he'd known him long to be
A Man of great Sincerity,
And fam'd throughout the Neighbourhood
For being Pious, Learn'd and Good;
Yet the Knights Frantick Talk about,
Dulcinea left him in some doubt
Because La Mancha was his Place
Of Birth, where he had spent his Days,

438

But ne'er had heard in all his Life
Of such a Princess, Maid or Wife,
Or such a Family within,
Toboso where he oft had been;
However, like a Trusty Friend
He wisely Conquer'd in the end,
His Doubts, kept all his Scruples close
And willfully believ'd in gross;
Thus we may see how Men will smother
Conscience to Credit one another.

As they Jog'd on an easy Trot,
On Horseback some, and some on Foot,
In a Low Valley that was nigh,
Between the Hills, they chanc'd to spy,
Six Bearers with a Bier upon
Their Shoulders moving slowly on,
Strew'd o'er with Flowers and with Greens
An Ancient Custom with the Swains,
Attended with a num'rous Train
Of Shepherds from the Neighbouring Plain

439

Each with a Garland on his Head
Of Solemn Ewe and Cyprus made,
Cloth'd in Black Skins which they had Fleec'd
From Lambs to Honour the Deceas'd;
There goes the Ghoast, the Goatherd cry'd,
That Sacrafice to Female Pride,
They're carry'ng Faithful Chrisostome
To his Long, Last, and Silent Home,
For near to yonder Rock he Pray'd
His Heart, when broken might be laid,
For in that very fatal Place
He first beheld Marcella's Face.

This sudden, solemn mournful sight,
Broke off Vivaldo and the Knight,
And caus'd at once both Foot and Horse
To mend their Pace and cease Discourse,
That they might come in time to see
And join in the Solemnity;
The Knight with Fury spur'd his Steed,
Who had at best no other speed,

440

Than Higlers Hobby on the Road
To Market makes beneath his Load,
Whilst Trusty Sancho's Stubborn Ass
Unwilling to improve his Pace,
Endur'd more thrashing very fairly
Than a large Sheaf of Wheat or Barly;
However, by the Painful Strength,
Of Armed Heel and Hand at length,
The Spurring Knight and Whipping Squire
Most Manfully brought up the Rear,
And tho Postpon'd, they yet came in
To see what e'er was to be seen.

When to the Burying Place they came
The Bier was grounded near the same,
Where Shepherds four by Dint of Spade
The silent Habitation made;
Whilst Champion Quixote and his Squire
With others crouded round the Bier,
Whereon a comely Corps was laid,
Whose graceful Mein appear'd tho' Dead;

441

Nor was he wrap'd in Winding Sheet
Ty'd ghastly close at Head and Feet,
But at his own Request instead
Of Shroud, was clad in Shepherds Weed,
Strew'd o'er with Flowers, as he lay,
That look'd and smelt both Sweet and Gay,
Adorn'd by Rural Wits, to please
His Friends, with Past'ral Elegies,
Which in Pathettick Strains set forth
His Love, his Learning and his Worth,
Amongst 'em Verses of his own
Which in Dispair he Wrote upon
Marcella's Beauty and Disdain
Who did both Bless and Curse the Plain;

Whilst Lifeless Youth thus lay expos'd
The Swains in Tears their Grief disclos'd,
And for some doleful Minutes space
With Sobs, and Sighings fill'd the Place;
At length Young Ambrose, dearly lov'd
Of the deceas'd by Friendship mov'd,

442

Slept close the Corps and at the Head
The following kind Oration made.

‘This venerable Clay which here
‘Does Cold and Lifeless now appear,
‘Once entertain'd the brightest Soul
‘That ever mov'd 'twixt Pole and Pole,
‘Enrich'd by Heav'n with all that cou'd
‘Conduce to make him Great and Good;
‘This is the Body, freed from Pain
‘Of Chrisostome, that Noble Swain,
‘Who liv'd belov'd and prais'd by all
‘But that Fair Maid who work'd his fall;
‘His Vertues were without deceit,
‘Matchless his Learning and his Wit,
‘Sagacious, tho in Years but Green,
‘Magnificent his Looks and Mein,
‘A Gen'rous and a Faithful Friend,
‘A Loving Neighbour to his End,
‘Courteous to all, from Av'rice free,
‘And giv'n to Saint like Charity;

443

‘Grave without Pride or Ostentation,
‘Yet open without Reservation,
‘Peaceful and harmless as the Dove,
‘No other Passion knew but Love,
‘And was the best of all good Swains
‘That ever Blest the Woods or Plains.

‘Behold you, fatal Spot, I pray
‘That must intomb such worthy Clay,
‘O! that was the unhappy Place
‘Where first he saw Marcella's Face;
‘There also did he first discover
‘How much he was her faithful Lover,
‘And in soft Eloquence set forth
‘His Admiration of her Worth,
‘There the relentless Maid deny'd
‘His Suit, and Stab'd him with her Pride,
‘There from his Arms she fled with scorn,
‘And left him hopeless and forlorn,
‘O'er-burthen'd with that sad dispair
‘Too weighty for his Breast to bear,

444

‘On that illboding Bank of Ground
‘Did he receive his Mortal Wound,
‘And there the Shepherd chose to lye,
‘A Martyr to her Cruelty,
‘That she, who had the Power to save
‘His Life, might Triumph o'er his Grave.

‘But Ah, how Cruel must she be,
To scorn so much sincerity,
‘And suffer such a gen'rous Swain
‘To perish by her proud Disdain,
‘Who without Scruple was possest
‘Of all wherein she could be blest,
‘But flattery too oft prevails
‘O'er Beauty when true Merit fails.

‘His only Comfort was to hide
‘in Woods and Desarts e'er he dy'd,
‘To breathe out his Complaints for ease
‘To the Deaf Winds and Speechless Trees,
‘There too he did invoke his Muse
‘And for his Theme Marcella chuse,

449

‘That tho' his Heart so long had born
‘The Painful Conflicts of her Scorn,
‘His flowing Verse might Crown her Name
‘And Beauty with Immortal Fame,
‘As some of these his Labours here
‘Which on his Worthy Corps appear,
‘Would restify, but that I'm bound
‘To Bury'm with him in the Ground.

That would be Rashness, Sir, reply'd
Vivaldo, standing by his Side;
In such a Case the Will o'th' Dead,
Ought not, I think, to be obey'd:
What e'er Request is out of season,
Or inconsistent with our Reason,
We may dispense with, if we please,
And ne'er disturb their Peaceful Ease.
Our Breach of Friendship or of Trust
Can ne'er affect their silent Dust:
Why then should either Wealth or Wit,
Since the Dead profit nothing by't,

450

Into the Grave be with them hurl'd,
To th' Injury of the Living World;
Should a Man beg before he dy'd,
His Tomb should be with Food supply'd;
What Man would bury Wine and Meat,
To Feast the Dead, who cannot eat?
Why then, alas, should you fulfill
So weak a part of Chrysom's Will,
Which is to rob the World, by giving
To th' Dead what's useful to the Living.
Augustus Cæsar had more Grace
Than to let Virgil's Will take place;
He by his Royal Mandate hinder'd
The World from being so much injur'd,
Which 'twould have been, if the Testator,
When Dead, had been but humour'd a'ter;
But Cæsar prudently thought fit
T'oppose the Will and save the Wit:
I therefore beg you, Worthy Sir,
I'th' Name of all assembled here,

451

That you'll vouchsafe to let me save
Some of these Poems from the Grave,
To caution others, and our Selves,
From wracking on those dangerous Shelves,
Which prov'd the much lamented Bane
Of this unhappy worthy Swain.
So stretching out his longing Hand,
Did for no Leave, or Answer stand,
But snatch'd some Papers that were near,
Into his own peculiar Care,
That all the Martyr'd Lover's Labours,
Should not be hid from Friends and Neighbours
‘Well Sir, said Ambrose, since I find,
‘You are so Zealously inclin'd
‘To save some Remnants of the Wit
‘Of my dear Friend, I will submit
‘So far as to excuse, to please ye,
‘Your Sacrilege, but pray be easy
‘With what you've taken, for the rest
‘Shall gratify my Friend's request.

452

Vivaldo bow'd and said no more,
But eager was to con 'em o'er,
And op'ning one, he read aloud
The Title to the Mournful Croud.

‘That, reply'd Ambrose, is the first
‘My Friend e'er writ, yet not the worst,
‘Where in soft Strains he does impart
‘The restless Suff'rings of his Heart,
‘And in smooth Numbers lets us see,
‘Marcella's Pride and Cruelty;
‘Pray therefore publish o'er his Herse,
‘Those Stanza's of Immortal Verse,
‘That all his present Friends may hear
‘What raging Conflicts, and severe
‘Depressions terrify'd his Wound,
‘And crush'd the Shepherd to the Ground.

Vivaldo to oblige the rest,
Comply'd to answer the Request,
And so, first hemming twice or thrice
To stretch his Pipes and clear his Voice,

453

Upon a rising Bank he stood,
And loudly read the following Ode.

‘This Song of Chrysostom's, said he,
‘Is call'd Marcella's Cruelty,
‘Or the Despairing Faithful Swain,
‘Who Loves the Maid, but sighs in vain.

Why Fairest Tyrant so severe,
To punish him that loves so well,
Who Charm'd by you, is forc'd to bear
Those Torments that are worse than Hell.

O hear your Captive Slave impart
His Love, Fidelity and Grief,
That they may move your stubborn Heart
To yield his Passion some relief.

Assist me, Ye Celestial Quires,
Harmoniously to tune my Voice,
That I may sing what Love inspires,
And win the Nymph that is my choice.

454

Come ye wing'd Suff'rers of the Groves,
Whose Feather'd Mates have from ye flown,
And left ye to bemoan your Loves
On drooping Branches perch'd alone.

Come all ye harmless Kids and Lambs,
That bleating through the Meadows run,
And mourn the absence of your Dams,
Who into distant Fields are gone.

Joyn your impatient Grief with mine,
A doleful Consort let us make,
That our sad Musick may incline,
Marcella's stubborn Heart to break.

That when the Charming Tyrant feels,
The Terrors of incessant Pain,
She may repent those fatal Ills
Occasion'd by her proud Disdain.

And from the Torments that she bears
Within her own afflicted Breast,

455

Compassionate my Fears and Cares,
And by her Pity give me Rest.

But 'tis alas in vain to hope
For what she has so long deny'd,
No Lovers Prayer's or Tears can stop
Marcella's Cruelty and Pride.

Then Fiends and Furies all arise,
From your Infernal loathsome Cells,
And with my sad despairing Sighs
Commix your frightful Groans and Yells.

Let all the Winds their Prisons break,
The foaming Ocean roar aloud,
The Heavens rend, the Mountains shake,
And Thunder Eccho from each Cloud.

Let Man and Beast together run
Distracted with the Noise they hear,
And Wives and Virgins fly to shun
The dreadful Prodigies they fear.

456

May blazing Stars and Comets spread
Their fiery Tails around the Skies,
Th' insatiate Grave disgorge the Dead,
And Skeletons in Troops arise.

Let angry Serpents quit their Hole,
Upon the Surface hissing lye,
And all betweeen the distant Poles,
Be toss'd and wrack'd as well as I.

Then will I burst my flaming Heart,
Amidst the terrible surprize,
For her who does to some impart
Those Favours she to me denies.

Love when with Gratitude it meets,
Is cherish'd with a thousand Sweets,
But when its scorn'd, too fierce it burns,
And to Despair and Madness turns.

456

CANTO XXIV.

Marcella on the Rock appears,
And Charms the Shepherd's Eyes and Ears:
All hear her speak with great surprize,
And when she's done away she flies.

The Verses which Vivaldo read,
Made e'ery Shepherd shake his Head,
And shed alike fresh Tears of Pity
For th' Author of the Mournful Ditty,
Who unmolested lay in State,
Why they bewail'd his wretched Fate,
And curs'd the Cruelty and Pride
Of the Fair Maid for whom he dy'd.
Vivaldo, though he lik'd the Song,
And prais'd it highly to the Throng;

457

Yet fancy'd the concluding Strain
Of what had issu'd from the Brain
Of Chrisostome, did not agree
With fair Marcella's Modesty,
Or justly answer what was said,
Of the strict Vertue of the Maid;
But rather signify'd that tho'
She would to him no favour show,
Yet she had others who enjoy'd
Those Blessings she to him deny'd.

But Ambrose hearing this Reflection,
Remov'd the Critical Objection,
By urging, that his Friend compos'd
The Lines Vivaldo had disclos'd,
When in some Melancholly Wood
He'd hid himself in Solitude,
Resolving never more to see
The Author of his Misery,
Provided to his Ease he found
That such Restraint would Cure his Wound:

458

But finding that an absent Life
From her he wish'd to make his Wife,
Did rather aggravate than tame
His unextinguishable Flame;
So that he grew downright distracted,
And car'd not what he said or acted;
But in the absence of the Fair
Marcella, whom he lov'd so dear,
Gave way to the impetuous Tease
Of groundless Fears and Jealousies,
Arising only from his Passion,
Working on's wild Imagination,
Which furnish'd his disorder'd Wits
With Idle Whimsies and Conceits:
Alledging, Whatsoe'er his Friend
In those distracted Fits had pen'd,
Could by no means a lessening be
To Fair Marcella's Chastity:
For tho' she was a Cruel Creature,
To exercise so much ill Nature,

459

Yet was her Character unblotted,
And her strict Modesty unspotted,
That none could justly e'er arraign
Her Carriage or her Vertue stain,
No Envy ever touch her Honour,
Or fix the least reproach upon her,
But what was false, except in case,
Of her disdainful Haughtiness,
A Fault the giddy World might blame,
But not reflect on to her Shame;
For should the Beauteous Dame be bound,
To cure all those her Graces wound,
Then all that Love might claim the Woman,
And Gratitude must make her Common.

Vivaldo being thus confuted,
The Point no further was disputed;
And having a desire to read
Some other Poems of the Dead,
Was op'ning of a second Sheet
Of Verse which Chrisostome had writ:

460

But was prevented by the sight
Of a Fair Nymph Divinely bright,
Who with a sweet, but awful Look,
Appear'd upon the rising Rock,
Dazling the Eyes of all the Croud,
With e'ery Glance she downward throw'd.
Those who before had never seen
Her Beauteous Face, and Princely Mein,
Seem'd frighted at the Glorious Vision,
And took her for an Apparition,
Descended from her Heavenly Home,
To Mourn the Fate of Chrisostome,
And to illustrate, or to see
The Funeral Solemnity;
For Gods sometimes descend to show
Their Love to Humane Race below.

Others, who knew her Beauteous Face,
Cry'd out, Behold the Cruel Lass,
Yonder Marcella stands, she's come
To triumph o'er her Lover's Tomb,

461

And Glory to the last degree
In her profound Severity:
Yet all with Admiration view'd
Her matchless Beauty as she stood,
And gaz'd with Pleasure and Surprize
Upon her bright, but killing Eyes,
And greatly honour'd and rever'd
The dang'rous Light'ning that they fear'd:
But Ambrose, soon as he espy'd
Marcella on the Quarry, cry'd,
‘Why shew'st thou here thy Charming Face,
‘Thou Basilisk of Humane Race;
‘Com'st thou to triumph o'er the Dead,
‘And cause his Wounds afresh to bleed,
‘As murder'd Wretches do, when e'er
‘Their Ruffians near the Corps appear;
‘Or art thou come to glut thy Eye
‘With this Ignoble Victory
‘And trample on that Gen'rous Clay,
‘That lov'd Thee when Alive and Gay:

462

‘As Tarquin's base ungrateful Daughter
‘Did on the Corps of him that got her.
‘Tell us thou bright, but cruel Fair,
‘What mak'st Thee stand in triumph there,
‘And what thou want'st, that since our Friend,
‘Ador'd thy Beauty to his End,
‘Thy present Will may be obey'd
‘By us now Chrisostome is Dead.

The Fair Marcella then reply'd,
No black Ingratitude or Pride,
No cruel Scorn, or Ends so base,
Have brought me to this fatal Place;
I come unstain'd with such Offence,
To clear my injur'd Innocence,
And shew th' Injustice and the Wrongs
I suffer from their Envious Tongues,
Who charge the Follies and the Bane
Of Chrysostome on my Disdain.
I therefore beg your kind attention
To what I am about to mention;

463

And should I chance to give Offence,
For want of artful Eloquence,
I hope my Friends you'll not upbraid
The Weakness of a Rural Maid.

By this time she had charm'd the Croud
So far, that all cry'd out aloud,
Let none oppose or Silence break,
But hear the Fair Marcella speak.
Then in a sweat melodious Tone,
The lovely Tyrant thus went on.
Suppose kind Heaven, as you say,
Has made me Beautiful and Gay,
And that the Graces I possess,
Force you to Love me to excess,
In spight of all the Means and Arts
You practise to secure your Hearts:
And you that feel the painful Wound,
Conceive in Gratitude I'm bound
All suitable Returns to shew,
And bear the like Esteem for you,

464

Which in my judgment cannot be
Consistent with true Modesty:
For grant by numbers I'm admir'd,
Courted, Belov'd, and much Desir'd,
And all are equally at strife,
Who shall obtain me for a Wife,
The right is still in me to love,
And chuse the Man I most approve;
Therefore should one alone be bless'd,
I must be Cruel to the rest:
For if I cast my Smiles on more,
I should an odious Name incur;
And since I justly may refuse
All others, but the Man I chuse,
And those I disappoint may be
As Meritorious full as he,
By the same justice I may shun
All Courtship, and deny that one,
And if I please, still Mistress be
Of my own Virgin Liberty:

465

Therefore as I preserve my Charms
Alone for Death's cold Icy Arms,
The Fault is yours to Love in vain,
Not mine, to disregard your Pain.

Besides, suppose your Eyes can see
A thousand winning Gifts in me,
That blow up such an Am'rous Rage
The strictest Prudence can't asswage;
And I no equal Graces find
In you to move me to be kind,
Must I, of many Charms possess'd,
Love him with no Inducements bless'd,
And sacrifice so bright a Gem
To him that merits no Esteem,
Only because he pines for that,
Which is too lofty to come at,
And calls it Cruelty to starve
For want of what he don't deserve?

Nay further, Should a Man possess
The greatest Gifts of Humane Race,

466

And should he have a Passion for me,
So great as even to adore me,
That does not give him yet a claim
To me, nor can he justly blame
My Cruelty, or say I use him
Ingratefully, if I refuse him;
For tho' he's handsome in your Eyes,
In mine he may seem otherwise,
And e'ery Grace appear to me
Conceited stiff Formality.
Some in the Moon that shines so bright,
Can behold Spots by strength of Sight,
Whilst she appears to weaker Eyes,
Clear and unblemish'd as she flies;
Why therefore may not I discover
Distastful Failings in a Lover,
Whose Shape and Temper may be thought
By you to be without a Fau't?

Besides, Suppose he cannot move
My Virgin Innocence to Love,

467

And he declares he can't forbear
To Love, because he thinks me Fair;
Though his Accomplishments are great,
Yet still with me they're not of weight,
Why then must I, to give him Ease,
Do that which does my self displease,
And change this happy Maiden Life,
To be a sad Repenting Wife?

But tell me, Shepherds, I beseech ye,
Since you affirm my Charms betwitch ye,
Whether if Heav'n had made me Homely,
Instead of Amiable and Comely,
You could have lov'd so greatly then,
As to have fear'd my cold Disdain,
And for my sake those Wounds endur'd,
Which now you're forc'd to bear uncur'd?
Or had I lov'd the handsom'st Swain
That ever grac'd our Neighb'ring Plain,
Could I have blam'd his cross Behaviour,
If thought unworthy of his Favour?

468

Or had I been despis'd by all,
Who here attend this Funeral,
And ne'er regarded been by those
Who now disquiet their Repose,
Could I with justice have reprov'd
Your Pride, because you had not lov'd?

Why then, since Heav'n has made me Fair,
Should you condemn my prudent Care,
To keep my Virgin Breast secure
From those Love Torments you endure?
Not of your Choice you all agree,
But forc'd to't by necessity;
Then why should I regard a Flame
You'd fly, could you avoid the same?

Besides, Suppose, as you affirm,
My charming Looks have done you harm,
'Tis your own Fault, you hurt your Sight
By too long gazing on the Light:
Those whom my Beauty has aggriev'd,
My Words have always undeceiv'd.

469

When e'er they first made known their Passion,
I fled from their Solicitation,
Answering at once expresly plain,
That all Efforts would be in vain.
The same Repulse I frankly gave
To him you're following to his Grave;
Nor did I ever yield the least
Encouragement to be Address'd
By any Person, or endeavour
By free or promising Behaviour,
To pre-possess him of my Favour;
But always from their Love withdrew,
And hid my Person from their view,
In hopes my absence might appease
Their early Passions by degrees:
Why therefore do you charge on me,
Or my ingrateful Cruelty,
The Painful Suff'rings, and the End
Of your belov'd unhappy Friend;

470

Since in that Place that must become,
The Grave of Gen'rous Chrisostome;
When first he let me know his Pain,
I told him that he su'd in vain,
Entreated him to check his Passion,
And wave all further application;
Alledging, I had vow'd to lead
A chaste and single Life till Dead,
And that the Grave alone should be,
The 'Spouse of my Virginity?
If therefore he would still persist
In Love, when he was thus dismiss'd,
Why should I suffer in my Fame,
For thwarting his unruly Flame,
And for his head-strong Indiscretion
Be injur'd in my Reputation,
Since his own Rashness caus'd his Pain,
And Obstinacy work'd his Bane?

I therefore beg for Time to come,
That for the sake of Chrisostome,

471

I may have Leave to range the Plain,
Unthought of and unview'd by Men,
That none hereafter may molest
The happy Quiet of my Breast,
Or run the hazzard of his own,
By storming what can ne'er be won;
For since the Charms that I enjoy
Do others Peace and Ease destroy,
To Heav'n I'll dedicate the same,
And live unseen a Pious Dame,
Till frozen Death shall reap the Spoils
Of all my wither'd Virgin Smiles,
And Senseless Earth alone embrace
This comely Shape and handsome Face.

Thus ending what she had to say,
She vanish'd, like a Ghost, away,
Leaping at once into a Wood
Which just behind the Quarry stood,
Leaving the Croud so charm'd and fir'd
With what they'd seen, and what they'd heard,

That some more smitten than the rest,
Believing all her Vows a Jest,
Were for pursuing the Fair Dame,
And hunting down the lovely Game,
Which caus'd Don Quixote in a Passion,
To make the following Proclamation.

Let no rash Person present here,
Gentle or Simple, Prince or Peer,
Knight, 'Squire, Gentleman or Yeoman,
Priest, Scholar, Shepherd, Swain or Plowman,
Presume to follow her that spoke
So like an Angel on the Rock,
Under the Penalty or Pain
Of being soundly bang'd or slain:
For I am bound by Nature's Laws
To vindicate that Virgin's Cause,
And ready am with this right Arm
To Combate all that mean her Harm.

These Threat'nings made 'em change their base
Design, and stop'd the Lover's Chase,
So that they hung their Ears and staid
To see th' Interment of the Dead,
Which being finish'd as it shou'd be,
With all the decent Rites that cou'd be,
And the Grave strew'd by weeping Friends
With fragrant Flowers and with Greens,
The mournful Shepherds went their ways,
Some loudly setting forth the Praise
O'th' Dead, whilst other Swains display'd
The Wit and Beauty of the Maid,
Who had so won Don Quixote's Favour,
By her Speech, Presence, and Behaviour,
That he resolv'd to ride in quest
Of this new Empress of his Breast,
To manifest his great Affection
By offering her his kind Protection;

While Ambrose to bemoan his loss,
Sat down upon a Bank of Moss,
And for the Tomb he did intend
To build in Mem'ry of his Friend,
Penn'd, as he musing sat alone,
This Epitaph to grace the Stone.

Here lies Interr'd the best of Swains,
Whom scornful Beauty would not save
To be an Honour to the Plains,
But sent him to enrich the Grave.

Here first the Virgin gave the Wound,
Here first the Swain for Cure apply'd;
And for his Grave this Spot of Ground
He chose where she his Suit deny'd.

Fly from Marcella's killing Eyes,
For she that could be so unkind
To Chrisostome, may well despise
The Pow'r of Love and all Mankind.

Thus Beauty, when reserv'd, we find
Destroys for want of being kind,
And when she's Wanton, Free and Gay,
She kills as oft the other way:
Therefore when e'er such Stars appear,
Enjoy a Glimpse, but come not near.

FINIS.

CANTO XXV.

Don Quixote's Stone-Horse unawares
Makes Love to some Galician Mares:
Their Owners skulking in the Pasture
Drub Sancho, Rozinant, and Master.

The whole Attendance having paid
Their Friendly Duties to the Dead,
Don Quixote bowing low to shew
His Breeding, bid the Crowd adieu:

Spurring his Skelitonian Horse,
With hungry Sancho at his Arse,
Into the Wood, in hopes to find
Marcella, who was fled like Wind.
Two tedious Hours they rang'd about
Thro' thorny Shrubs to seek her out;
Whilst stubborn Boughs provok'd their Faces
To sudden Grins and sour Grimaces;
At length quite hopeless of Success,
They quitted their uneasy Chace,
And for the verdant Meadows chang'd
The Wood where they in vain had rang'd:
Now mounting Skylarks strain'd their Throats,
And charm'd their Ears with chearful Notes;
Whilst flowing Riv'lets of Delight,
And blooming Daisies blest their sight.
These rural Pleasures so invited
The Knight to walk, that both alighted,
The better to escape the Heat
Oth' Day, which now was very great,

Leaving at large both Horse and Ass
To feast their empty Guts with Grass,
Whilst their two Riders spread their Wallet,
That each might gratify their Pallat;
Who without diff'rence on the Ground
Fed nimbly on the Scraps they found;
As if short Commons made the Master
And Man strive who should eat the faster;
For those, who compliment o'er Plenty,
No Manners heed when Food is scanty.

In the same Meadow where the Don
And Sancho feasted thus upon
Brown Crusts, dry'd Acorns, mouldy Cheese,
And other Dainties, such as these,
Some Carriers coming from Yanguesia,
A Town i'th' Province of Galicia,
Had turn'd in sev'ral Mares the Night
Before to cool and take a Bite,
That when refresh'd, they might proceed
With more Alacrity and Speed:

But Sancho, who for Years had known
Poor Rozinante Skin and Bone,
Believ'd him from his Age to be
A Horse of that Sobriety,
That no young filly's Charms could move
His Vertue to the thoughts of Love,
Had therefore granted him the Favour,
Of trusting to his good Behaviour,
Not dreaming Vice cou'd be prevailing
In such a Brute so old and ailing:
But Lust alas! we often find
In Age will leave a Space behind;
Nor was poor Rozinant without
A fatal Itch to have a Bout;
For he no sooner smelt the Mares,
But bolt upright he prick'd his Ears,
And neighing limp'd along the Grass,
Like crippl'd Leacher to a Lass,
Making in vain a wondrous pother,
Attempting one and then another;

But the poor Mares who had more Mind
To graze in Peace than to be kind,
Saluted their Gallant so coursly,
And kick'd him with their Heels so fiercely,
That in a trice they broke his Girts,
And gave him many Maims and Hurts,
Disrob'd him of his ancient Saddle,
And tore the Bridle off his Noddle;
So that poor Rozinant was forc'd,
For fear of coming by the worst,
To, Bully like, revenge their striking,
By turning Courtship into Kicking;
Which when the Carriers did espy,
Who lay beneath a Hedge hard by,
They ran with all the speed they cou'd
With Pack-staves made of knotty Wood,
And did with such ill-natur'd Plenty
Bedrub the Hide of Rozinante,
That he soon sunk amidst his Foes,
Beneath the Rigour of their Blows.

The Knight and Sancho much enrag'd
To see poor Rozi thus engag'd,
Ran tow'rds him with impatient Hast
To Rescue the assaulted Beast;
The Don not thinking it amiss
To give the following Advice.

Friend Sancho, I perceive (quoth he)
That these can no Knight Errants be,
But a meer worthless Scoundrel Herd,
Who ne'er were honour'd by the Sword;
Therefore according to the Law
Of Arms thou'st Liberty to draw,
And to revenge with all thy Force
The wrong they've done unto my Horse.

‘Revenge! reply'd the 'Squire, Egad,
‘Your Worship talks like one that's mad;
‘Why don't you see at least a Score
‘Of swanking Loobies, if not more,
‘Young lusty Rascals brisk and youthful,
‘Able to eat us at a Mouthful;

‘And would you have us two such Fools
‘To stand against their Staves and Poles.

I tell thee Sancho (quoth the Knight)
I'm worth two score my self in Fight:
Then brandishing his trusty Sword,
Fell on without another Word,
And laid about him in a Rage,
Backstroak and Forstroak, Point and Edge:
Sancho encourag'd by his Master,
Beyond the Fear of Bruise or Plaister,
At length drew out his snarling Blade,
And when once enter'd fought like mad.
Don Quixote, who was Fire and Tow,
At first gave one so smart a Blow,
Which cut so terrible a Gash
Thro' leathern Doublet in his Flesh,
That the sad sight provok'd the Carriers
To shew themselves such desp'rate Warriers,
That now each fought like any Turk,
Striking as Anchor-Smiths at work;

All beating in their turns upon
The Anvil-Helmet of the Don,
Who in the Centre hacking stood
Like somewhat more than Flesh and Blood,
'Till drove by mortal Thumps, that crown'd
His Head, Knee-deep into the Ground,
And then at Rozinante's Tail
The Valiant Hero fainting fell;
Poor Sancho tumbling next his Master,
Beneath the very same Disaster:
Thus Odds we see, that beat the Devil,
Must conquer Mortals when they cavil.

The Clowns, not knowing but their Blows
Had kill'd instead of stunn'd their Foes,
Took up their Mares like prudent Loobies,
And fled for Fear of Coram Nobis,
Leaving their Victims cover'd over
With Grass, well drubb'd, to die in Clover.
No sooner were the Carriers gone
But Sancho, breathing forth a Groan,

Recover'd strength enough to speak,
Tho' sadly batter'd, sore and weak;
And turning tow'rds the feeble Knight,
Who also lay in woful plight,
He slowly rais'd his broken Head,
And thus unto his Master said:

A Murrain take these damn'd Revenges,
My Bones are all knock'd off the Hinges,
How fares your Worship's Neck and Shoulders!
I doubt we're both but crippl'd Soldiers.
Ah that we had but now a Draught
Of that same fullsome, you know what,
That would glue Knights like Joiners Boards,
When cut asunder with their Swords.

‘I wish we had, reply'd the Don
‘To Sancho, in a doleful Tone;
‘However we'll ha' some at Night:
‘A Dose or two will set us right.

In troth (quoth Sancho) I'm afraid,
By that time we shall both be dead:

As for my part I do affirm
I scarce can stir one Leg or Arm;
And as for both my Shoulders, Oh!
They keep Account of every Blow,
And have them tally'd down in Bloches,
As Bakers score their Bread by Noches.

‘I own, quoth Quixote, thro' my Steel
‘I'm somewhat bruis'd from Head to Heel,
‘And cannot readily foresee
‘The Date of our Recovery:
‘I must confess these Drubs are wholly
‘Owing to my o'erhasty Folly,
‘And but a Punishment that's due
‘To me, because I rashly drew
‘My Sword on such a Scoundrel Crew:
‘For he that's Knighted ought to fight
‘With none but him that is a Knight;
‘Therefore for time to come I pray,
‘Observe, Friend Sancho, what I say,

‘Which is, if e'er we meet again
‘With such a Mob in Road or Lane,
‘That 'tis your Bus'ness to chastise
‘Such base and worthless Enemies,
‘And beat 'em as your self thinks fit,
‘'Till you subdue, and they submit;
‘For know that 'tis against the Law
‘Of Chivalry for me to draw,
‘Nor will I ever more debase
‘My Honour in so vile a Case,
‘But wholly leave, as 'tis your Due,
‘Such low Adventures unto you:
‘But if a Knight should interpose,
‘Or give Assistance to thy Foes,
‘Then will I draw my Sword, and lend thee
‘My utmost Vigour to defend thee.

Thank you good Sir, reply'd the 'Squire,
Fight not 'till I your Aid desire,
And you may take your final Farewel
Of Squabble, Combat, and of Quarrel;

For I shall never more delight in
This damn'd Ribroasting way of Fighting,
But do with all my Heart forgive
The best and worst of men that live;
Am Friends with all degrees of Warriers,
From doubty Knights to plaguy Carriers.

‘Thou silly Wretch, replies the Don,
‘Suppose thou should'st possess a Throne,
‘As I intend e'erlong thou shalt,
‘Unless thy own ignoble Fault,
‘How could'st thou reign as Sov'reign Lord,
‘And be averse to draw thy Sword?
‘Kings must be Tyrants, and chastise
‘Their stiff-neck'd murm'ring Enemies:
‘Mercy in Monarchs is a Failure,
‘That's always deem'd the want of Valour;
‘And if thy Subjects once shou'd find,
‘Thou'rt peaceful, lenetive and kind,
‘They'l teaze thee, slight thee, grow upon thee,
‘And plague thee till they'v quite undon thee;

‘Besides no Prince in my Opinion
‘Can e'er be fix'd in his Dominion,
‘'Till by destroying some of those
‘His Policy marks out as Foes;
‘He makes the slavish Crowd approve
‘His Reign thro' Fear as well as Love:
‘Therefore if thou a Crown wou'dst wear,
‘I'd have thee learn to be severe;
‘For Cruelty in Men of might
‘Is Justice: What is just is right.

Quoth Sancho, make me but a King,
You'll find me quite another thing.
I've made a Thousand Sheep obey;
And what are Subjects more than they?
Keep 'em but poor, with Projects fool 'em,
And that's the only way to rule 'em.
But good Sir, let's defer this matter,
'Till we are more at Ease herea'ter,
We've greater need in our Condition
Of a good Surgeon or Physician,
Than a long-winded Politician.

Therefore pray let us rise and handle
Our Legs, and try if we can stand well,
That with our Help we may befriend
Your Worship's Horse that lyes behind,
And groans so terribly, poor Jade,
As if he grunted for our Aid;
Tho' he deserves no Pity neither,
Because his Lewdness brought us hither,
And brought our thin and tender Hides
To all this basting. Oh my Sides.

‘Quoth Quixote, 'tis alas no more,
‘Than many Knights have felt before.
‘Were I the first that any Rabble
‘Had ever drub'd in such a Squabble,
‘No Remedy would I have sought,
‘But dy'd with Grief upon the Spot,
‘Rather than I'd have thus incurr'd
‘The odious Shame of so absurd
‘A drubbing, that ignoble Word.

Since Drubs, quoth Sancho, you agree,
Are oft the Vails of Errantry,

I beg you would inform me whether
They come by chance like Rainy Weather,
Or that you fall upon these Ills,
As constant as you do your Meals:
For I'm perswaded that our Meeting
With such another woful Beating
Will spoil your Worship's Trade of Knighting,
And give us both enough of fighting;
Fit each to be an haulting Brother
Of some lame Hospital or other.

‘'Tis true, reply'd the Don, I know
‘We Knights must meet with many a Blow,
‘And daily face a thousand Dangers,
‘To which the dastard World are strangers;
‘What then, to recompense our Scars,
‘We oft win Kingdoms unawares,
‘And by meer chance to ease our Bones
‘Step into downy Beds and Thrones,
‘Hug beauteous Queens, and bear Command
‘O'er mighty Tracks of fertile Land:

‘What Mortal then would live at Ease,
‘But scuffle for such Joys as these?
‘What signifies a little beating,
‘A poor mischance not worth repeating?
‘Amadis bore much more than us
‘From the Inchanter Arcalaus,
‘Who in his Court-yard ty'd his Rump
‘With hempen Halter to a Stump,
‘And gave the Knight two hundred Stripes
‘Athwart his Shoulders and his Hips
‘With double Rein of Horse's Bridle,
‘That e'ery stroke girt round his Middle:
‘Nor did the Knight o'th' Sun escape
‘A far more dangerous Mishap,
‘When he was taken in a Trap,
‘And forc'd from thence into a Steep
‘And loathsome Dungeon dark and deep,
‘Where first they bound him fast, and a'ter
‘Gave him a Clyster of Snow-water,

‘With Flints and Pebbles beat to Powder,
‘To make the Champion roar the louder,
‘Which must have brought him to his End,
‘Had no Magician stood his Friend:
‘Drubs therefore are but bites of Fleas,
‘Compar'd to Hardships such as these;
‘Besides remember this from me,
‘The ancient Laws of Chivalry
‘Declare, that if a Scoundrel Fool
‘Should strike a Knight with working Tool,
‘His Knighthood shall no Honour lose
‘By such presumptive Blow or Blows;
‘So that if Botcher with his Yard
‘Should rudely wipe me o'er the Beard,
‘Or Cobler with his Last or Strap
‘Affront me with a Knock or Slap,
‘The Laws of Arms will not admit
‘That I am cudgell'd, tho' I'm beat:
‘Therefore in this our present Case,
‘Tho' bruis'd, we've suffer'd no Disgrace,

‘Because the Carriers Staves and Poles
‘Are known to be their working Tools.

In troth, quoth Sancho, to be plain,
I'm more concern'd about the Pain,
Than whether Knocks and Thumps we've got
Are to our Honour any Blot;
Let Packstuff be a Tool or no,
I'm sure 'twill give a woundy Blow:
Had I been cudgell'd o'er and o'er,
My Sides could not have been more sore,
And tho' these ill-condition'd Drubs
By Tools you say, but I say Clubs,
Are to our Honour no great Blemish,
I'm sure they've made me cursed lamish,
That my poor Limbs I dare to say
Will feel 'em to my dying Day.

‘No more of this reply'd the Knight,
‘A little time will set thee right;
‘Example take, and make like me
‘A Vertue of Necessity:

‘Let's see how Rozinant has far'd,
‘We ought to shew him some Regard,
‘Since 'twas his Destiny to enter
‘The first upon this rash Adventure.

Pox take him for his pains, reply'd
The 'Squire, the Devil brush his Hide;
'Twas his old dangling vitious Bauble
That brought us into all this Trouble:
Hadst thou long since been gelt a Colt,
I'm sure 'tad sav'd me many a Polt:
Stir up you Fumbler, what must you
Break loose, and turn Knight-Errant too:
The Mares and Carriers with their Blows
Have cool'd your Leach'ry, I suppose;
You have been finely cross'd in Love;
Let's see if you can stand or move:
We'd all been in a better Case,
Had you took Pattern by my Ass:
Yonder he stands poor harmless Drudge,
As grave and sober as a Judge.

‘Fortune, replies the Don, we find,
‘Still proves in all Disasters kind,
‘And in compassion to the Rubs
‘We've met with, sav'd thy Tit from Drubs,
‘Him with thy Leave will I bestride,
‘And to some Town or Castle ride;
‘For 'tis I'm certain no Disgrace
‘For a maim'd Knight to mount an Ass,
‘Since wise Silenus, who was made
‘Tutor to th' God Wine I've read,
‘Perform'd his Cavalcade upon
‘Just such another prick-ear'd Drone,
‘And rode in Triumph thro' the Streets
‘Oth' City with an hundred Gates,
‘Whilst gazing Crouds were got together,
‘Yet thought it no Dishonour neither:
‘Why then in this Extremity
‘Should I be more asham'd than he?

Quoth Sancho, could your Worship ride
Upright, as I suppose he did,

'Twould be no Scandal; but I fear
You're so belabour'd Front and Reer,
That I must lay you cross my Ass,
As Butchers carry Calves from Grass,
Or as a Carrier mounts his Load,
On Pack-horse Pannel for the Road.

‘Pray, quoth the Knight, dear Sancho scatter
‘No further words about the matter:
‘Such gauling Similies I hate,
‘The Name of Carrier makes me sweat,
‘And causes both my Bones and Flesh
‘To feel their plaguy Drubs afresh;
‘Therefore, good Sancho, prithee mount
‘My batter'd Carcass on thy Runt,
‘That we may find some Castle out
‘To ease our Wounds, and quench our Drought;
‘For if we tarry here, the Night,
‘I find, will soon Eclipse the Light.

With that poor Sancho, who could scarce
Advance his Corps from off his Arse,

After he'd wish'd both Plague and Pox
On those that gave his Ribs such Knocks,
Made a hard shift with Back half broken
To rise as crooked as a Token;
So moving like a crippl'd Warrier,
At e'ery Step he curs'd a Carrier,
And santer'd double tow'rds his Ass,
To fetch the sober Brute from Grass;
Which when he'd done, the Knight he laid
Across the little passive Jade,
Who bray'd most dolefully to feel
Th' unusual Weight of so much Steel:
Next Sancho by his Kicks and Curses
Rais'd up the Mirrour of all Horses,
Who being stiff from Head to Breech,
As any old bed-ridden Witch;
And loth to part with such good Keeping,
Groan'd like a Bridewel-Bawd, when whipping;
However Sancho, by the Bridle,
Ty'd Rozi to his Tit's Bum-fiddle;

And leading Assin by the Halter,
Away they travell'd Helter Skelter,
In hopes to find the common Road,
Where publick Inns and Taverns stood;
Which in a little time the 'Squire
Discover'd to his Hearts Desire,
And looking forwards saw a Sign,
Which shew'd the House to be an Inn.
The Knight discording with his Vassal,
Affirm'd it was some famous Castle;
Whilst Sancho in a Passion swore
'Twas Inn or Tavern, and no more:
Thus Words and Oaths arose apace
About the Honour of the Place,
'Till Sancho came unto the Gate,
Before they'd ended the Debate,
Where in he turn'd with Ass and Knight,
All running out to see the Sight,
As if the 'Squire had usher'd in
Some foreign Monster to be seen.

Thus stubborn Men do often run
Into those mischiefs they might shun,
And straying wide from Reason's Rules,
Become a Jest to other Fools.

CANTO XXVI.

The Knight and Squire by Dame and Daughter
Plaister'd with Paper dipt in Water:
Their Lodging in a Cock-loft haunted
By Ladies, Hags and Moors inchanted.

The Host beholding of the Knight
Lye cross the Ass in woful Plight,
Enquir'd of Sancho, what Disaster
Unhapp'ly had befaln his Master?
Only a Tumble, quoth the 'Squire
From a steep Rock as high or high'r

Than any old Cathedral Steeple;
Enough to've made a Man a Cripple;
Yet tho' 'twas such an ugly Fall,
He 'as only numb'd himself, that's all.

The well-grown Hostess of the House
Standing at the Elbow of her Spouse,
Express'd a deep and Christian Sense
Of the poor Gentleman's mischance,
And b'ing tho' coarse, a tender Creature,
Of great Compassion and good Nature,
Assisted by her Spouse took care
To lead him to a wooden Chair,
That neither Cushion had nor Elbows,
About as easy as the Bilboes;
Then calling for her handy Daughter
To bring brown Paper and cold Water;
Betwixt them both to each Disaster
Th' apply'd the good old Country Plaister,
Such as my skilful Grannum uses
To broken Shins and Forehead Bruises:

Then by th' assistance of a cloudy
Astarian broadfac'd, one-ey'd Dowdy,
They carr'd his Worship up to Bed
In a wide Cock-loft over Head,
Where in one Corner upon Stools,
Spread with the Cov'ring of his Mules,
A raw-bon'd Carrier sweating lay,
Who was to rise by break of Day.
At t'other end some Tressels stood,
On which was laid four Planks of Wood,
And upon them a Bed of Flocks
Matted together like Elfe-Locks;
On which they laid a stubborn Pair
Of Sheets as rough as Cloth of Hair,
And over them an ancient Rug,
That harbour'd many a Louse and Bug:
This was the bedding for the Don
To rest his batter'd sides upon,
Where Vagrants did when drunk repose
Their drowsy Heads and stinking Toes.

No sooner was the Knight undrest,
And put into his place of Rest,
But with a greasy Balsam, made
For the gall'd Back of Carriers Jade,
They chaff'd his Shoulders where the Thumps
Had rais'd up such ill-favour'd Bumps
And Blotches, that the Hostess cry'd,
‘I doubt some Rogues have bang'd your Hide;
‘These Bruises ne'er could come by falling,
‘This must be downright Cudgel-mauling.

Indeed Forsooth, reply'd the 'Squire,
I ever scorn'd to be a Lyar;
You little think what Knobs and Nooks
Stand jutting out those ugly Rocks,
And e'ery such like plaguy Stone
Gave him a Thump in coming down,
So that his Crab-tree sides were knotted
By nothing but those Crags that jutted.

But by the way, pray ben't too free,
But use your Ointment sparingly,

That both our Backs may have their Due,
For my poor Hide wants Tallowing too.

‘Quoth she, have you too had a Knock
‘By tumbling headlong down a Rock;
‘I doubt hard Wood, instead of stones,
‘Has been bestow'd on both your Bones.

No, no, cries Sancho, you're not right,
I'm only crippl'd with the Fright
Of see'ng my kind good Master fall
From off so high a place, that's all.

‘Indeed, reply'd the Maiden she,
‘I know that such a thing may be;
‘For truly when I've only dream'd
‘Of falling, I aloud have scream'd,
‘And when I've wak'd have found my Head
‘And all my Bones so sore in Bed,
‘As if I'd made my self a Cripple,
‘By really tumbling from a Steeple.

Indeed, quoth Sancho to the Lass,
You've almost hit my very Case;

For tho' my Senses were, I vow,
As much awake as I am now,
Yet did I find each Limb and Joint
As sore as his whom you anoint.

‘Prithee, good Fellow, quoth the Maid,
‘What are thy Master's Name and Trade.

Since thou woud'st know, quoth Sancho Panca,
His Name's Don Quixote de la Mancha,
And for his Trade to tell you right,
He's what we call an Errant Knight.

‘What's that, I wonder, quoth the Maukin,
‘As she the Champion's Back was stroaking.

Quoth Sancho, thou'rt a foolish Creature
To understand the World no better;
Why a Knight-Errant's one of those,
That lives by War, and swallows Blows;
A Man that fights all Desperadoes,
And thrives the best by Bastinadoes,
That leaps from Hovels into Thrones
By Dint of Drubs, and broken Bones:

To day a poor and wretched Thing,
To morrow an Alcade, or King,
Who compliments his trusty 'Squire
With Kingdoms in the Moon or high'r,
And wealthy Islands God knows where.

‘How comes it then, quoth Female Spouse,
‘The punch-gut Ruler of the House,
‘That thou as yet hath no Command
‘O'er some great Town or wealthy Land,
‘Since you are one that waits upon
‘So brave and generous a Don?

Quoth Sancho, not so hasty neither,
We have not been a Month together,
Nor have we yet, alas, destroy'd
A Gyant since we've been abroad,
Or kill'd for Breakfast, or for Dinner,
One Dragon yet, as I'm a Sinner;
But if my Master does recover
Those Bruises you're anointing over,

And I do, as I hope I shall,
Escape both Crutch and Hospital,
I'll not take Spain, I do declare,
With all its Indies for my share.

The Knight, who'd listen'd in his Bed
To all the Dame and 'Squire had said,
Strain'd hard to raise himself upon
His painful Rump, and when he'd done,
In Language fine he gravely thus
Salutes the Dame, that homely Puss:

Bright Lady, thou enchanting Fair,
That reigns alone as Princess here,
I joy to think 'tis in my Pow'r
To honour this your Castle Tow'r:
Self-praise becomes no Man of Fame,
My 'Squire can tell you who I am:
Yet tho' my Deeds have spread my worth
Thro' all the Regions of the Earth,
I swear had not the Pow'rs above.
Enslav'd my Heart, and fix'd my Love,

I would have chose alone to be
Your Captive to Eternity.

The Dame, her Daughter, and the Maid
Amus'd at what his Worship said,
Scarce knew which way to turn their Eyes,
They were in such a deep Surprise,
All wondring what his Knightship meant
By such a thund'ring Complement:
However making him as good
A rural Answer as they cou'd,
The Dame and Daughter thought it best
To leave their Patient to his Rest,
Whilst the blind Strammel of a Maid
Sometime with Sancho Pancha staid,
To rub his batter'd Hide a little
With melted Kitchin-stuff and Spittle.

Now you must know the servile Dowdy,
That chaff'd the Bumps of Sancho's Body,
Had giv'n her word unto the Carrier,
Who if she prov'd had vow'd to marry her,

That she would bless his Arms that Night,
And entertain him with Delight,
Soon as the Family and Guest
Had all betak'n 'em to their Rest;
For she would ne'er refuse her Favours
To Rural Clowns of like Behaviours;
But always would be kind and free
To forward Louts as fond as she:
And the worst Jill, we know, may find
As bad a Jack that will be kind.

No sooner had poor Sancho's Hide
Been tallow'd round from side to side,
But his She-Surgeon, now to close
Her Kindness, wish'd him good Repose,
Leaving the 'Squire to ease his Bones
On Boards not softer much than Stones,
Having no Bedding but a Mat
Half eaten up by Mouse and Rat,
And o'er his penitential Bed
A Horse-cloth for a Quilt was laid;

Beneath which Covering he crept,
Where many a scabby Rogue had slept,
And left behind a frowzy stench,
Rank as a sweating red-hair'd Wench,
When in a sunny scorching Day
She's lab'ring hard at making Hay.

Alike thus Man and Master far'd,
Their Lodging very cool and hard;
Fleas skipping round them as they lay,
As thick as Grashoppers in May,
Forsaking now the Carriers Bed,
Where they had plentifully fed,
In hopes that Sancho and his Master
Might yield them more delicious Pasture:
Amidst these Blessings did they groan,
And eccho to each others Moan;
Endeav'ring both alike in vain
By sleep to mitigate their Pain;
But knotty Beds and nibbling Fleas
Deny'd their batter'd Members Ease.

At length the lateness of the Night
Call'd all to sleep that could enjoy't,
Whilst hooting Owls and crowing Cocks
Proclaim'd the Hour instead of Clocks;
So that as soon as Host and Guest
By Gapes and Shrugs were drove to Rest,
The Dowdy Maid, nam'd Maritornes,
Who had been us'd to Midnight Journies,
Thought it high time to now undress,
And steal into her Love's Embrace:
Accordingly with eager Hast
She unty'd the Girdle of her Wast;
Next pulling off her Grogram Gown,
Cross her Bed's feet she laid it down,
Then with quick Fingers drew apace
Thro' every Hole her Bodice-Lace,
And when she'd loos'd some puzzling Knots,
At once let fall her Petticoats;
Then sitting on her Bed for Ease,
She turn'd her shift up by degrees,
And staid a while to kill the Fleas.

The Knight, who all this time had lain
Awak'd, disturb'd by thought and Pain,
Among the other wild Conceits,
That crept into his crazy Wits,
He fancy'd that the beauteous Maid,
Who help'd t'anoint him in his Bed,
Must be the Daughter to be sure
Of the great Lord and Governour
O'th Castle, where they'd kindly found
Such healing Unguents for each Wound;
Conceiting farther, that the Lady
Was so in Love with him already,
That she would steal i'th' dark unto him
To comfort him, if not to woo him;
However he resolv'd in short
Dulcinea still should have his Heart;
And that the Lady, if she came,
Altho' so young and fair a Dame,
Should not prevail with him, or move
His Breast to falsify his Love,

Or tempt him to bestow upon her
One Favour that might stain his Honour.

Whilst Quixote soften'd the Extreams
Of Pain by such amuzing Dreams,
And lay expecting by his side
A Beauty, to the Gods ally'd,
Monoculus with horny Thumb
Had kill'd the Niblers of her Bum,
And clear'd her Smock and other Cloths
Of all her little nimble Foes,
Now thought it therefore time to move
On tip-toe softly to her Love.
Accordingly up-stairs she crept,
And light as any Fairy stept;
Yet the Don's Fancy having put
His list'ning Ears upon the Scout,
As she stole up, he chanc'd to hear
The crackling of a yielding Stair,
Which gave him notice to be ready
To wellcome the expected Lady.

Accordingly the plaister'd Knight
Upon his Crupper jump'd upright,
And stretching forth his Arm to guide
The Princess to his Cabbin-side,
He chanc'd to catch indecent Hold
Of Maritornes Marigold;
But soon perceiving his Mistake,
His Hand he modestly drew back,
And groaping higher, laid his Fist
Upon the Strumpets brawny Wrist,
By which he gently pull'd her nearer,
And begg'd her Pardon for his Error,
Obliging the salacious Jade
To seat her self upon his Bed,
Who durst not struggle much, for fear
Her Master or her Dame should hear,
And therefore was resolv'd to show
Good Humour 'till he let her go.

The Knight, who took her still to be
A beauteous Maid of high Degree,

Now thought her Smock (altho' as black,
And course as any Small-coal Sack)
Was of the finest Holland made,
The Seams with Bobbin-fin'ry laid;
And that her Hide (altho' as tough
As Norway Seal-skin, and as rough)
Was soft as Sattin, or as Down,
And sweet as Roses newly blown;
Her matted Hair, tho' coarse as Flocks,
He took for charming Golden Locks,
And her Glass Beads about her Wrist
For Oriental Pearl at least;
Believing that her sweaty Toes,
And Arm-pits, whence such steems arose,
Flow'd with rich Odours and Perfumes,
More sweet than Arromattick Gums.
Thus did the Champion by the strength
Of Fancy raise the Trull at length
In his Conceit to be as bright
I'th' Dark, as Venus in the Light;

Then clasping of the Dowdy close
He hug'd her Ear unto his Nose,
Where rancid Oil distill'd behind,
And thus he whisper'd out his Mind.

O thou most charming kind Temptation,
More fragrant than the sweet Carnation,
Soft as the Belly of a Snail,
And brighter than the Glow-worm's Tail;
Oh that I durst, or was but free
T'improve this Opportunity,
In paying to so dear a Creature
The warm Acknowledgments of Nature;
But I alas am riveted
By Wounds and Bruises to my Bed,
And to my Grief by spiteful chance
Am doom'd to present Impotence;
Besides to this unlucky Bar
Ill Fortune adds a greater far,
Which is the plighted Faith between
My self and Beauty's only Queen,

A certain Princess young and gay,
Whose Name is Fair Dulcinea,
Born at Toboso, she alone
Has made my Heart her Sov'reign Throne,
Where I have vow'd that she shall bear
The Rule, and reign unrivall'd there.

Did not these Obstacles confine me
To lose the Blessings you design me,
I should not be so dull to slight
The present Offers of Delight,
But with glad Arms soon open wide
My Bed, and hug you to my side.

Poor Maritornes vex'd in mind,
And sweating hot with Fear to find
Her Sack-cloth Smock, and frowzy Charms
Fast lock'd within a Strangers Arms,
And understanding not a Tittle
Of what he said, or very little,

Began to struggle when she found
The Knight was nothing else but Sound,
That she might quit the feeble Warrier,
For the more kind and able Carrier,
Who for some time awake had been,
And over-heard what pass'd between
His wish'd for Mistress and the Knight,
Who'd thus obstructed his Delight;
At first mistrusting that the Jade
Was sporting in his Neighbour's Bed;
But at length finding, as he lay,
By her Efforts to get away,
That from his Pleasures she was still
Detain'd by Force, against her Will,
He softly slid from out his Kennel,
And crept along, like new-whipp'd Spaniel,
To th' Bed where Don had kept the Dowdy,
'Till grown perverse and very moody;
Which her robust and angry Lover
No sooner plainly did discover,

But Bumkin much enrag'd to find
His Mate with-held against her Mind,
Doubl'd his Fist, and smote the Knight
Athwart his Jaws with all his Might,
Knocking him backwards in his Bed,
And laid the bleeding Don for dead;
Yet not content h'ad thus o'erthrown him,
He set his horny Feet upon him,
And trod his Puddings as he lay,
As if they'd been a Mow of Hay,
'Till the gross weight o'th' heavy Clown
Broke all the boarded Bedstead down,
Surprising with the noisy Thunder
The Host whose Lodging-room was under:
He started up amidst his Fright,
And of a suddain struck a Light;
With which bare-footed in his Shirt,
Bedung'd with Fleas, and black with Dirt,
His Hair all strutting round his Block
Like Feathers of a fighting Cock,

And in this Order he advanc'd
Upstairs to see what Devil danc'd,
Suspecting that his one-ey'd Jade
Some Midnight bawdy Prank had plaid,
And that the bold salacious Hussy
Had been among his Guest too busy.

But Maritornes over-hearing,
Amidst the Fray, her Master stirring,
And knowing such a Mid-night Hurry
Would raise his Passion to a Fury,
Finding that Sancho soundly slept,
The Sow into his Hog-sty crept,
Fancying 'twould prove her wisest Course
To lye close cover'd at his Arse:
No sooner was the Gypsy got
In this safe Harbour, as she thought,
In hopes to shun th' approaching Storm,
But up the Host came very warm,
And like a Tempest in hot Weather,
Lighten'd and Thunder'd close together;

Crying aloud, Where is this Wh*re,
This Brimstone who has made this stir,
I'm sure this Hurricane and Bustle
Are owing to this nasty Puzzle.

These Blusters happen'd to awake
The 'Squire, who feeling at his Back
A strange unweildy heavy Lump
Of something clinging to his Rump,
Whose Weight upon his Ribs had made him
Quite sick, and almost overlaid him,
Fearing the Night-Mare, or some Hag
Had chos'n him for their Hackney Nag,
To ride him thro' the misty Air
O'er Tow'rs and Steeples, God knows where:
These frightful Thoughts made Sancho lay
About him stoutly e'ery way,
Endeav'ring to dismount the Witch
He felt upon his Back and Breech,
'Till by hard Blows and Thumps unkind
He so provok'd the Hag behind,

That she return'd with Mutton Fist
Two scurvy Polts to one at least,
With her long Tallons scratch'd the 'Squire,
And maul'd him to her Heart's Desire:
Poor Sancho finding that the Blows
Came on so thick on Jaws and Nose,
On his But-end got bolt upright,
The better to maintain the Fight,
Not knowing whether he withstood
Witch, Devil, Imp, or Flesh and Blood;
Howe'er he both his Hands imploy'd,
And thump'd and thrash'd on e'ery side,
His Female Foe still laying on
As boldly as an Amazon,
Now clawing like a Stoat or Ferret,
Then back'd her Scratches with a Wherret,
Whilst Sancho tore her Canvas Smock
From off her rusty Bacon Back,
And left her Turm'rick Puddings bare,
Expos'd to th' danger of the War.

No sooner did the Carrier see
His Mistress in such Jeopardy,
But he forsook the Knight to lend
His Aid to his obliging Friend,
And scuffling bravely for his Lass,
Tore Sancho's Beard half off his Face,
And left him scarce a Hair to shew
Where his tremendous Whiskers grew.

The Master, finding that his Jade
Had all this Strife and Mischief made,
Now maul'd poor Maritornes more
Than the stout 'Squire had done before;
But the Trull, fearing no Disaster,
Turn'd all her Force against her Master,
That now the War went briskly round,
No Quarter giv'n, or Mercy found;
At length as Blows were dealt about,
The Light was by mischance put out,
Which prov'd no small Advantage to
Th' undaunted Strammel of a Shrew,

Who now assur'd that none could see
The Bugbear of Immodesty,
Bounc'd from the Cabbin which was Sancho's,
And fought stark naked on her ten Toes,
Exerting now her Female-strength
With Tooth and Tallon, 'till at length
With her bold Herculean Blows
Upon her Master's Mouth and Nose,
That finding her so fierce and froward,
He roar'd out Murder, like a Coward.

This horrid Out-cry reach'd the Ear
Of a chance Guest, an Officer,
A bold thief-taking Desperado,
Of th' old Broth'rhood of Toledo,
Whose Office was to scout about,
To ferret Rogues and Robbers out;
No sooner did this wakeful Spy
Hear the allarming doleful Cry,
But up he jump'd in the Surprise,
Having no Light but from the Skies,

And taking only in his Hand
A short tip'd Truncheon to command
The Peace, which all Men knew to be
A Badge of his Authority,
Blund'ring 'ith' Dark, he groap'd his way
Into the Loft, amidst the Fray,
B'ing guided thither by the Noise,
And Out-cry of his Landlord's Voice.
Just as he enter'd at the Door
He Cry'd, By Vertue of my Power,
I charge ye in a word to cease
This Clutter, and to keep the Peace;
Woe be to him that further dare
To strike a Blow whilst I am here;
Then groaping round without a Light,
He clap'd his Hand upon the Knight,
And catching hold his Beard, he said,
Arise, for I command thy Aid;
But finding that he did not stir,
And his Face bloody wet all o'er,

As rightly he conceiv'd, because
'Twas cold and clammy round his Jaws,
From whence he rationally guest
Him dead, and murder'd by the rest:
With that he ran down in a Hurry,
And cry'd out Murder, like a Fury,
Bawling as loud as he could gape,
Keep fast the Gates, that none escape;
Arise, assist me, I'm afraid
Here's a Man murder'd in his Bed.

This dreadful Cry, at Mid of Night,
I'th' dark, without a Spark of Light,
Soon made the fiery Boxers start,
And caus'd the Combatants to part;
The Landlord sneaking down the Stairs
To's Wife with sculptur'd Nose and Ears;
The Wench stole softly to her Hut,
Without a Rag to hide her Scut;
The Carrier to his Pannels crept,
And snoaring lay, as if he slept,

Leaving the Officer much frighted,
Holl'wing to get his Candle lighted.

Those troubl'd with a vitious Gust,
Who break their Rest to ease their Lust,
Are oft obstructed and detected
By strange Misfortunes unexpected.

CANTO XXVII.

The Knight, b'ing very sore within,
Prepares his Balsam, bilks the Inn,
And leaves poor Sancho to be toss'd
In Blanket by the Guest and Host.

The Knight now waking from his Trance
With bloody Nose and aking Brains,
Thus call'd, as loud as he was able,
In a Tone soft and lamentable;

‘Sancho, Friend Sancho, prithee speak,
‘Thou'rt well perhaps, but I am weak;
‘Sancho, how canst thou sleep, alas,
‘So sound in this inchanted Place!

Sleep! with a Pox, reply'd the 'Squire,
Some Hags have given me my Hire,
And 'cause I would not let 'em ride me,
Have claw'd me 'till they've near destroy'd me.

‘Quoth Quixote, what thou say'st is right,
‘I've heard 'em revelling all Night;
‘Not only so, but felt the Force
‘Of their horn'd Hoofs and Claws that's worse.

Marry, quoth Sancho, so have I,
My Chops will prove I tell no Lye;
I've scarce a Tuft of Hair to shew,
Where my poor Beard or Whiskers grew,
Nor have their Tallons left me sight
Enough to know the Day from Night;
Nay Scrats and Bumps, as well as Blindness,
Will bear true witness of their Kindness.

‘Quoth Quixote, we may tak't for granted
‘'Tis an old Castle that's inchanted,
‘Where some revengeful old Magician
‘Has brought us into this Condition;
‘For if thou'lt swear upon thy Faith,
‘You'll keep it secret 'till my Death,
‘And ne'er divulge a Word 'till a'ter,
‘I'll freely tell thee all the Matter.

Ay, quoth the 'Squire, with all my Heart,
I'll swear to keep it 'till we part;
Nor do I care if't be to morrow;
For e'ery Day I fear, you borrow
Of Time, will prove my further Sorrow.

‘What have I done, reply'd the Don,
‘That thou would'st have me die so soon.

Nothing, quoth Sancho, but I hate
To keep new Secrets in my Pate,
Struggling for Vent, 'till out of Date;
Yet for this once I will conceal
What you've the Pleasure to reveal.

‘Then, quoth the Don, will I divulge
‘The only Secret I indulge.
‘Last Night the Daughter fair and dear
‘Of him, that rules this Castle here,
‘Approach'd me, shrouded in her Smock,
‘Her Hair dishrevell'd down her Back,
‘Whose Golden Locks and beauteous Face
‘Out-shone the Sun and all his Raies:
‘Surpriz'd, unwarily I caught
‘The Damsel, by I knew not what;
‘But finding I mistook my Hold,
‘I blush'd that I should prove so bold,
‘And to her tender Wrist convey'd
‘My Hand, and led her to my Bed,
‘Where she sat trembling, full of Fear,
‘And with kind Whispers charm'd my Ear,
‘Wishing I'd hug her to my side,
‘And use her like a blushing Bride.

I hope, quoth Sancho, that you granted
Those Favours, which the Lady wanted.

I'm sure I should have had the Grace
To've don't, had I been in your Place:
But some she-Devil, Witch, or Sprite,
Has been my Bed-fellow all Night.

‘No, reply'd Quixote, had she been a
‘Goddess, I'd not have wrong'd Dulcinea:
‘But Sancho, you must know whilst I
‘Did all these vertuous Sweets enjoy,
‘Some mighty Gyant in a Passion,
‘Amidst our am'rous Conversation,
‘With sturdy Fist, or Club of Oak,
‘Surpriz'd my Jaws with such a Stroke,
‘That backwards fell'd my dizzy Head,
‘And laid me sprawling in my Bed,
‘Then jump'd upon me with his Feet,
‘And trod my Guts with all his Weight,
‘'Till some did to my Mouth ascend,
‘And some pop out at t'other End,
‘Mean while they from my side convey'd,
‘By magick Spells, the beauteous Maid;

‘So that the Charms she does possess
‘Are guarded by some Sorceress,
‘And reserv'd only to delight
‘The Arms of some inchanted Knight.

Faith, quoth the 'Squire, I cannot fancy
You lost the Lass by Necromancy,
I'm rather apt to think in troth,
That you provok'd her by your Sloth,
And wronging of her Expectation,
Put the young Jade in such a Passion,
That thinking you an ill-bred Clown,
She with the Bed-staff knock'd you down,
Then trod your Belly, to amuse
The Toy you had not Sense to use.

‘No, quoth the Knight, you may rely on't,
‘Twas some inchanted Moor or Gyant,
‘That struck me, trampl'd and abus'd me,
‘The Lady she most kindly us'd me,
‘And had she tarry'd here 'till now,
‘For once I might have broke my Vow.

The Officer, who'd been so frighted,
Had got his Lamp by this time lighted,
And up he came half out of Breath,
To see who 'twas had suffer'd Death.

Sancho beholding such a Figure,
Whose Looks were full of Wrath and Rigour,
With a huge Napkin Night-cap round
His Temples like a Turbant bound.
Nouns Master, quoth the 'Squire, beware,
Here comes th' inchanted Moor I fear;
He looks as if he wanted further
Revenge, Lord keep us both from Murder.

‘No, quoth the Don by way of Answer,
‘This is, I'm sure, no Necromancer;
‘For they're invisible to Men,
‘And will not by our Eyes be seen.

That's strange, I very much admire
They'll not be seen, replies the 'Squire,
Since the confounded Blows they've dealt
Prove plainly that they will be felt.

Whilst they were arguing Pro and Con,
The stern-look'd Officer came on,
Amaz'd to hear two Persons mutter
So calmly after such a Clutter;
But finding Quixote's Face and Beard
With Blood and Snivel much besmear'd,
Near to his Nose he holds the Light,
And thus salutes the batter'd Knight.

I find it must be thee that bawl'd
Out Murder, for thou'rt sadly maul'd.
What Ruffian was it made thee bellow?
How is it with thee honest Fellow?

‘Fellow! reply'd the moody Don,
‘I am not yours, you sawcy Clown:
‘Is it your Breeding to salute
‘Knight-Errants thus, yo' unpolish'd Brute!

The Officer, who could not stand
To hear so coarse a Reprimand,
Especially from one that made
So poor a Figure in his Bed,

Let fly his lighted Lamp upon
The Forehead of the scornful Don,
Which once more stun'd him for a while,
And drown'd his Countenance in Oil,
Then slunk from out the Room i'th' dark,
And stood upon the Stairs to hark.

Nouns, quoth the 'Squire, what t'other Blow?
Was that th' inchanted Moor or no?
Let him be either Man or Devil,
His Compliments are damn'd uncivil.

‘I'm now convinc'd, replies the Knight,
‘I plainly saw him by the Light;
‘They will appear, and shew their Faces
‘Sometimes in extraord'nary Cases;
‘Yet 'twould be folly to resent
‘These Wrongs, we'd better be content,
‘Since they can in their proper Shape
‘Do hurt, then vanish and escape,
‘And for their Safety or their Ease
‘B' invisible, when e'er they please.

Right, quoth the 'Squire, for I have sworn
To bear all Wrongs without Return:
I ne'er reveng'd, I do declare it,
One Blow but I had twenty for it;
Therefore I never more shall take
Revenge, for Rozinante's sake.

‘But prithee, Sancho, quoth the Knight,
‘Arise, for now 'tis almost Light,
‘And beg the Governor to spare you
‘Some Wine, Salt, Oil, and dry'd Rosemary,
‘That we may make and take that Balsam,
‘Which once I told thee was so wholesome;
‘For I'm much wounded on the Brow,
‘With the Blow given me but now.

Sancho, whose manifold Disasters
Were full as painful as his Master's,
Got up as fast as aking Bones
Would let him rise, and down he runs,
Happ'ning to trip in his Carreer,
And fall against the Officer,

Who list'ning stood i'th' dark upon
The Stairs, to hear what Hurt he'd done.
Good Sir, quoth Sancho, let me see
Some Wine, Salt, Oil, and Rosemary,
To make a Med'cine for the best
Knight-Errant, that was e'er distrest,
Wh' above lyes welt'ring in his Gore,
Much wounded by th' inchanted Moor;
He that can vanish or appear,
Be here and there, and e'ery where,
And lurks unseen, as People say,
Within this Castle, Night and Day.

The Officer surpriz'd to hear
The rambling Nonsence of the 'Squire,
By's Talk could scarce determine whether
Madness or Wine, or both together,
Or that his Master's being wounded,
Had the poor Fellows Wits confounded:
However, since 'twas Peep of Day,
He thunder'd where the Landlord lay,

Telling him what poor Sancho wanted,
Which was, as soon as could be, granted.

Th' Ingredients being thus prepar'd,
The Knight arose, whose bloody Beard
And oily Face, with here a Smut
O'th' Lamp, and there a Bruise or Cut,
Made him appear to humane sight
More like a Devil, than a Knight;
However in his loose Attire
He limp'd unto the Kitchen-Fire,
And there secundum Artem made
His Drench, as if't had been his Trade,
Which then (a Viol being wanted)
Was into Earthen Jug decanted,
Repeating, as he pour'd, whole Clusters
Of Ave's, Creeds, and Pater-nosters,
Believing that his Pray'rs in Course
Must give the Med'cine greater Force.

The Balsam to his Worship's thinking
B'ing now in readiness for drinking,

He lifts the Jug unto his Nose,
And swallows down a handsom Dose,
Which truly did no sooner flow
Into the Kitchen fix'd below,
Where Nature cooks the Body's Food,
And parts the hurtful from the good,
But out it came in Squirts and Spouts,
Like Dung from out a Grass-horse Guts,
And made him now more sick and sore,
Than all his Drubs had done before,
Flinging him into such a Heat,
That oily Pearls and Drops of Sweat
Drip'd down from off his Face and Noddle,
Like Butter from a baisting Ladle,
So that for fear of further Harm
He begg'd he might be cover'd warm,
And be permitted by the Cook
To doze a while in Chimny-nook,
Where 'twixt the Med'cine and the Fire
He sweating slept to's Heart's Desire:

Which had by chance so good Effect
On his sore sides, that when he wak'd
He found himself so much befriended
By's Balsam, and so greatly mended,
That all astonish'd were to see
His wonderful Recovery.
Sancho half dead, observing what
A Miracle the Dose had wrought,
Implor'd his Master thro' his tender
Pity to grant him the Remainder,
Which prov'd in Quantity much more
Than what the Knight had drank before;
However with the Don's Consent,
Sancho, without much Compliment,
Whip'd up the Jug, and off it went.

But the poor 'Squire, who was not quite
So nice and squeamish as the Knight,
In his strong Stomach found no Motion
To vomit, but retain'd the Potion;

Which caus'd such inexpressive Pains
To rowl and fly from Guts to Brains,
That clammy Sweats and dreadful Groanings
Ended in Epileptick Swoonings.

‘Alas! poor Sancho, quoth the Don,
‘Thy illness is my Fault I own,
‘For this same Balsam, now I think on't,
‘Is sacred, none but Knights should drink on't;
‘Therefore thy Punishment is wholly
‘Owing to thy presumptuous Folly,
‘And mine, in letting thee abuse,
‘What Kings and Knights should only use.

A Murrain take it, quoth the 'Squire,
Oh sick at Heart, and hot as Fire!
I wish some wounded Champion had it,
Or that 'twas in his Guts that made it;
(Is this your Physick, with a Pox,
To cure a Man of Thumps and Knocks?)
Help me, good People, to some Bed,
Where I may ease my splitting Head,

And curse the Knight, who first apply'd
This Drench to cure a cudgell'd Hide.

No sooner had they led the 'Squire
To Bed according to's Desire,
But the Horse Med'cine, as he lay,
Stole out by Flirts the backward way,
Leaving a Nosegay 'mong the Cloths,
Not quite so sweet as Damask Rose;
However Sancho, after these
Exonorations, found much Ease;
Yet wanting strength was forc'd to lye,
And battle Hog like, in his Sty.

But Quixote, thoughtless of his Blows
Scorning inglorious Repose,
Was now impatient to pursue
Adventures fortunate and new,
Conceiving Idleness a Shame
To Knighthood, and a Bar to Fame,
He therefore thought it no Disgrace
To saddle both the Horse and Ass,

Since mighty Works, to th' World's Surprise,
From mean beginnings oft arise.

When this was done, he rais'd the 'Squire,
And help'd to clean him from his Mire,
Then clapp'd the puny shotten Looby
Upon his slothful horn-ear'd Hobby:
This done he nimbly mounts his Twist
Upon his own triumphant Beast,
And having seas'nably observ'd
A Javelin standing in the Yard,
Willing t'improve the lucky Chance,
He snatch'd the Weapon for a Lance,
Then calling for the Great Alcayd
O'th' Castle, thus his Worship said:

‘My kind Lord Governour, to whom
‘I'm highly bound for time to come,
‘By many Favours heap'd upon me,
‘And gen'rous Friendships you have done me,
‘I hope you'll candidly receive
‘The parting Thanks I humbly give,

‘For all that hospitable Bounty,
‘Which I'm unable to account t'ye;
‘But if you've any daring Foe,
‘Or Rival Knight, to whom you owe
‘The least Revenge, I'll undertake it,
‘And with this Weapon pink his Jacket,
‘Unless he instantly agrees
‘To ask your Pardon on his Knees.

Nouns, quoth the Host as hot as Pepper,
I want no Cut throat Understrapper;
I can revenge a Wrong, and fight
In my own Cause without a Knight:
I know not therefore, what is meant
By your long-winded Compliment;
Pay me your Reck'ning Sir, before
You stir, and I desire no more:
We that keep Inns don't give away
Our Wine, or yet our Oats and Hay.

‘How, quoth the Knight, is this an Inn,
‘I thought I'd in a Castle been,

‘Where any Knight, altho' a Stranger,
‘Might live cost free, at Rack and Manger.

No, no, replies the surly Host,
This is an Inn, the Sign and Post
Must shew you that, but you've a mind
To joke and banter me, I find.

‘If 'tis an Inn, replies the Knight,
‘It must be so, for right is right;
‘Yet all that I can further say,
‘Is that we Knights must never pay;
‘The old Erratick Law expresses
‘Direct Forbiddance in such Cases;
Saying, No Knight shall be allow'd
To handle Coin upon the Road;
He that presumes to pay his Shot,
Shall in his Scutcheon wear a Blot:
‘The Laws this Privilege secure
‘To us for t'hardships we endure,
‘A Freedom granted us in Lieu
‘Of the great Justice that we do,

‘In boldly rescuing the distress'd,
‘And righting all that are oppress'd.

What's this to me, replies the Host,
No Knight shall swagger at my Cost:
Don't banter me, Sir, you mistake me,
I'm not the Fool you mean to make me:
Teaze not my Ears, or fill my Skull
With Stories of a Cock and Bull,
I'll have my Reck'ning to the full.

‘Sirrah, quoth Quixote, thou'rt a Slave,
‘A Taplash Scoundrel, and a Knave.
Then brandishing his borrow'd Spear
To fright the Host from coming near,
Thoughtless of Sancho, spurs his Steed,
And thro' the Gate in Triumph rid,
Well pleas'd he had the Inn beguil'd,
And kept his Knighthood undefil'd.

Tho' Quixote thus had clear'd his way,
Poor Sancho was compel'd to stay,

His Ass not caring much to stir
From Stable-Door with Whip or Spur,
So that the Landlord, vex'd and mad,
Secur'd both Sancho and his Pad,
Raving and swearing Oaths most bloody,
He'd have his Reck'ning, marry wou'd he,
Or strip his Hide, and Fish and Eels
Lay him that Moment by the Heels.

Sancho enrag'd, to think the Knight
Should leave him in this woful Plight,
Began to storm, and be almost
As mad and fiery as the Host,
Swearing point blank he would not draw
His Purse, ‘for that the self same Law,
‘That freed the Master, freed the Man,
‘Ever since Knighthood first began;
‘Therefore he would not be the Fool
‘To break so old and good a Rule.

These Arguments encreas'd the Fire,
And rais'd the Landlord's Passion high'r,

That bitter Words and bullying Blusters
Were jabber'd at the 'Squire by Clusters,
Whilst his Knit Brows and stern Mustachoes
Look'd very threatning and audacious.

However Sancho fear'd 'em not,
And vow'd he would not pay a Groat,
‘Declaring he wou'd sooner lose
‘His Beard, or what was worse, his Nose,
‘Than he'd become the Scorn and Laughter
‘Of all his Brother 'Squires herea'ter,
‘For basely giving up the Rights
‘Of those that wait on Errant Knights.

But as ill Luck, that breeds Confusions,
And thwarts the bravest Resolutions,
Would have it, in the God-speed came
A Crew, that much improv'd the Game,
Young Pedlars, higling Boors, and Lacemen,
Who prov'd to Sancho very base Men;
For finding as the Case was stated,
Their Host was likely to be cheated,

The Knaves soon fram'd an arch Device,
And fetch'd a Blanket in a trice;
Then pulling Sancho from his Beast,
They forc'd him in to make a Jest;
Then taking Corner hold thereof,
They made th' unhappy 'Squire their Scoff,
Tumbling and tossing him about
So sadly e're they let him out,
That at both ends it purg'd him more,
Than the Knight's Balsam had before,
Poor Sancho bell'wing like a Cow,
Sometimes aloft, sometimes below,
'Till his loud Shrieks and piteous Cries
Did Quixote's distant Ears surprize,
Who was at first too apt to guess
Some Lady fair was in Distress;
But list'ning closer to the Noise,
Distinguish'd plain 'twas Sancho's Voice;
Then vowing Vengeance on the Host,
He back unto the Inn rid post,

But found the Gates close shut and barr'd,
And a strange Out-cry in the Yard,
He knock'd like mad, but all in vain,
For no Admission could he gain;
Then round the House in Passion rode
To find some Entrance if he cou'd,
Roaring and swearing all the way,
Like a strip'd Gamester after Play:
At length he came unto a Wall,
Not very low, nor very tall,
O'er which his Worship cast an Eye,
And did the stabbing wonder spy:
Most bitter Words the Don let fall,
And made Essays to scale the Wall,
But found himself too weak and sore
To quit his Saddle to get o'er;
So that the Knight inflam'd with Ire
Could give no Comfort to his 'Squire,
But cursing the invidious Crew,
And threatning what he could not do;

Which only made 'em add more Force,
And toss poor Sancho but the worse;
Who begg'd, and bawl'd, and cry'd, and swore,
And dung'd his Blanket o'er and o'er,
Yet the Arch-wags pursu'd the Game,
'Till downright weary of the same,
Then up they pitch'd him on his Ass,
Defil'd and nasty as he was,
Crying aloud unto the 'Squire,
All's paid, and you are wellcome, Sir.

Poor Maritornes standing by,
A Wench of some Humanity,
Altho' the very Hag, that rid him
O'er Night, and with her Nails half flea'd him,
Yet mov'd at last to some Compassion
By Sancho's too great Tribulation,
At Well she drew a Jug of Water,
That he might cool his Intrails a'ter,
Which the Knight spying, cry'd aloud,
‘Forbear, dear Sancho, 'tis not good,

‘Be patient, thou shalt find that I
‘Will make more Balsam by and by.

Sancho, who had not yet forgot
The Mis'ries of his former Draught,
Cast a most crabbed Look upon
His kind, well-meaning Master Don,
Replying, Has your Worship quite
Forgot already I'm no Knight;
Your Balsam's only fit to cure
Sick Men of Honour, such as you're;
As for my part I'd sooner drink
A Quart of Cordial from the Sink:
Then giving back the aguish Pitcher,
He cry'd, Sweet Honey, mend thy Liquor;
Raw Element don't suit my Taste,
I fear 'twill make me cool too fast.

The Trull had then so much good Nature
To bring him Wine instead of Water,
Which the poor drowthy 'Squire convey'd
With so much gladness to his Head,

That Lip and Pitcher could not part,
'Till the last Drop had warm'd his Heart;
For which the Wench, miscall'd the Maid,
Out of her own good Bounty paid.

This done, the Gates were open'd wide,
Thro' which the 'Squire had leave to ride,
That his Deliv'ry might asswage
The angry Knight's unbridl'd Rage,
Who would have gallop'd in among
The Clowns, to have reveng'd the Wrong;
Where like his Man, he must have been
The Sport and Pastime of the Inn,
But was with much ado disswaded
By th' 'Squire from being so hot-headed,
That they at length rid calmly off,
Huzza'd by all the Rout in Scoff,
Like Vagrants whipping thro' a Town,
For making others Geese their own.

Adventures, founded on Mistake,
Ridiculous Conclusions make;

And groundless Hope, the common Curse
Of Fools, makes Disappointment worse.

CANTO XXVIII.

Two Flocks of Sheep are by the Knight
Thought Armies marching on to fight;
Most bravely he attacks the one,
Kills many, is at last o'erthrown.

The Knight and Sancho, tho' they'd been
But sorely handl'd in their Inn,
Yet both were highly pleas'd they'd made
No Violation, but obey'd
The Laws of Knighthood to their Glory,
Throughout their whole Fatigue and Hurry;
Tho' Sancho unappriz'd had lost
His Wallet, which the watchful Host

Had very slily sharp'd away
From the Ass's Buttocks, where it lay,
In hopes the Value of his Theft
Would pay the Reck'ning they had left;
But both b'ing ignorant of the Matter,
We'll drop the Wallet 'till herea'ter.

As now they beat the dusty Road,
O'erjoy'd to find themselves abroad;
After they'd laugh'd a while to think,
They'd paid for neither Meat or Drink,
A Privilege which each Knight-Errant
May take by very lawful Warrant,
‘Dear Sancho, quoth the Don, I vow,
‘Thou look'st confus'd, I know not how,
‘Thy Beard disgrac'd, thy Garment sham'd
‘With Filth unworthy to be nam'd;
‘I hope you're now convinc'd we've been
‘Misled into some ancient Inn,
‘Or famous Castle, that's inchanted
‘With Spirits, Imps, and Witches haunted;

‘For those dark Fiends with Heads and Hands,
‘Like huge Gygantick Sarazens,
‘By whom thou wert so toss'd and twirl'd,
‘Were Natives of some other World;
‘But had not I been by the Force
‘Of Witchcraft chain'd upon my Horse,
‘I would have leap'd th' inchanted Wall,
‘And made such work among 'em all,
‘That I'd have clov'n 'em with my Arms,
‘In spight of Spells or magick Charms.

Had I, quoth Sancho, but been able
To've dealt with such a plaguy Rabble,
I would have paid the laughing Rogues
My self, and beat 'em all like Dogs;
But Force will make the snarling'st Whelp
Submit to what he cannot help;
Nor were they Goblins, as you fancy,
Or Wizards, learn'd in Necromancy,
No Gyants or inchanted Moors,
But Higlers, Pedlars, Clowns and Boors,

That heav'd me up, and let me fall
Only by Dint of strength, that's all;
As sure as I'm a living Creature,
There was no Witch-craft in the matter:
That you were conjur'd fast in Saddle,
By Spells, is all but fiddle faddle:
'Twas only owing to some Thump,
Or scurvy Bruise about your Rump,
That so benumm'd your Worship's Arse,
You could not rise from off your Horse:
Therefore consid'ring, in all Cases,
Our blessed black and blue Successes,
What Beauties we have drank and eat with,
What glorious Drubbings we have met with:
What Compliments great Kings have paid us,
How wealthy our Exploits have made us,
I think 'twill be our safest way
To return homewards whilst we may;
For truly after all this Baisting
My Carcase wants a little resting;

I find we only have out-run
God's Blessing into the warm Sun;
Or to be plain 'twixt Knight and 'Squire,
Leap'd out o'th' Frying-pan into th' Fire:
Therefore I say with Goody Dumly,
That Home is home, tho' ne'er so homely.

‘Poor Sancho, quoth the Knight, in scorn,
‘Thou'rt thinking of thy Hay and Corn:
‘What are such Trifles to th' Spoils
‘Of wealthy Kingdoms, Towns and Isles?
‘What fruitful Fields can be compar'd
‘To the rich Harvest of the Sword?
‘By which we win the Golden Prize,
‘And conquer stubborn Enemies.

Ay marry, quoth the 'Squire, I'll swear,
You now have bit it to a Hair:
When have we ever got the Day?
What Conquests can we boast, I pray?
'Tis true, I think, a poor Biscayan
By your bold Arm was almost slain:

That was well fought, but even there
Your conqu'ring Worship lost an Ear;
But since that mighty Deed was done,
What other Vict'ries have we won?
Or Marks of Honour can we boast,
But Drubs, Kicks, Thumps and Bumps at most,
Bruis'd Shoulders, broken Heads, scratch'd Faces,
And Wheals in forty other Places?
Besides that tossing in a Blanket,
Which fell to my share, Rogues be thanked;
And these, if I am not mistaken,
Are all the Vict'ries we can reckon:
Such that I'm sure I sorely feel
Inside and out, from Head to Heel.

‘Truly, reply'd the Knight, I find,
‘Now thou'st reviv'd it in my Mind,
‘I'm troubled with the same Disease,
‘Down from my Noddle to my Knees;
‘But for the future, I'll prevent all
‘Such Hurts and Mischiefs accidental,

‘By seeking out a sturdy Blade,
‘With so much Art and Cunning made,
‘That no inchanting Pow'r shall tame
‘The furious Arm that bears the same;
‘Who knows but Fortune's Hand may lay
‘That very Weapon in my Way,
‘Which made the Knight de Gaul the Lord,
‘And Champion of the burning Sword;
‘Forg'd of such Steel 'twould split a Rock,
‘Or into Splinters cleave a Block.

And if (quoth Sancho) you should find
This flaming Weapon to your Mind,
Which may, in Case the Devil be in't,
Skin a Smith's Anvil, or a Flint,
I dare to lay my Life 'twould be
Just such another Friend to me,
As your confounded puking Phisick,
Which tho' it made you well made me sick;
That is, 'twould only I suppose
Defend Knight-Errants from their Foes,

And leave their 'Squires, for want of Dubbing,
To bear the baneful Plague of Drubbing.

As thus they jogg'd along in State,
Debating gravely this and that,
Don Quixote in the Road espies
A mighty Cloud of Dust arise.
‘Now, quoth the Knight unto his 'Squire,
‘This is the Day of my Desire;
‘In which my Sword shall win such Glory,
‘As shall for ever shine in Story;
‘Dost thou not see a dusty Cloud
‘Spring up before us in the Road?
‘'Tis rais'd, I may assur'dly say,
‘By some great Army in our way.

Why then, quoth Sancho, there are two
Great Armies marching in our View;
For yonder is a dusty smother
On the left Hand, as big as t'other.

Highly transported with the sight,
Quoth Quixote, ‘Sancho, you are right;

‘They are two Armies, I'll maintain,
‘Design'd for Battle on this Plain;
‘They move with great Precipitation,
‘As if both sides were in a Passion:
‘Twill not be long e'er we shall find
‘To which Victoria seems inclin'd.

Thus Quixote in his frantick Fits
Was blinded so with wild Conceits,
That tho' they were but Flocks of Sheep
In diff'rent Roads, where Dust was deep,
His Fancy chang'd 'em still to be
Whatever he desir'd to see;
So that affirming very stoutly,
And swearing to it most devoutly,
The grave deluded Champion made
Poor Sancho credit what he said,
The Clouds obscuring from their Eyes
The Flocks that caus'd the Dust to rise.

But Sir, quoth Sancho, what must you
And I, when they are fighting, do?

I hope you don't design that we
Shall beat those Armies that you see.

‘No, no, the chearful Knight reply'd,
‘We'll only help the injur'd Side;
‘I know the Cause for which they fight,
‘Who's in the wrong, and who i'th' right:
‘Those valiant Forces, that display
‘Their Banners, and incline this way,
‘I plainly see, are led by one,
‘Sirnam'd great Alifanfaron,
‘Proud Emp'ror of that fruitful Soil,
‘That's call'd the Taprobanean Isle;
‘And he, who with such gallant Pride
‘Commands the Troops on t'other side,
‘Is, I may venture to affirm,
‘Pentap'lin with the naked Arm;
‘So call'd, because the hardy Soldier
‘Fights always bear from Hand to Shoulder.
‘Now you must know the Cause, why these
‘Are such invet'rate Enemies,

‘Great Alifanf'ron fain would win
‘The Daughter of Pentapolin;
‘But her fond Lover being bred
‘A Pagan, she a Christian Maid,
‘Her Father vows he will not give her
‘In Marriage to an Unbeliever;
‘And that unless he will agree
‘T'abjure his Infidelity,
‘He swears by all the Charms about her,
‘The Pagan Prince shall go without her.

By Jove, quoth Sancho to the Knight,
I think Pentap'lin's in the right;
And burn my Beard if I don't stand
His Friend, and serve him Sword in Hand.

‘Well said, replies the Don, I vow,
‘Thou shew'st thy self a Christian now:
‘Nobly resolv'd this Day, I'm certain,
‘Some wealthy Throne will be thy Fortune.

But where, quoth Sancho, shall I leave
My Ass the while, for I conceive,
It can't be safe to charge upon
A Beast that is so great a Drone.

‘True, cryes the Knight, so tame a Tit,
‘I own, is not for Battle fit;
‘E'en turn him loose, for 'tis no matter
‘Whether thou ever find'st him a'ter;
‘For we shall have so many Horses,
‘When we have beat the Emp'ror's Forces,
‘That even Rozinant's in danger
‘Of being barter'd for a Stranger.

Then mounting on a rising Ground,
They stood a while, and gaz'd around;
But still their horned Friends and Foes
From humane Eyes were cover'd close
With Dust that from their Hoofs arose.

However Quixote had a View
Of all his working Fancy drew,

And thought he saw upon the Plains
What was but painted in his Brains;
So that directing Sancho's sight,
He cry'd, ‘Behold yon famous Knight,
‘In Armour gilt, upon a Beast,
‘That seems six Cubits high at least,
‘Who on his glitt'ring Target bears
‘Two Lyons crown'd, three muzzl'd Bears,
‘And is to his eternal Fame
‘The Knight o'th' Silver-Bridge, by Name.

‘The next array'd in Serpents Skins,
‘Who like a Fury gapes and grins,
‘That Champion of Gigantick size,
‘With frizzl'd Beard and Saucer Eyes,
‘Is that fierce Devil of a Man,
‘Th' undaunted Brandabarbaran,
‘Who rules alone, as Sov'reign Lord,
‘The Three Arabia's by his Sword,
‘And carr's before him, for a Shield,
‘A Gate himself can only wield.

‘But now let t'other side surprize,
‘And please at once thy wondring Eyes!
‘See there victorious Timonel,
‘Prince of new Biscay, clad in Steel,
‘Bearing on's Shield a Sable Rat
‘Couchant, beneath a Rampant Cat;
‘And for his quaint Device, to shew
‘His Wit, the old Cat Language MEW;
‘Because the Name of her whose Features,
‘H' admires above all other Creatures,
‘Begins by chance with those three Letters.

‘Next him, behold that monstrous Lord,
‘Who upright bears a flaming Sword,
‘Upon so fierce and wild a Steed,
‘That capers like a Mountain-Kid;
‘He's but a new-created Knight,
‘I see, because his Armour's white;
‘Nor is he honour'd in the Field
‘With any Motto on his Shield;

‘I know him, he's a Peer of France,
‘Bred Alamode to fence and dance;
‘A Fop, that cringes at the Court,
‘And makes himself the Ladies Sport.

‘He yonder, that is prancing round
‘The flowry Plain to view the Ground,
‘Is that Great Duke, of Noble Blood,
‘'Spartafilardo of the Wood;
‘Who bears upon his spacious Shield
‘A Garden vert, or verdent Field
‘Powder'd, I plainly can discover,
‘With Golden 'Sparagus all over;
‘A Harrow too I see for certain,
‘With this Device, So trails my Fortune.

Thus as the Knight peep'd thro' his Hand,
Whilst both did on the Hillock stand,
H' amus'd the 'Squire with Whims and Fancies
He'd glean'd from out his old Romances,
Depicting fifty Knights of War,
Their Arms and Motto's that they bore;

As if the fictions of his Brain
Had stood before him on the Plain:
Then guiding Sancho's roving Eye,
By pointing, to th' 'Squire would cry;
‘Mind that Confed'rate Army yonder,
‘And how the Nations march asunder:
‘There go the Longbeards, who, in scorn
‘Of Wine, drink Xanthus e'ery Morn;
‘Next them the Mountaineers, that toil
‘In plowing the Massilian Soil;
‘Then follow the Arabian Bands,
‘Those sisters of the Golden Sands;
‘And after them, the Troops that prune
‘The fruitful Vines of Thermodoon;
‘The Lydians next, with whom 'tis common
‘To drain rich Pactolus for Mammon;
‘And in the Rear a thousand Nations,
‘Equip'd in all their sev'ral Fashions,
‘Whose Countries Names I cannot tell,
‘Tho' I their Faces know full well.

Gad Sir, quoth Sancho, I have star'd
With all my Eyes, and burn my Beard
If I have yet seen Men or Horses,
Or any thing like armed Forces:
Lords, Knights, and Troops you say you see,
Adsheart, and so you may for me;
If I as yet one Soul have spy'd,
I'm the saddest Rogue that ever ly'd:
I fancy, Sir, this Plain's inchanted,
And with such dev'lish Armies haunted,
That march, engage, and manage Fights,
Unseen by any but by Knights;
For I'm convinc'd they don't desire
To shew their Faces to a 'Squire.

‘I doubt, quoth Quixote, I shall find,
‘You're really deaf, as well as blind;
‘Turn thy loose Hair behind thy Ear,
‘Now tell me if thou dost not hear
‘The warlike Trumpet sound to Battle,
‘The Horses neigh, and the Drums rattle.

Nouns, quoth the 'Squire, 'tis all a Jest,
I hear no Voice of Man or Beast,
Tho' I have listen'd ever since
You bid me, like a Sow in Beans.
But hold a little, yes I vow,
I think some Sheep are bleating now;
Your Armies, Trumpets, Beat of Drum,
And all your Knights of Christendom,
Are nothing else, for here they come.

‘I find thy Fear, reply'd the Knight,
‘Obstructs thy Hearing, and thy Sight;
‘But since thou art thus terrify'd,
‘Pray for thy Safety step aside,
‘This Arm alone, without Delay,
‘Shall win the Christian Prince the Day.
With that he couch'd his borrow'd Lance,
Sat plumb, in order to advance:
Then spurring Rozinante's Flank,
Like Thunder rush'd from off the Bank

Into the Plain t'attack the Flock,
Which for an Army he mistook;
Poor Sancho in a sweating Fright,
Thus bawling after to the Knight.

Hold Sir, for Heaven's sake, what mean you
Forbear, why is the Devil in you!
For once take Caution of a Fool,
They're only Sheep upon my Soul;
There are no Armies led by Gyants
To bid your Worship, bold Defiance,
No Knight or Champion in the Field,
With Cat or Rat upon his Shield,
No golden 'Sparagus before ye,
Nouns, Sir, 'tis all an idle story;
Good Sir, come back, or as I'm here,
You'll take the wrong Sow by the Ear;
You're leaping o'er the Hedge a Mile
Before your Worship's at the Stile;
Ware Hawk, I say, or Woe betide you,
All Sheep by Jove, the Devil ride you.

The Knight, conciliating his Senses
To his mad Dreams and idle Fancies,
With hope of Glory deaf and blind,
Would none of Sancho's Cautions mind,
But o'er the Mole-hills spurr'd his Steed,
And thus he rav'd amidst his Speed;
‘Courage, brave Champions, follow me,
‘This Arm shall gain the Victory;
‘Dread no Defeat, or Danger fear,
‘Know 'tis enough that I am here;
‘March on, win Glory and Applause,
‘Ye Knights, that back the Christian Cause,
‘And are this Day for cutting down
‘That Gyant Alifanfaron:
‘Behold! the daring Foe advances,
‘Make ready all, and couch your Lances,
‘Fall on, 'tis time that we begin,
‘Pentapolin, Pentapolin.

Then rushing in amidst the Flock,
At one Attack their Ranks he broke,

And with his single Arm in Fight
Kill'd many on the Spot outright,
And with his Horse did others wound,
That gasping lay upon the Ground;
Charging them thro' and thro' with all
The brav'ry of a General;
Still pushing on with Resolution,
'Till the rest fled in great Confusion,
That his Adventure seem'd to be
Crown'd with a total Victory.

But the poor Shepherds vex'd to see
This odd surprizing Tragedy,
B'ing also gally'd at the sight
Of such a mad prepost'rous Knight,
Who, notwithstanding all their Calling,
Would not desist or mind their Bawling,
At length resolv'd they would revenge
A wrong, so barbarously strange;
Accordingly their Slings they loos'd,
A Weapon oft by Shepherds us'd,

And with such Malice ply'd the Don's
Poor Head and Face with Pebble-Stones,
That e'ery hard St. Stephen's Loaf,
That smote him, almost knock'd him off
His Horse, and gave the Jade such Blows
Sometimes about his Ears and Nose,
That the poor Carrion could with Gladness
Have flounc'd his Rider off for Madness.
This galling Usage made the Don,
Cry, ‘Where's this Alifanfaron,
‘That Infidel, who durst begin
‘This War against Pentapolin?
‘Appear, Gygantick Prince, appear,
‘T'a single Knight, that seeks thee here,
‘That Hand to Hand we may decide
‘The Cause, that's thus unjustly try'd:
‘Not that I fear, tho' left alone;
‘But Thousands must be odds to one.

Just as the Don was op'ning wide
His Mouth, that reach'd from side to side,

100

To thunder this bold Challenge forth
To th' bravest Gyant upon Earth,
A Pounder of a Pebble Stone
With such revengeful Force was thrown
Against his Jaw-bone, that the Thump
Scarce left him either Tooth or Stump;
Nor had weak Nature strength to bear it,
But down he tumbl'd with the Wherret,
And sprawling lay, o'ercome with Pain,
As if the Blow had been his Bane.

The Shepherds, when they gladly found
They'd fetch'd the Champion to the Ground,
Thinking they'd kill'd him sure enough,
In Fear and Hast now carry'd off
Their helpless, wounded, and their dead,
And with their scatter'd Numbers fled.

Courage is allways misapply'd,
When it wants Reason for its Guide;
The boldest are but hardy Fools,
Except Discretion gives 'em Rules.

101

Whilst Quixote plaid these mad figaries,
And fought his horned Adversaries,
Sancho upon a Hill stood gazing
At's Masters Folly so amazing,
Tearing his scanty Bear to find
The Knight so obstinately blind,
As to mistake the Sheep that crost
The Common for an armed Host:
The 'Squire not doubting in the least
But this Adventure, like the rest,
Would come at length to down right Clubbing,
And end as usual in dry Drubbing,
An Honour, Sancho allways got
His share of, whensoe'er he fought,
And therefore was resolv'd to keep
His distance from the injur'd Sheep,
That if ill Fortune should befall,
The Knight himself might bear it all.

But when the 'Squire beheld the Don
O'erthrown, and all the Shepherds gone,

102

He thought he now with Safety might
Advance to help the sprawling Knight;
Accordingly he ran unto him
To do what Service he could do him;
And finding him in doleful plight,
Tho' not bereft of Sences quite,
He cry'd, Ah Master, now you find
What 'tis to be so rash and blind;
Had you but taken my Advice,
You'd sav'd from Stones your Jams and Eyes;
I call'd as loud as I could baul,
Sheep, Sheep, no Army, by my Soul,
Yet you'd not hear, but like a Ninny
Rid on, as if the Dev'l was in ye.

‘Alas, Friend Sancho, quoth the Knight,
‘Magicians can deceive the sight,
‘And by the Pow'r of Art, with Ease,
‘Change humane Shapes to what they please;
‘Therefore some base inchanting Wizard,
‘Plagu'd with a Grumbling in his Gizzard

103

‘To see my single Sword and Shield
‘Triumph o'er Thousands in the Field,
‘Transform'd the routed Troops to Sheep,
‘Lest I should endless Glory reap,
‘In making such a num'rous Train
‘Of valiant Knights one Heap of slain;
‘And if thou hast not Faith enough
‘To credit this, for further Proof
‘Bestride thy Ass, and follow those,
‘Which are but Sheep, as you suppose,
‘And thou shalt find them on the Plain
‘Resume their former Shapes again,
‘From harmless Flocks be turn'd to Forces,
‘Consisting both of Men and Horses;
‘But stay a little first, because
‘I want thee to inspect my Jaws;
‘I fear my Pegs of Mastication
‘Have suffer'd total Devastation.

Then stretching wide his Mouth to shew
His Stumps, which were at most but few,

104

And Sancho peeping close to count
What number had sustain'd the Brunt,
The Balsam, which the Knight had ta'en,
With such a Gush return'd again
Upon the 'Squire that fatal Minute,
And work'd as if the Dev'l was in it;
Poor Sancho, much surpriz'd to find
His smarting Eyes thus squirted blind,
At first was fearful that it wou'd
Have prov'd the Knight's last dying Blood;
But at length finding by the stench
It savour'd of his former Drench,
And the sour Vapours of the Dose
B'ing loathsome unto Sancho's Nose,
He strain'd his Intrails to requite
The slap-dab kindness of the Knight,
And quite depriv'd of Pow'r to bauk
The Jest, return'd him yauk for yauk;
So both like Tide and Stream contended,
'Till empty Guts the Contest ended;

105

For nauseous Kecking is as catching,
As drowsy Yawning and as Stretching.

Poor Sancho now with smother'd Face,
Half blinded, ran unto his Ass
To fetch his Wallet for a Cloth,
In this Distress to clean 'em both;
But finding that the useful Sacking
Was to his Disappointment lacking,
And that he'd also lost the Scraps
He'd sav'd to feed his hungry Chaps,
Highly inrag'd at this Disaster,
He curs'd himself, and damn'd his Master;
Resolving now without Delay
To mount, and homewards steer his way;
And that he would the Knight forswear,
Renounce his Castles in the Air,
And all his Kingdoms G*d knows where.

But the poor Don, whose Eyes pursu'd
The 'Squire, who melancholly stood,

106

Leaning o'th' Pannel of his Ass,
With some Disorder in his Face,
Arose as nimbly as he cou'd,
And wiping from his Nose the Blood,
Upon his Mouth one Hand he clap'd,
That no loose Grinders might be drop'd,
Then leading Rozi by the Rein,
He crept along unto his Man,
And thus the Champion of La Mancha
Express'd himself to Sancho Panca:

‘My Friend, I grieve to see thee now
‘Put on so sorrowful a Brow;
‘What suddain Doubt or humane Folly
‘Cause thee to seem thus melancholly:
‘Remember, when a Storm is past,
‘A Calm slides gently on at last,
‘And that good Fortune does as often
‘Our Cares and Disappointments soften:
‘The greatest Labour ends in Rest,
‘And what seems worst, oft proves the best:

107

‘Those Sorrows, which the most annoy
‘The Mind, still terminate in Joy;
‘And all our Hardships thou shalt see
‘Attended with Prosperity:
‘All things and chances bad or good,
‘Are subject to Vicissitude;
‘Or else the World, wherein we range,
‘Must stagnate soon for want of Change:
‘Why therefore do'st thou thus repine,
‘Since present ill Luck's but a sign,
‘That better will succeed the bad
‘To sooth the Suff'rings we have had;
‘Besides you ought not to lament
‘So much at e'ery cross Event,
‘Since you alas are bound to share
‘No more, than Friendship bids you bear.

Have I not born, reply'd the 'Squire,
Much more than Friendship could desire?
Was not the Blockhead toss'd and tew'd
This Day in Blanket 'till he spew'd?

108

The misgot silly Whelp, or rather
The graceless Son of my poor Father?
And is not he, who's lost his Wallet
With Scraps well furnish'd for his Palate,
Son of my Mother of La Mancha?
And is not his Name Sancho Panca?
Nouns Sir, what Flesh can bear with Ease
Such cross-grain'd knotty Plagues as these?

‘How, honest Sancho, quoth the Don,
‘And is thy useful Wallet gone?
‘If I may credit what thou say'st,
‘This Day I doubt will prove a Fast.

Quoth Sancho, what I've said's too true,
The Cubboard's lost, and Victuals too;
Therefore, instead of Ease and Feasting,
Kind Fortune sends us first a Baisting,
And then, alas! to mend the Matter
I find, she means to starve us a'ter,
Unless like Protestants in France
We search the Ditches, 'till by chance

109

We find some Deudelion Roots,
Or other Herbage for our Guts,
Such as I've heard you say each Knight,
Of old, would feast on with Delight;
Tho' I had rather like a Dog
Pick Bones, than feed so like a Hog;
Tho' you, that are a Knight, perhaps
With Herbs may satisfy your Chaps;
But I, that am your Worship's 'Squire,
Do more substantial Food desire.

‘Sancho, quoth Quixote, I agree
‘Intirely at this time with thee;
‘At present I've a greater Gust
‘To a dry'd Pilchard and a Crust,
‘Than all the Roots and Simples nam'd
‘By Dioscorides the fam'd;
‘Therefore good Sancho, mount thy Tit,
‘Shake off this melancholly Fit,
‘And follow me once more to find
‘Victuals and Lodging to our Mind;

110

‘For Providence, that governs Nature,
‘And feeds and succours e'ery Creature,
‘Which does such sundry Fruits prepare
‘For the wing'd Insects of the Air,
‘The Wormlings, which on Earth increase,
‘And little Spawnlings in the Seas,
‘Will never fail us in our need,
‘But in due Season give us Bread,
‘Since 'tis for Justice sake that you
‘And I both suffer what we do.

You'd make, quoth Sancho, by this Light,
A better Preacher than a Knight:
I wish you had some Bishop's Warrant
To be a Priest, instead of Errant;
For I should rather then desire
To be your Clark, than now your 'Squire,
That I might gladly say Amen
To Combat, Hunger, Plague and Pain.

‘Knight Errants, quoth the Don, should be
‘Expert in ev'ry Mistery,

111

‘And able at an Army's Head
‘To preach, or at a Bar to plead,
‘That they by Gospel Blows and Laws
‘On all Occasions with Applause,
‘May bravely justify their Cause,
‘And prove that only to be right,
‘For which they either talk or fight:
‘Among Mankind all Right and Wrong
‘Depend upon the Sword and Tongue;
‘And he that scuffles either way,
‘If he has luck to win the Day,
‘Is sure to've Justice of his side,
‘Tho' wrong before the Cause was try'd;
‘If therefore, thou't remain my 'Squire,
‘To Wisdom thou shalt soon aspire;
‘I'll make thee Master by degrees
‘Of all these Arts and Mysteries.

Well then, for once, reply'd the 'Squire,
E'en let it be as you desire:

112

But good your Worship mount your Steed,
And let us fly this Plain with Speed,
Lest yon inchanted sheepish Army
Should turn to Men, and further harm ye.

‘But my dear Sancho, quoth the Don,
‘Before you mount your little Drone,
‘Pray gently feel my upper Jaw
‘O'th' dexter side, that I may know
‘What Teeth and stumps the Rogues have left me,
‘And of what Number they've bereft me.

How many Grinders, quoth the 'Squire,
Pray had you in that upper Tire,
Before, i'th' last unlucky Bout,
Th' inchanted Army punch'd 'em out.

‘Four, quoth the Knight, as I'm alive,
‘Besides the Eye-tooth making five,
‘Which in good Order firmly stood,
‘And were as sound as ever chew'd.

113

Quoth Sancho, pray consider, Sir,
What 'tis you say, for here's no more
In the low'r Jaw than two poor Shells,
As hollow as a Pack-horse Bells,
Besides a Stump, and in the upper
Not one to help you grind your Supper.

‘Unhappy Wretch! replies the Knight,
‘And is one Jaw divested quite?
‘A toothless Worthy, I must own,
‘Is like a Mill without a Stone;
‘However I have still some few,
‘Tho' many less than are my Due;
‘And those I could so lately boast
‘Were in the Field of Honour lost;
‘'Tis true one Tooth is worth a brace
‘Of Diamonds, in its proper Place;
‘Yet Glory makes a Man more bright
‘Than Jewels in the truest Light,
‘And stands a Worthy more in stead
‘Than all the Grinders in his Head:

114

‘'Tis easy to be fed with Spoon,
‘But difficult to win Renown:
‘Who then, that does not value Death,
‘Would fear to sacrifice his Teeth,
‘When 'tis to bravely bear away
‘The Glory I have won this Day?

You're right, quoth Sancho, not to mourn,
For a few Teeth may serve your turn:
I'm sure I'd give away one side
Of mine, that t'other were imploy'd;
Therefore 'tis time that we should mount,
Since our Guts call us to Account,
That we may beat the dusty Road
In search of Lodging and of Food:
Stir up good Ass, the Devil take
This starving Life for Honour's Sake.

When hair-brain'd Fops at Glory aim,
And yet mistake the Paths of Fame,
They 'ndure more Hardships when they stray,
Than those that chuse the ready Way.

115

CANTO XXIX.

A Fun'ral on the Road by Night
Puts both the Champions in a Fright;
Who, conqu'ring by degrees their Dread,
Attack the Living and the Dead.

The Knight and Sancho having quitted
The Plain, before they were benighted,
And got into a Lane together,
That dril'd 'em on they knew not whither,
They now began to talk and prattle
Of Knights and Gyants slain in Battle,
And what rich Kingdoms should be won
Before their fighting Days were done,
'Till Day-light had at length out-run 'em,
And Night began to creep upon 'em,

116

E'er they had sight, or any sign
Of Castle, Cottage, or of Inn,
Or the least pleasing Hopes of meeting
With Beds for Ease, or Bread for Eating.

Thus on they travel'd, 'till so dark,
They scarce could see one starry Spark:
Their Limbs and Stomachs in a deep
Concern for Want of Food and Sleep:
At length a distant Croud of Lights,
Appear'd unto their wand'ring sights,
As if some Midnight Ghosts or Fairies
Were come abroad to play Figaries:
Poor Sancho, who alas had been
So drub'd by Goblins at the Inn,
Was now again most sadly daunted
To think the Roads were also haunted
With Spirits, or with Moors inchanted.

The Knight too had some Dread upon him,
For fear the Sheep, who'd overthrown him

117

By magick Art, were now again
Transform'd to Troops of Armed Men,
Rally'ng to make a second Fight,
In order to untooth him quite;
So that the Champion check'd his Horse,
And paus'd, whilst Sancho hung an Arse,
Perceiving to their great Surprise
The Lights came nearer to their Eyes,
Which struck 'em both with further Dread,
At e'ery slow Advance they made;
Don Quixote's Hair stood bolt upright,
And Sancho trembled at the sight,
Expecting they were flaming Legions,
Broke loose from their infernal Regions;
And that they now were to withstand
The Force of Lucifer's Train-band:
Thus notwithstanding neither fear'd
The matted Locks of Gyants Beard:
Yet Light, the bright Effects of Fire,
Quite daunted both the Knight and 'Squire,

118

'Till Quixote much asham'd to think
His Champion Courage thus should sink,
Shook off his Fears that had betray'd
His Valour, and to Sancho said:

‘These are a num'rous Host of Sprites,
‘And Goblins arm'd with flaming Lights,
‘Stol'n out from their accurs'd Abode
‘To give us Battle in the Road:
‘This is a perilous Adventure,
‘On which we are about to venture,
‘Yet will I scorn to backward fly,
‘But for the Vict'ry boldly try.

Ah Woe is me, reply'd the 'Squire,
Must we fight Devils arm'd with Fire,
And after all the Drubs we've had,
Be now so daring and so mad
To battle Furies with their Torches,
And run the Risque of Burns and Scorches.

‘Chear up, Friend Sancho, quoth the Don,
‘Fear nothing, let the Imps come on,

119

‘Whilst I am here, they shall not dare
‘To singe or rob thee of a Hair;
‘Therefore take heart, and thou shalt find
‘We'll make the Æreals fly like Wind.

The thoughts of fighting, quoth the 'Squire,
Makes me all Ice, instead of Fire;
But I shall soon, I do suppose,
Be thaw'd by these infernal Foes;
Yet if we're forc'd to stand the Brunt
I'll do my best what e'er comes on't:
For tho' I am so free to tell you,
That I am really apt to value
My own, above a thousand Lives,
Yet needs must when the Dev'l drives.

By now the solemn Cavalcade
Their slow Approach so near had made,
That Knight and 'Squire discover'd plain
The very ghastly frightful Train,
And wisely from the Road withdrew
To give their Eyes a better View.

120

I'th' Van were twenty Souls in white,
On Horse-back bearing each a Light,
Some mumbling Pray'rs in doleful Tones,
And others breathing out their Groans:
I'th' Center came a mourning Herse,
Drawn by six black Galician Mares;
Which, as it mov'd, t'encrease their Wonder,
Rumbl'd like distant rowling Thunder:
Six Mourners in the Reer came on,
Hanging their Heads like Poppies down,
Each gravely mounted on the Back
Of a Mule, cover'd o'er with black;
A dismal sight, enough to've scar'd
The stoutest he that wears a Beard,
Especially at Night when met
In such a lonely place so late;
But Quixote, mad as well as bold,
With the strange Tales he'd read of old,
Mistook the Herse, when he had seen it,
To be a Horse-litter, and in it

121

Some wounded Prince, or famous Knight,
Ta'en Captive by his Foes in Fight,
Thought therefore he could do no less
Than rescu' a Brother in Distress;
Accordingly he couch'd his Lance,
And did with eager Warmth advance
Unto their Noses, where he stood,
And thus like an undaunted God
He spoke, altho' but Flesh and Blood.

‘Stand, I command ye, and declare
‘What you're about, and who you are?
‘From whence you came, and tell me what
‘Great Knight you've in that Litter got;
‘What Wrongs your Party have receiv'd,
‘Or who you've injur'd and aggriev'd;
‘Then shall I quickly let you know
‘Whether I am a Friend or Foe.

Sir, we're in Haste, cryes one in white,
Our Inn's far off, 'tis late at Night,

122

We cannot stay to answer all
These Questions that your Tongue lets fall:
And when he'd spoke, was spurring on
His Nag, in order to be gone;
But Quixote angry at his Answer
Catch'd hold o'th' Bridle of his Prancer,
And stop'd the Rider's Speed at once
To have a more compleat Response;
Crying, ‘Thou proud discourteous Knight,
‘Pray stay, and let me know the right
‘Of all things I have ask'd, or by
‘This Arm you shall this Instant dye.

Whilst thus Don Quixote had his Hand
O'th' Rein, to make the Gennet stand,
He being young and apt to kick,
Rose upright on his hinder Feet,
And flounc'd about until he'd thrown
His ghost-like Rider headlong down;
At sight of which some more came on,
And gave ill Language to the Don,

123

Which so incens'd him that he spur'd
His Horse, and drew his Nut-brown Sword,
And madly riding in among
The white-look'd solemn mournful Throng,
So laid about him, that the Knight
Put all the Cavalcade to flight,
Excepting one he had o'erthrown,
Who'd broke i'th' Fall his Ankle-bone;
Some scowring back most sadly frighted,
Some forward with their Torches lighted;
Some cloath'd in black, and some in white,
Like Spirits wandring in the Night,
Or Jack a Lanthorns often found
Dancing about in Moory Ground;
Fancying the Dev'l himself was come
To seize the Corps, and carry't home;
Therefore they very wisely fled
To part the Living from the dead;
For fear old Sathan in his Wrath
Should lay infernal Hands on both.

124

Poor Sancho stood amaz'd to find
The God of War so wondrous kind,
As to bestow upon his Master
A Victory without Disaster;
So that he now could do no less
Than judge the Knight, by his Success,
To be that very Lord knows what,
His Worship wanted to be thought.

When thus the Don, by Words and Blows,
Had routed all his mourning Foes,
And ready was, like Grecian Younker,
To weep for want of more to conquer;
At length in riding up and down
To see what Heaps he'd overthrown,
By Light of scatter'd Torch he found
A groaning Victim on the Ground;
Whom he no sooner spy'd, but put
His pointed Lance unto his Throat,
And with a bold tremendous Voice,
Cry'd, ‘Yield or dye Wretch, take thy Choice.

125

Have Mercy, quoth the Foe, good Sir;
I needs must yield, that cannot stir;
I've broke my Leg, and hurt my Arm,
I cannot rise to do you Harm;
If therefore you're a Christian Knight
I hope you will not kill me quite:
Consider, I'm in holy Orders;
And 'twould be deem'd the worst of Murders
To stab a Priest, that means no Hurt,
As he lyes crippl'd in the Dirt.

‘How, quoth the Don, a Guide o'th' Church,
‘And travelling by Light of Torch;
‘A Priest, d'ye say, an holy Father;
‘Why what the Devil brought thee hither?

Nought, cry'd the Scholar, of a certain,
Could bring me hither but ill Fortune.

‘A worse, replies the Knight, hangs over
‘Thy Head, unless thou wilt discover
‘The downright truth of all that I
‘Vouchsafe to ask thee by and by.

126

I will Sir, quoth the Priest, this Minute,
And tell your Worship all that's in it;
I'm a poor Priest of Alcovendas,
Who, with Eleven more God mend us,
Came from Baeca to attend
The Corps of a deceased Friend,
Which to Sagovia we were hurrying
This Night to give him Christian Burying.

‘About what Lady did he fight,
‘And pray who kill'd him, quoth the Knight?

Heav'n, quoth the Parson, with a Fever,
None else, as I'm a true Believer.

‘Then replies Quixote, since the Lord
‘Dispatch'd him, I shall sheath my Sword;
‘I have no Bus'ness with his Death,
‘Or to revenge his Loss of Breath;
‘Since 'tis appointed, you and I,
‘And all, as well as he, must dye:
‘I therefore have but little more
‘To say at present, Reverend Sir;

127

‘Which is, remember I inform you,
‘If any Person wrong or harm you,
‘That I'm the bold La Mancha Knight,
‘Don Quixote, bound to do you Right:
‘I range the World from East to West,
‘To save and comfort the distress'd,
‘Protect fair Maids from cruel Dragons,
‘And rescue Christian Knights from Pagans,
‘Punish Oppression, daily seek
‘Revenge of those, that wrong the weak,
‘And ride thus arm'd in the Defence
‘Of helpless injur'd Innocence.

And does your Worship, cryes the Priest,
Approve these Methods as the best?
Are breaking Peoples Legs and Arms
The way to rescue 'em from Harms?
And hazarding the Necks of those,
That are not able to oppose
Your strength, the Measures that you take
Of doing Justice to the Weak?

128

Lord keep me always at a distance
From your good Worship's kind Assistance.

‘You did not, quoth the Don, do right
‘To be abroad so late at Night,
‘In Mourning some, and some in white,
‘Marching with Torches in your Hands,
‘Like Furies with their fiery Brands,
‘Or kindl'd Vapours dancing round
‘The Bogs and Dikes of marshy Ground:
‘Therefore whatever I have done,
‘Or you sustain'd, the Fault's your own.

Well Sir, reply'd the groaning Levite,
Since it must be as you would have it,
And you're so gen'rous and great
A Friend to the Unfortunate,
I hope you'll mount me safe upon
My Mule, from whence you've thrown me down.

‘It shall be done, Don Quixote said,
‘Who then call'd Sancho to his Aid:

129

But the poor 'Squire was so employ'd
About a Sumpter he'd unty'd,
Which by kind Fortune prov'd a Load
Of choice Provisions, costly Food,
To feast the Priests upon the Road,
That he obey'd no verbal Summons,
He was so busy with his Commons,
'Till he had first well stuff'd his Gullet,
Then spread his Coat instead of Wallet;
Which, when he'd fill'd with Bits most dainty,
He bound on's Ass like a Port-Manteau,
And then he ran unto his Master
To help the Priest in this Disaster,
Who, 'twixt the Champion and his Squire,
Was mounted to his Heart's Desire.

Now Sir, quoth Sancho, to the Priest,
If you would know who 'tis that drest
Your Hide, and theirs that run away,
Because they wisely fear'd to stay,
Know that my Name is Sancho Panca,
My Lord's Don Quixote de la Mancha,

130

Call'd in Spain, Italy and France,
The Knight o'th' woeful Countenance.

No sooner was the crippl'd Priest
Gone off upon his skittish Beast,
But the victorious Knight began
T'enquire most gravely of his Man,
How he at such a Juncture came
To give him such an awful Name.

Quoth Sancho, if you'd know the Cause,
To tell you truth, your Lockrum Jaws
For want of Teeth so thin appear'd,
Set off with such a frowzy Beard,
And your stern Countenance, by Light
Of Torch, look'd so amazing white,
That I, who knew you, was almost
Convinc'd you were some grinning Ghost:
Thence to your Fame did I advance
Knight of the woeful Countenance:
A Title, that so well agrees
At present with your frightful Phiz,

131

That all may read it in your Face,
If they but view your Market place.

‘There's something more, replies the Don,
‘In this, than thou hast touch'd upon;
‘That learn'd Historian, who is proud,
‘To shew the World my Fortitude,
‘And to preserve my Fame, records
‘The gallant Deeds my Life affords,
‘By magick Art most surely wrought
‘In thy dull Brains this Noble Thought,
‘That this Addition to my Name
‘May Wizards fright, and Gyants tame,
‘And cause me to be dreaded more
‘Than any Knight in times of yore:
‘Therefore henceforward will I claim
‘This Title, whencesoe'er it came,
‘And proudly arrogate the same.

‘Also upon my Shield I'll bear
‘A Hatchet-face with frizzl'd Hair,
‘And glaring Eyes, enough to fright
‘The most undaunted daring Knight;

132

‘That my Device may show who 'tis
‘Displays so terrible a Phiz.

In troth, quoth Sancho, you may spare
The Cost of Painting; for I'll swear
No Artist can with Pencil shew
So horrible a Face as you;
Therefore if you'll expose your own,
'Tis wrong to have another drawn;
For your Foes sooner will be daunted
With that, than twenty Devils painted.

The Knight, well pleas'd with the Conceit,
Applauded Sancho for his Wit,
But still resolv'd his Shield should be
Adorn'd with some strange Phisnomy.

When they were tir'd with this Discourse,
The Don propos'd to search the Herse,
Lest some young Captive Lady fair,
Or wounded Victim should be there,
That might in their Distress require
Th' Assistance of the Knight and 'Squire:

133

But Sancho, who was over joy'd
To think how well he'd been imploy'd,
Car'd not for hazarding the Pack
He'd laid upon his Ass's Back,
By reaping more victorious Lawrels
In any further Broils or Quarrels;
Therefore enforc'd with all his Sence
The following cogent Arguments.

Consider Sir, that we've been under
No Drubbing yet, and that's a Wonder;
But should we tarry to examine
The Herse for Captive Knights or Women,
The Foe may think it shame to run,
On second Thoughts, away from one,
And rally with their utmost Force,
By that time we have search'd the Herse;
Then may we lose what we have got,
And be perhaps well drub'd to boot;
Therefore be rul'd by what I say;
Let us move on out of Harms Way;

134

And not forsake, when things go well,
The Plow to catch a Mouse by th' Tail;
But to the Grave resign the dead,
And let the living eat their Bread.

When Sancho thus had made his Speech,
Upon his Ass he clap'd his Breech,
And trotted on a little faster
Than usual after him his Master,
Who did without Capitulation
Give way to Sancho's Wise Oration,
And making no Reply approv'd
With Silence what the 'Squire had mov'd.

Thus the proud Victor and his Man
Jogg'd on as great as Cup and Can,
'Till to a Vale of pleasant Fields
They came, that lay between two Hills,
Where Sancho and the hungry Knight,
Tho' dark, thought proper to alight,
And to refresh their Bodies under
A Hedge, with some of Sancho's Plunder,

135

Which to their Comfort prov'd the best
Of costly Meats, that could be dress'd;
For all Men know, that 'tis the Care
Of Priests to feed on dainty Fare.
No time was lost on either side;
Now both like Gluttons fed 'till cloy'd;
But as good Luck does seldom fail
Of some ill Fortune at its Tail;
When they had eat three Meals in one,
They had no Wine to wash it down,
But now with Thirst were plagu'd much more,
Than they with Hunger were before;
However Sancho, as he sat,
Finding the Grass a little wet,
Cry'd to the Knight, For certain here
Must be some Spring, or River near;
Therefore, good Sir, let's look about,
That we may find some Water out,
To quench this Drought, that plagues our Throats
Much worse than Hunger did our Guts.

136

The Knight, well pleas'd with the Advice,
From his Grass Cusheon did arise,
And by the Bridle tug'd his Horse,
Who follow'd at his Rider's Arse,
Whilst Sancho by the Halter led
His Tit, and walk'd before his Head;
Thus up and down they rang'd the Field,
In hopes it might some River yield,
'Till to their Joy they heard the roaring
Of Waters, like a Cat'ract pouring
From off some lofty Rock into
Some shallow Stream, that lay below;
But as they listen'd to the same,
To judge which way the Murmurs came,
A strange surprizing Noise they found
Was mix'd with t'other grateful Sound;
Loud Blows they heard, and e'ery Stroak
Kept time and measure like a Clock,
Whilst rat'ling Chains encreas'd their Fears,
And terrify'd their frighted Ears;

137

Astonish'd now 'twixt Thump and Clink
They stood, and knew not what to think,
Pleas'd with the Sound of falling Waters,
But scar'd with Iron Links and Fetters;
Especially the 'Squire, whose Blood
Grew chill and frozen, as he stood,
That his Teeth chatter'd in his Mouth,
And pannick Fear allay'd his Drowth;
Whilst Quixote, tho' so valiant, found
His Courage almost run a ground;
That both the Heroes wise and wary
Stood pausing in a great Quandary.

The Brave, when any Danger's near,
By thinking wisely conquer Fear,
Whilst Cow'rds, for want of judging right,
Are oft by Shadows put to flight.

138

CANTO XXX.

The Don, tho' dark, resolves to face
The Danger of the dreadful Place,
From whence these Sounds arose by Night;
But Sancho stays him 'till 'tis Light.

T'encrease their Horror, now a Breeze
Arose, and whistl'd thro' the Trees;
Making each dreadful Sound the more
Discording, than it prov'd before:
However Quixote reassuming
His Courage, and his Fear o'ercoming,
Mounted his Courser, brac'd his Shield,
Like Knight equipping for the Field;
And turning round his Horse's Head,
To Sancho thus the Hero said;

‘No Furies Howls amidst their Pains,
‘Or clinking of infernal Chains;
‘No battling Gyants, who with Oaks
‘Contend, and give these mighty Stroaks,

139

‘Can terrify Don Quixote's Ear,
‘Or fill my Breast with servile Fear;
‘For I'm the Man, that's born to be
‘The Wonder of Knight-Errantry;
‘By this bold Arm and trusty Sword
‘The Golden Age shall be restor'd;
‘And Justice, who to Heav'n is flown,
‘On Earth be settl'd in her Throne;
‘On Pride and Lust I'm doom'd to trample,
‘And born to be the World's Example;
‘King Arthur's Order I'll revive,
‘That Knighthood may for ever live;
‘Once more the Worthy Nine advance,
‘And the twelve famous Peers of France:
‘To Deeds like these my valiant Heart
‘Shall lead me, 'till I get the start
‘Of all your Platyrs and Tablantes,
‘Your Transes, and your Olivantes,
‘And stand Renown'd for Wonders wrought,
‘Beyond all Knights that ever fought:

140

‘Nor shall the Darkness of the Night
‘Deter my Soul from some Exploit;
‘Or Waters, that come roaring down
‘From the steep Mountains of the Moon,
‘With all that thumping mix'd with Ratt'ling,
‘As if ten thousand Dev'ls were batt'ling,
‘Affright me from the bold Adventure
‘On which I am about to enter;
‘Therefore that I may sit the better
‘Pray girt my Rozinante straighter,
‘And then kind Providence direct me
‘The Way to Glory, and protect me.

‘ You, if you please, may tarry here,
‘For I perceive thou'rt full of Fear;
‘But if thou find'st that I delay
‘Returning, past the second Day,
‘Go then with speed unto my fair
‘Dulcinea, and to her declare
‘The mournful Tidings of my Death,
‘And how I sacrific'd my Breath

141

‘In deeds of Honour, that might move
‘Her stubborn Heart to mutual Love,
‘And make me worthy of performing
‘My Vows to her so truly charming.

Lord Sir, quoth Sancho, 'tis enough,
I think, that we're so well come off
From all those Goblins, Imps, and Sprites,
We met this Evening with their Lights;
And wou'd you have us now such Fools
To fight with roaring Whirle-pools,
And blunder into Slows and Ditches,
When 'tis as dark as any Pitch is?
What Man would in his Wits ride a'ter
Such a loud Spout of falling Water?
Where there's such clattering and clumping,
As if a thousand Devils were pumping.

‘The more tremendous Sounds I hear,
‘Replies the Don, the less I fear:
‘Consider where the Danger's great,
‘The Honour won is adequate;

142

‘Therefore no Darkness of the Skies
‘Shall make me lose this Enterprise:
‘Should all the Winds against me arm,
‘And conjure up so fierce a Storm,
‘That the whole Space became as black
‘As Hell, it should not keep me back;
‘But since thou'rt overcome with Fear,
‘I'll march alone, and leave thee here.

Dear Sir, quoth Sancho in a Tone
As dismal as a Teague's O hone,
For Heaven's sake don't ride away,
And leave your 'Squire 'till Break of Day;
You know I left poor Jug my Honey,
And all my Babes to wait upon ye;
For Drubs and Scraps have long forsaken
Good Bread and Cheese, and Eggs and Bacon;
And would you drop me e'er its Light,
As Whores do Bastards in the Night.

Thus Sancho us'd his utmost Art
To melt the Knight's obdurate Heart;

143

But all in vain, for he was still
Intirely bent to have his Will,
In pushing on without Delay,
Tho' Death stood grinning in his way:
But Sancho, having not one Spark
Of Courage left him in the dark,
Car'd not t'accompany the Don,
Nor yet to stay behind alone;
Therefore resolv'd to stop the Knight
By Stratagem, until 'twas Light:
Accordingly, as he was standing
By Rozinante's side, pretending
To girt the Saddle on the faster,
The better to secure his Master,
With's Ass's Halter did he bind
The Horse's Legs so close behind,
That when the Champion spurr'd his Steed,
Expecting he'd have run full Speed,
To's great Astonishment he found,
His Courser could not change his Ground
But by an awkward Leap or Bound:

144

The Knight suspecting not the Matter
In vain still terrify'd the Creature,
And chaff'd and fum'd at his ill Fortune,
Like Madam, catch'd behind the Curtain.

Sancho perceiving that his Plot
Detain'd his Master on the Spot,
Cry'd, Look you, Sir, don't think of roving
I'th' dark, since Heav'ns against our moving,
And will not suffer Horse or Ass
To budge one Step from this good Place:
Therefore submit to Pow'r supream,
And never strive against the Stream;
For all your Spurrings are but Kicks,
As Proverb says, against the Pricks.

‘I rather fancy, quoth the Don,
‘Some magick Spell is put upon
‘This Ground, that none by Night shall pass
‘The Vale to trample down the Grass;
‘If so, we are compell'd to stay
‘In spight of Fate, 'till Break of Day;

145

‘For tho' such Charms bind Man and Horse,
‘When Dark, the Light dissolves their Force;
‘But bless me, Sancho, what a Noble
‘Adventure to my Grief and Trouble,
‘Am I detain'd from, by the Spite
‘Of some Malicious Sage this Night?
‘Who that sustains a loss so great,
‘Can forbear sighing at his Fate?

Poh, Poh, quoth Sancho, never fret,
Who knows what Day-light may beget;
'Tis much beneath a Man of Courage
To whine because he's spilt his Courage;
Chear up, good Sir, be brisk and hearty,
I'll tell you Stories to divert ye,
Lest you'll alight and take a Nap,
To drown the Thoughts of this mishap,
And make your self more fit to enter
To Morrow on this bold Adventure.

‘What dost thou mean, replies the Don,
‘By Sleep? dost take me to be one

146

‘Of those poor Carpet-Knights, whose Souls
‘Consult their Ease when Honour calls;
‘Dost think that I can snoar and batten
‘In Grass, when roaring Dangers threaten?
‘Take thou thy Rest, thy Nature shows
‘Thou'rt born to Sloth and soft Repose;
‘But I those flinty Paths must tread,
‘That do to Fame and Honour lead.

Good Sir, quoth Sancho, ben't so hasty,
I meant no Harm, I do protest t'ye;
And as for sleeping, when I hear,
Or see the lightest Danger near,
Believe I'm no more able then
To take a Nap, than other Men.

‘Then prithee, quoth the Knight, in case
‘Thou canst not sleep upon the Grass;
‘If thou hast any story worth
‘The pains of telling, bring it forth.

Yes, yes, quoth Sancho, I can find
More Tales than one, if I've a Mind;

147

Pray mark what I'm about to say,
And if you'll hear my Tale you may.

In times of yore, when 'twas as 'twas,
E'er Knaves were hang'd for breaking Laws,
Or honest Men like Fools fell out
Without their knowing what about;
'Twas then I say, but hold a little,
Methinks I would not skip a Tittle,
For one Mistake is oft the Mother,
As well as Father of another;
Ay then it was, no 'twas n't neither;
A Tale should allways hang together;
For if a Man be out at first,
The best at last will prove the worst:
Now mind me, for I think I'm right,
'Twas black I'm sure, no, gad, 'twas white;
I find when once we chance to fall
Beside this, getting in is all:
'Twas in old times, so far it's true,
I'm sure it was not in the new:

148

When did I say it was, and where?
Excuse me, 'twas both then and there,
That a Wiseman vouchsaf'd to speak,
These words, when he was sick and weak,
Evil to them that Evil seek.
Which saying, I must tell you that
Is to our purpose full as pat
As Pudding for a Fryar's Mouth,
Or Cudgel for a stubborn Youth,
That we may learn from thence to keep
Out of harms way, and love to sleep
In a whole Skin, and not to run
Into those mischiefs we may shun;
Or in the dark like Madmen wander
To meet those ratling Devils yonder.

‘Leave that to me, replies the Don,
‘And with thy hodge-podge Tale go on.

Well then, quoth Sancho, you must know,
A certain Shepherd long ago,

149

I'm wrong, he was no Shepherd neither
But a young lusty Goatherd rather;
And once upon a time this Goatherd
Was such an Am'rous silly Dotard,
To play the Fool, as you may guess,
With a loose dowdy Shepherdess,
Till this same Baggage, I must tell ye,
Grew very plump about the Belly;
But when her Sweetheart understood
She'd turn'd his love to Flesh and Blood,
And saw by what she carr'd before her
How well he'd stuff'd her Cusheon for her,
He hung an Arse when he'd undone her,
And look'd but plaguy shy upon her:
Now you must know this buxom Sinner,
This Lass with little Bones within her,
This Hay-Mow tumbler of a VVench,
With a plump Belly like a Tench,
This bouncing, brawny, tawny Slut,
That us'd to play thus with her Scut,

150

‘Don't be so tedious, quoth the Don,
‘Why whither art thou rambling on?
‘Thou runn'st and rattl'st on, my 'Squire,
‘Just like a Jack without a Flyer.

I must, quoth Sancho, right or wrong,
Tell it my way, or hold my Tongue.

‘Then prithee, quoth the Knight, proceed,
‘I know thou canst not write or read,
‘Therefore go forward in thy Error.
‘I'm bound to be thy patient Hearer.

Well then, quoth Sancho, this same Creature,
Thus given to the Deeds of Nature,
When she perceiv'd her Sweet-heart shun'd her,
Who had so often turn'd her under,
Took Heart of Grace, and vow'd to be
As spiteful and as cross as he,
Declaring, if he would not wed her,
The County Jayl should be his Tedder;
But as we oft at Shadows gripe,
And Time and Straw make Medlars ripe,

151

The crafty Devil, who as it's said,
Does seldom in a Ditch lye dead,
Put it into the Goatherd's Skull,
To run away tow'rds Portugal
With all his Goats, which were at least
Three hundred very tydy Beast,
Which he carr'd off without Mistrust,
For when the Devil drives needs must:
At length he came to Guadiana,
A River in a large Suavana,
Which was too deep to ford, by chance
B'ing flouded with excessive Rains;
Nor could he meet a Barge to carry
His Goats, or was there any Ferry,
Nor any Vessel to be got,
Except a little Fisher-boat;
For which, besides the Man that row'd,
One Goat was a sufficient Load;
However he and the Piscator
Agreed at length about the matter,

152

So that the latter in his Boat
Engag'd to waft 'em Goat by Goat:
Accordingly he took in one,
Landed him safe, and when he'd done,
He put a second Goat on board,
Ferry'd him over, then a third;
But now, quoth Sancho, pray be sure
You keep Account of what goes o'er;
For when I ask you, if you make
In your Return but one Mistake,
It puts an End unto my Tale;
For when you blunder, I shall fail:
Now I must tell you, adds the 'Squire,
The Landing place was full of Mire,
And slipp'ry, that the Boatman tarry'd
The longer for't, each Goat he carry'd:
Yet, as I told you, he begun,
And made good shift to ferry one:
So on he went, and with much Pother
Landed another, and another.

153

‘Prithee, suppose 'em all, reply'd
‘The Don, convey'd on t'other side;
‘For if thou go'ft on one by one,
‘Twill be a Month before thou'st done.

No, no, quoth Sancho, 'twill be short
Enough, I'll pass my Credit for't;
I therefore beg you'll let me tell it
The Way I heard it, or I spoil it:
But mind me now, I'm at a loss
How many Goats are wafted cross,
Then shall I know how many more
The Man has still to carry o'er:

‘Why how the Devil, quoth the Don,
‘Should I know? Prithee Fool go on.

Nay then, quoth Sancho, I assure ye,
You've put a full stop to my Story.
My Tale upon the Account depended,
And since one's lost, the other's ended.

‘Truly, quoth Quixote, 'tis no matter,
‘Thou'st told enough on't, 'less 'twas better;

154

‘'Twas a strange Monster I'll be sworn,
‘Without a Head begot and born,
‘And was as wonderfully well
‘Concluded too without a Tail:
‘I fear this dreadful Noise of Chains,
‘And roaring Gulphs have turn'd thy Brains,
‘Or thou wou'dst ne'er have put me off
‘With such a rambling piece of Stuff.

Faith, Sir, quoth Sancho to the Knight,
Your Guess f'rought I know may be right;
For when I heard the Story first,
My sides with Laughing allmost burst;
But the strange frightful Sounds about
This place might put a Body out.

By this time Sancho, who had eat
At Supper sev'ral sorts of Meat,
Found some provoking fessis pent
In his grip'd Guts, that wanted Vent;
But being quite o'erpowr'd with Fear
By the loud Ratt'lings that were near,

155

Durst not thro' dread of some Disaster
Stir the least distance from his Master,
Did therefore silently conclude
To drop a Nosegay as he stood,
Hoping the Midnight Darkness might
Hide his ill Manners from the Knight:
Accordingly the 'Squire unties,
And slides his Trousers down his Thighs;
Steals up the Lappet of his Shirt
To make clear Passage for a Squirt,
Shrugs, grins, and screws with all his Art
His Guts to hinder the Report;
Then gently bending tow'rds the Ground
Let fly, but the obstrep'rous Sound
In spite of all his Pains and Care
Broke like loud Thunder in the Air.

‘Hark, quoth the Knight, what groaning noise
‘Is that so like a Dragon's Voice.

Something, quoth Sancho, that for certain
Bodes some Adventure, or ill Fortune;

156

‘Bad luck loves Company, 'tis known,
‘And therefore seldom comes alone.

The Knight, who some new Danger fear'd,
Now smelt the Thunder he had heard;
And finding that the Fumes arose
So strong into his Worship's Nose,
Who being angry cry'd, ‘Adsdeath,
‘Why this can be no Dragon's Breath:
‘This pois'nous Blast, I know full well,
‘Ascends not from the Mouth, but Tail;
‘And savours so of humane Nature,
‘It can be from no other Creature;
‘Therefore Friend Sancho, quoth the Knight,
‘I fear thou'rt in a stinking Fright;
‘Prithee remove a little wide,
‘Some Paces from my Horse's Side.

'Tis true, quoth Sancho to the Don,
I'm full of Fear I can't but own;
Who may I thank but you my Leader,
That makes me stretch beyond my Tedder,

157

And into these wild Places ride,
Where Danger roars on e'ery side,
And Midnight Devils in some Cell
Are forging Bars and Bolts for Hell:
Adsheart, it is enough, I think,
To make the stoutest Hero stink.

‘Since thou art subject, quoth the Knight,
‘To smell so rank upon a Fright,
‘Pray keep your distance when you find
‘Your dastard Fears have taken wind;
‘For I'm too brave, as well as nice,
‘To bear the stink of Cowardice.

Mayhap, quoth Sancho, you're conceiting
I've done something more than fitting;
Should I by chance transgress, I doubt,
Your Worship soon would smell me out.

‘Have done, quoth Quixote, with this matter,
‘The less you talk or stir the better:
‘Ill Manners, lengthen'd by Discourse,
‘Improves what's bad at best, to worse.

158

Sancho by this had taken care
To cover what before was bare,
And tye his Fomoralians on,
Suspected by the squeamish Don,
Who took the gross offensive Squirt
For nothing but a windy Flirt;
Then stealing by degrees behind
The Horse, he did his Legs unbind;
And thus the 'Squire put all things right
In order, by the time 'twas light.

No sooner had Aurora spread
Her rosy Mantle, and display'd
Her Blushes in the Eastern Skies,
Where the bright Goddess loves to rise,
But Quixote found himself to be
O'ershaded with a Chesnut-Tree,
Whose drooping Branches were a Grace
To all the solitary Place;
And 'twixt their Station and the Ground,
Diffus'd an awful Gloom around;

159

But tho' the Morning's Golden Light
Had now quite chas'd away the Night,
Yet neither could discover whence
This Noise of Waters, and of Chains,
And strange uncommon frightful Knocks
Of Hammers, Rammers, and of Blocks,
Arose, which thus had struck the Hearers
With such perplexing Fears and Terrours;
The Knight, being therefore fully bent
To know what all this Thunder meant
Took a kind solemn Leave once more
Of Sancho, as he'd done before,
Concluding with this short Addition
By way of tender Admonition.

‘Should I in this Attempt miscarry
‘By th' Hand of some bold Adversary;
‘Take thou no Care, nor grieve at all
‘At thy advent'rous Master's Fall,
‘For in my Will have I prepar'd
‘Thy Services a just Reward;

160

‘But if I chance to win the Day,
‘This Morning, as I hope I may,
‘Then Sancho will I surely give thee
‘Some fruitful Island to revive thee,
‘To which thou shalt in Triumph bring
‘Thy Wife, there Govern like a King.

These soft Expressions of the Don,
So tickl'd, pleas'd, and wrought upon
The 'Squire, that he resolv'd much rather
To die with one so like a Father,
Than to forsake so kind a Master,
In time of Peril and Disaster.
Thus the poor 'Squire who just before
Had turn'd Fear out at the Back-door,
Was now become a perfect stranger
To Cowardise, and dread of Danger;
So that the Day-light having freed
The Noble Champion and his Steed,
From Spells and Witches now he found
His Horse had Pow'r to change his Ground;

161

So on he rid, and Sancho a'ter
To find out the obstrep'rous Water,
And other Sounds, which all the Night
Had kept 'em both in such a Fright,
The Knight imploring on his Way
The Aid of fair Dulcinea,
And sometimes turning up his Eyes
To some good Saint above the Skies,
Whilst Sancho, who had ne'r the Pow'r
T'retain his Courage half an Hour,
Of Clubs and Gyants soon bethought him,
And look'd most warily about him.
At length unto a Rock they came,
From top of which a mighty Stream
Of roaring Waters tumbl'd down,
And dashing jump'd from Stone to Stone:
At foot of this same stony Hill,
From whence the foaming Cat'racts fell,
Some tatter'd Hovels they descry'd,
That join'd unto a River-side,

162

Whose Wall defac'd like Ruins stood,
Shatter'd long since by Storm or Flood;
From hence those dreadful Thumps and Blows
That rais'd their Fears they found arose,
Which caus'd the Knight to couch his Lance
Before he would too near advance,
Lest some fierce Dragon, Lyon, Bear,
Or Gyant should be lurking there,
Whilst Rozinante started back,
And snorted at each wondrous Thwack,
And Sancho, at the Noise he heard,
Cock'd up the Bristles of his Beard;
However Quixote spurr'd his Steed,
And boldly to the Fabrick rid,
Where to his wonderful Surprize
He staring fix'd his frighted Eyes
Upon six mighty Logs of Force,
That work'd unmov'd by Man or Horse.
He paus'd and gaz'd upon the Rammers,
That danc'd and thump'd like Vulcan's Hammers;

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Which very much amaz'd the Knight,
Who ne'er had seen so strange a sight,
And therefore took the whole to be
Some new inchanted Mistery;
At length he call'd, and out there came
A Clown, belonging to the same.

‘Prithee good Fellow, quoth the Don,
‘What Magick art thou here upon?
‘And for what Use or Incantation
‘Is that loud piece of Conjuration?

What, quoth the Clown in ridicule,
An armed Warrior and a Fool!
Zounds 'tis a Mill, if you would know:
Why where could you be born, I tro?
'Tis to make soft, and whiten Cloth,
And that's the truth on't by my troth.

The Knight abash'd and discontented
To find himself thus disappointed,
Held down his Noddle in a Passion,
And blush'd 'twixt Shame and Indignation,

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Whilst Sancho could not as he stood
Forbear loud Laughing for his Blood,
But grin'd and twitter'd at the Joke,
'Till's twatt'ling Strings were almost broke,
Repeating, to improve the Jest,
Some Words his Master had exprest,
When first they heard the Sounds they dreaded,
And knew not whence the Noise proceeded;
At which provoking Insolence,
The angry Knight took such Offence,
That with his Lance he struck the 'Squire
Two Blows, that savour'd of his Ire,
Which made his smarting shoulders feel
At once the Weight of Wood and Steel:
Sancho now finding that his Jesting,
In earnest ended in a Baisting,
Begg'd Pardon for his rude Transgression
With all due Rev'rence and Submission;
Crying, Pray good your Worship spare
My Bones, hard striking is not fair;

165

I would not vex you, if I knew it;
Alas I never us'd to do it:
I only jok'd that I might spy
Your Worship laugh as well as I.

‘Pray Mr. Jester, come you hither,
‘Quoth Quixote, and let's talk together;
‘Suppose this Accident you banter
‘Had prov'd a dangerous Adventure,
‘Could any Knight on Earth proceed
‘With greater Courage than I did?
‘Did I not shew all Resolution,
‘Becoming such a Prosecution?
‘What tho' it prov'd a false Alarm,
‘You see I did in earnest arm:
‘Why then should you presume to laugh?
‘The Disappointment is enough:
‘Besides Knight-Errants are not bound
‘To judge of each mechanick Sound,
‘As well as Fellows better fed
‘Than taught, in Mills and Hovels bred;

166

‘But were those Hammers once transform'd
‘Into six mighty Gyants arm'd,
‘Then should'st thou see what bloody slaughter
‘I'd make in spight of all thy Laughter.

Good Sir be patient, quoth the 'Squire,
I've err'd, and have been paid my Hire;
Since a small Jest is such a Crime,
I'll take more Care another time;
And rather lose an idle Joke,
Than have my Head in earnest broke;
But after all, consider right
Your Valour and my stinking Fright;
Th' Occasion of th' dreadful Noise,
That gave us such a sad Surprise;
And how these Gyants, Imps and Devils,
That threaten'd such approaching Evils,
And caus'd us both to stand aghast,
All ended in a Mill at last:
Now the Fright's o'er, I do protest
A Saint might laugh at such a Jest,

167

Tho' your stern Worship was so hard
To give me what you might have spar'd;
But let that pass, for I declare,
I do no Grudge or Malice bear;
The best of Masters in his Ire
May drub his Servant, or his 'Squire;
But then to pacify the Matter,
Comes a cast Cloak or Doublet a'ter;
Or may be as I've heard you say,
An Island happens in the way:
Who therefore would not bear the Pain
Of being thump'd or drub'd for Gain?

‘Fortune, quoth Quixote, soon may bring
‘Thy Hopes to pass in e'ery thing;
‘Therefore thou'rt prudent not to be
‘Provok'd by my Severity,
‘Since no Man can on all Occasions
‘Restrain the Impulse of his Passions;
‘But to prevent such future Mischance,
‘The safest way's to keep thy Distance:

168

‘Contempt proceeds, the learn'd agree,
‘From too much Famil'arity:
‘No Knight, I've read of, e'er allow'd
‘Those Liberties that make thee proud,
‘Or 'Squire before thee ever us'd
‘Those Freedoms thou hast oft abus'd.
‘The trusty Gandolin, that serv'd
‘The fam'd Amadis, never swerv'd
‘From the strict Rules of his Obedience,
‘But glory'd in his true Allegiance,
‘Listen'd half bent with Cap in Hand,
‘When he receiv'd his Knight's Command,
‘And fearing to provoke his Lord,
‘Bow'd thrice, before he spoke a Word;
‘Yet was he Governour the while,
‘And Earl of a Sardinian Isle.

‘Then Gasabel, who waited on
‘The Knight Galaor, that doubty Don,
‘Was never known to make one rude
‘Reply in all his Servitude;

169

‘Ne'er thwarted what his Master said,
‘But always silently obey'd;
‘So that to let the Reader see,
‘His prudent Taciturnity,
‘The Hist'ry does not make him speak
‘Thro' his whole Service once a Week;
‘So that if thou would'st prove an ample
‘Esquire, let these be thy Example.

I minded what your Worship said,
'Tis all, quoth Sancho, in my head;
If silence be so great a Virtue,
My future talk shall never hurt you.
I'll keep my slip'ry Member still,
Not a word more about the Mill.
If e'er I Jest or Joke again
About the Hammers, I'll be slain;
Do what you please, come Life or Death,
I'll keep my Tongue between my Teeth,
Your Shoulder dabs have spoil'd my Laughter,
And stop'd my twittering hereafter:

170

For I hate Drubbing, I protest,
As much as you can do a Jest.

No Servant ought to Ridicule
His Master, tho' a Knave or Fool;
Yet blust'ring Blockheads must expect
The World will Censure and Reflect.

CANTO XXXI.

Don Quixote puts a threat'ning Face on,
And frights the Barber from his Bason,
Believing it Mambrino's old
Victorious Helmet made of Gold.

The Clouds now gather'd, and began
In cooling Pearls to drop their Rain,
So that 'Squire Sancho had a will
To take up shelter in the Mill;

171

But Quixote hating to go nigh it,
Because so disappointed by it,
Fearing no Weather, spur'd his Steed,
And very briskly forward Rid
Into a Lane fenc'd in with Trees,
That lay between two Villages;
The Knight had not proceeded far
E'er he beheld a Man of War,
As he conceiv'd, who on had got
A Golden Helmet as he thought.

‘Now Sancho, quoth the chearful Don,
‘Here's a new Challenge coming on;
‘Old Proverbs for our help design'd,
‘Will prove their Verity I find;
‘For as one Door is shut, it happens
‘Another to our Int'rest opens;
‘Look forward, dost thou not behold
‘A Knight with Helmet made of Gold,
‘Joging on leasurely this way
‘Upon a Steed, his Colour Gray?

172

I see, quoth Sancho, what I see,
But spy no Warrier Cap-a-pee,
Some Mortal on an Ass appears,
Grayish, like mine, with pricked Ears,
And on his Head the Man has got,
Something that shines, I know not what.

‘I tell thee, Sancho, quoth the Don,
‘He's got Mambrino's Helmet on,
‘The Richest and most glorious Prize,
‘That can be won beneath the Skies;
‘Therefore stand off whilst I defy
‘This Champion, and the Combat try,
‘And thou shalt see that I alone
‘Will make the Golden Prize my own.

You need not question, quoth the 'Squire,
But I'll keep off as you desire;
I'll not come nigh enough to take
The wry blows you may chance to make;
For this same Helmet of Mambrino,
May prove more mischievous f'rought I know,

173

Than the late Fulling-Mill and Water,
That made so terrible a clatter.
‘Dog, quoth the Knight, pronounce once more
‘That odious Name, which I abhor,
‘And I shall thwack thy Whoreson's Back,
‘'Till thy sides hone, and Shoulders crack.
These hasty words that threaten'd bad luck,
On Sancho's Mouth soon put a Padlock,
And made him cautious how he spoke,
Another word that might provoke,
Whilst the fierce Knight his Arms prepar'd,
And put himself upon his Guard,
As wise Men do in all such cases,
Where Death and Danger shew their Faces.
Now is it time to let you know,
That this approaching frightful Foe,
Whom our brave Don suppos'd to be
A Knight in Armour Cap-a-pee,
Happen'd to prove a Country Barber,
Who did at no great distance harbour,

174

Joging along a gentle pace,
Upon a scrubbed grizly Ass,
Unto a little Neighbouring Town,
To bleed a Priest, and shave his Crown,
And with him having brought his Bason,
New furbish'd, made of Mettle Brasen,
He chanc'd to whelm it o'er his Brain,
To save his Beaver from the Rain,
So that it glitter'd at a distance
Like a bright Helmet of resistance,
Which dazzl'd Quixote's watchful Eyes,
And gave the Champion such surprize,
That when the shaver was come nearer,
He still persisted in his Errour,
And now resolv'd with all his might,
T'attack the harmless Washball Knight:
Accordingly he spur'd his Horse,
And rid full tilt with all his force,
In order bravely to subdue,
And pierce poor Tonsor thro' and thro',

175

Who seeing such a dreadful Figure,
Spur on with such uncommon vigour,
Did in the fright most nimbly quit
His slothful Assinego Tit,
Droping his Bason in the hurry,
T'escape so strange a monsters fury,
And over Banks and Ditches fled,
Confus'd with horrour, fear and dread:
Don Quixote proud that he had won
The Field, and that the Foe was run,
And gazing with delighted Eyes,
Upon the shining Golden Prize,
Which Trophy now neglected lay
Amidst the wet and dirty way;
Shame on the Miscreant, cryes he,
To lose such worth thus Cowardly;
So does the crafty hunted Beaver,
From's Body, with his Teeth dissever
That part, for which b' instinct he knows
He's chiefly worry'd by his Foes.

176

Then calling to his trusty 'Squire,
He bid him reach from out the mire
The Golden Cap, and bring the same
To him, who'd won it to his Fame:
Sancho, according to command,
Took up the Trophy in his Hand,
Crying, Sure, Sir, you've lost your Reason:
'Tis nothing but a Barber's Bason.
This Gold! Egad, I'll hold my Ass
To a Pigs Tail, it is but Brass;
So thin, and of so small a weight,
That 'tis not worth a piece of Eight.

Quoth Quixote, ‘Prithee Blockhead hold
‘Thy Tongue, thou know'st not Brass from Gold,
‘A Barber's Bason of base mettle,
‘Thou may'st as well say 'tis a Kettle.
‘Pray hand it hither, quoth the Don,
‘That I may try the Helmet on.
‘How do I look? O happy Fortune,
‘'Twas once Mambrino's of a certain;

177

‘But what a woundy swinging Head
‘The Pagan had, when this was made;
‘Besides 'tis much impair'd, I find,
‘By Combats fought time out of Mind;
‘The Beaver and the Vizor's lost,
‘Which once so many hundreds cost;
‘Yet there is Weight of Gold I feel
‘To make a Noble Helmet still;
‘And to new model it I'll treat with
‘The next good Armourer I meet with;
‘Then with what Courage shall I fight,
‘When stil'd by all, The Golden Knight.

Sancho, who ready was to break
His Silence at the Knight's Mistake,
Could not with all his Care contain
Himself, but simper'd now and then;
Which the Don seeing at a Glance,
Cry'd, ‘How now Master Ignorance,
‘I am not blind, pray what's the meaning
‘Of your sly twittering and grinning?

178

Lord, Sir, I only smile to think,
How much good Meat, and how much Drink
That huge Gigantick swinging Fellow,
When living, at a Meal must swallow,
For whose strange monstrous Logger-head
That mighty Bason first was made;
Helmet, nay golden Helmet, Sir,
Is what I mean, I vow and swear;
And really, that was all the Jest,
That made me simper, I protest.

‘Remember, quoth the Don, this Rule,
‘Much Laughter shews a Man a Fool;
‘Besides, it is in Proverb said,
‘A close Mouth makes a prudent Head.

I mind, quoth Sancho, what you say,
'Twill be my own, another Day;
But here's a good grey Ass, I find,
A Horse, I mean, I think I'm blind;
I hope your Worship will agree,
That he, as Veils, belongs to me.

179

‘It can't be granted thee, because
‘Thus, replies Quixote, say the Laws;
‘He, that subdues or overthrows
‘By force of Arms his Foe or Foes,
‘Shall not, when they are so brought under,
‘Their Horse or Horses take as Plunder,
‘But leave them safe to bear away
‘The Knight, or Knights, that lose the Day.

I'm answer'd, quoth the 'Squire, but sure
I may exchange their Furniture;
Take theirs, if better than my own,
And leave them mine, next kin to none.

‘Now Sancho, quoth the Don, thou'rt right,
‘That's a 'Squire's lawful perquisite;
‘But spare the Courser, let him go,
‘Or Ass, if thou wilt have him so.

The Master had no sooner granted
That Leave which Sancho chiefly wanted,
But his old Halter and his Pannel,
Not worth the taking out the Kennel,

180

Were quickly (for he was not idle)
Turn'd to a Saddle and a Bridle;
So that by swapping mine for thine,
Sancho's old Ass grew wondrous fine,
And in his Trappings look'd as gay
As Joan, I will be bold to say,
New dizen'd on her Wedding-Day.

As soon as Sancho thus had made
His Scrub a very sumptuous Jade,
And left his Trump'ry to disgrace
The Barber's poor dejected Ass;
Away the Master and the Man
Jogg'd on as great as Cup and Can,
Both proud and highly pleas'd to see
The Trophies of their Victory;
Sancho much tickl'd to behold
The Don's sham Helmet worn for Gold,
And his grave Worship smiling glad
To see Friend Sancho's Ass so clad,

181

That neither car'd which way they went,
Their happy Thoughts were so intent
Upon the Knight's mistaken Brass,
And glorious Trappings of the Ass,
But gave to Rozinant the Pow'r,
As the most wise of all the four,
To lead the Van, and guide the rest,
And chuse what way himself thought best,
Who very gravely mov'd and step'd
Like Higler's Pad as if he slep'd,
'Till by his Cunning, which was ow'd
To Age, he found the common Road,
Where one did after t'other wander
Like Pads, in search of further Plunder:
At length as they were jogging on,
Quoth Sancho to the pensive Don;
I pray Sir, give me leave to break
My Silence, that a Man may speak;
I hate this travelling hum drum,
As if we both were deaf and dumb;

182

Besides I've often in my Head
Something that's proper to be said;
And now it must be lost, forsooth,
Because you padlock up my Mouth.

‘Prithee, quoth Quixote, let me hear
‘What 'tis thou would'st so fain declare,
‘But let it be in short exprest;
‘For Brevity is always best.

Well then, quoth Sancho, to be plain,
And full as brief as e'er I can,
I think this Rambling to and fro,
From Hedge to Hedge, and Foe to Foe,
Sant'ring in solitary Roads,
Wide Desarts, and untrodden Woods,
Will bring us in the End I fear
To worse than Castles in the Air;
Hags, Devils, Blankets, Slings and Stones,
Drought, famish'd Guts, and cudgel'd Bones
We've had already, and my Mind
Foretells there's something worse behind.

183

Besides in this same lonely Place,
Should we each Day destroy a Race
Of Gyants, or a Den of Dragons,
Or slay a thousand Moors and Pagans;
I dare to hold my Life or Sword on't,
The World would never know a word on't;
For here is no tale-bearing Friend
To catch a Story by the End;
Nor tattling Gossips on this Road
To brute your Victories abroad;
So that what e'er you do is drown'd
For want of Tongues to wheel it round;
Therefore I say, 'tis better far
To serve some King that is at War,
And then in Battle you may shew
Your Valour and your Conduct too;
Then if your Worship does but chance
To pierce a Pigmy with your Lance,
The King's good Friends, you may rely on't,
Will soon report the Dwarf a Gyant,

184

And by the Fibs they talk and write
Make you the wonder of a Knight;
And as you swell in Fame and Title,
Your trusty 'Squire must share a little.

‘Truly, Friend Sancho, quoth the Don,
‘What thou hast said is right I own,
‘But still 'tis requisite a Knight,
‘Before he does in publick fight,
‘Should range the World, and draw his Sword
‘In private, 'till he's well inur'd
‘To Hardships, Dangers, and Alarms,
‘As a Probationer in Arms,
‘That the Fame, Honour and Renown,
‘He has in single Combat won,
‘May reach the Ears of some crown'd Head,
‘That needs so brave a Champion's Aid:
‘Then he'll be sent for to his Court,
‘And wellcom'd by the better sort:
‘The Ladies swarm like Bees about him;
‘The Courters fawn, the Rabble shout him,

185

‘And cry, there goes that valiant He,
‘Or what his Title chance to be,
‘Who kill'd at one successful Blow
‘That monstrous Gyant Taffilo,
‘Who daily us'd to suck the Blood
‘Of beauteous Virgins for his Food,
‘And swallow'd down Knights Heads instead
‘Of Penny Loaves of wheaten Bread:
‘These are the Praises that he meets
‘From gazing Crowds, that fill the Streets,
‘'Till he at last in Triumph comes
‘To the King's Palace, where his Drums
‘And Trumpets eccho thro' the Air,
‘To bid the Knight thrice wellcome there.
‘No sooner has he pass'd in State
‘Thro' the first Court, and second Gate,
‘But the King's Daughter in her Chamber
‘Bright as the Moon, and sweet as Amber,
‘Stands peeping thro' the Chrystal Glass
‘To view his Person and his Face,

186

‘And to her Maids that wait behind,
‘First sighs, and then declares her Mind,
‘Protesting that she ne'er had seen
‘So fine a Look, or awful Mein.

‘Then all the Courtly Knights come forth
‘To Compliment the Champion's worth,
‘And in their greatest Pomp to bring
‘His doubty Worship to the King,
‘Who, tho' design'd, seems unawares,
‘To meet him on the Royal Stairs,
‘Salutes his Cheek, and hugs his Guest,
‘Most kindly to his Princely Breast,
‘Then leads him to her Grace, the Queen,
‘To see her Highness and be seen,
‘Where the young Princess too sits by,
‘And sighing gives a leering Eye,
‘That in her Looks he may discover,
‘She means him for her only Lover,
‘And that in time she'll take occasion,
‘By stealth to let him know her Passion.

187

‘Then doubtless is the Knight convey'd
‘To th' best Apartment, ready made
‘To entertain him, where he throws
‘His Armour off for costly Cloths,
‘And is in sumptuous Scarlet Vest,
‘With Ermins lin'd, by Pages drest,
‘That he who was so much admir'd
‘In martial Steel, when thus attir'd,
‘Might please the Ladies Eyes much more
‘Than his rough Dress had done before.

‘Then to rich Banquets he's invited,
‘There with fine Fruits and Wines delighted,
‘Surrounded by a beautious Train,
‘That brighter shines than Charles's Wain;
‘Among the rest the King's fair Daughter,
‘Just ripe in Fancy, and by Nature;
‘She who before admir'd the Knight
‘In Arms so greatly, at first sight
‘He leers at her, and she at him,
‘She drinks, he pledges to the brim:

188

‘And thus by Looks and other Arts,
‘They shew their Love by Fits and Starts;
‘Yet manage e'ery nimble Motion
‘Of their quick Eyes with so much Caution,
‘That neither King or Queen discovers
‘The least Intrigue between the Lovers.
‘Now the young Princess does impart
‘The painful Secrets of her Heart,
‘And to her Confident reveals
‘Her Grief, and all her Weakness tells:
‘Kind Letters daily are convey'd
‘From one to t'other by her Maid;
‘And pleasing Interviews without
‘The least Mistrust are brought about;
‘And when they meet what 'tis they do
‘No Mortal knows besides them two;
‘But then the King proclaims a War
‘With some great Prince or Emperour,
‘And the Knight's Service is requir'd;
‘Who with the Thirst of Glory fir'd,

189

‘Does with all Chearfulness agree
‘T'embrace the Opportunity,
‘In hopes his Sword may raise his Fortune,
‘And make the Lady's Love more certain,
‘Or that his valiant Deeds the rather
‘In time may win her of her Father.
‘He does accordingly receive
‘His Orders, then he takes his Leave
‘Of King and Queen, and all the Court,
‘With Love and Honour in his Heart;
‘Then from the Palace makes his way
‘By th' Chamber, where the Princess lay;
‘She for a farewel Conge waits
‘Aloft, behind some Iron Grates,
‘That a kind Cur'sie from her Honour
‘Might make him think the more upon her;
‘He looks and trembles at the place,
‘Where he so oft had seen her Face:
‘She nods and winks, but when he's gone,
‘Falls backwards in a fearful Swoon;

190

‘One Maid runs headlong for cold Water,
‘Another in a fright trips a'ter,
‘The Knight's call'd back with speed to give her
‘His hand, to comfort and revive her;
‘The Princess mends at his approach,
‘And cryes, alas! my Grief is such,
‘What Woman ever bore so much?
‘Kind Words and Kisses soon appease
‘Her Breast, and give her Sorrows ease;
‘And now they rightly fix all matters,
‘To have an intercourse of Letters;
‘She begs him quickly to return,
‘To Court, that she may cease to mourn;
‘He grants whatever she desires,
‘And swears to all that she requires;
‘Then in the Confident comes starting,
‘And in a fright entreats their parting

‘The Knight pursues the King's commands;
‘And bravely heads his Houshold Bands,

191

‘Does mighty Wonders in the Field,
‘Subdues his Foes, and makes 'em yield;
‘Returns Victorious to the Court,
‘Huzza'd by Crowds of e'ery sort,
‘Where, after, he is made a Lord,
‘By wise consent of CouncilBoard,
‘In private he's again convey'd
‘To th' Chamber of the Royal Maid,
‘There left to feast his Lips with Kisses,
‘And do what e'er his Lordship pleases;
‘At length th' agree upon a Day,
‘When Madam's to be stol'n away;
‘He comes exactly at the Hour;
‘She meets him, and away they scour,
‘Are Marry'd in some Country Town,
‘Where both the Lovers Bed unknown:
‘The Princess soon is miss'd at Court,
‘Her Governess blam'd greatly for't;
‘The King sends out his Servants after
‘His only Child, as well as Daughter;

192

‘At length they find 'em both, and bring
‘The Knight and Princess to the King,
‘Who understanding that they're wedded,
‘And have been also fairly bedded,
‘Pardons his Daughter's Misbehaviour,
‘And takes 'em both into his Favour,
‘Dies quickly after, and his Son,
‘In right of Madam, claims the Throne,
‘And thus in time does Fortune bring
‘The doubty Knight to be a King.

‘When climb'd himself, his next Desire
‘Is to advance his trusty 'Squire,
‘On whom he does bestow some Maid
‘Of Honour to delight his Bed,
‘The only Fav'rite, whom the Queen
‘Had in her Love confided in,
‘Yet never in her Life betray'd
‘One thing, that e'er was done or said,
‘For whose Fidelity it may be
‘He's made a Lord, and she my Lady;

193

‘Grow rich and proud by wealthy places,
‘And rise in time to be their Graces:
‘Thus you may see how Knights and 'Squires
‘At length accomplish their Desires.

I wish, quoth Sancho, that we may
Both live to see that happy Day,
Wherein your Worship might but wed
The Queen, and I her Chamber-maid:
And when these Wonders come to pass,
Into a Horse I'll turn my Ass;
For if I'm honour'd, 'tis the least
Preferment I can give the Beast;
Nor do I doubt but you will find
All matters happen to your Mind;
Especially if you'd but claim
That fortunate, tho' rueful Name,
Knight of the woeful Countenance,
Which popping in my Head by chance,
If you'll but take it, I am certain
'Twill bring us both to mighty Fortune.

194

‘I do assume it, quoth the Knight,
‘I know the Title suits me right;
‘Therefore the next thing to be done,
‘In order to ascend a Throne,
‘Is now to range all Nations over,
‘'Till we've the Fortune to discover
‘Some supream wealthy Legislator,
‘Or King, who has an only Daughter;
‘But on fresh thoughts 'tis time enough
‘For that, when we have giv'n such Proof
‘Of our true Valour, that each Mouth
‘May spread our Fame from North to South:
‘But after all, one ugly point
‘Knocks our whole Measures out of Joint;
‘How shall I shew that my Descent
‘Is from some ancient Government?
‘And prove my self to be akin
‘To some great King, or famous Queen;
‘For Royal Blood's a mighty matter
‘In Courtship of an Emperor's Daughter;

195

‘And he that to a Throne's a Cousin,
‘Tho' the Removes have been a dozen,
‘And he as wretched and as poor
‘As any Indian Sagamoor,
‘Yet shall his Royal Blood much sooner
‘Prevail with nice and squeamish Honour,
‘Than one's that braver far than he,
‘Without those Drops of Royalty.

Poh Sir, quoth Sancho, never doubt,
But you'll find ways to make that out:
If you've but Flesh enough that's good,
Young Ladies never mind your Blood;
Besides your Fancy can recall
A Race of Kings, if that be all;
And you I know can make with Ease
Your self akin to which you please.

‘The World, replies the Knight, can boast
‘But two Originals at most;
‘One has been great, but is not so,
‘T'other is great, but once was low:

196

‘Some to a very high Degree
‘Have risen from Obscurity;
‘Others reduc'd unto the same
‘From lofty Pinnacles of Fame;
‘Therefore for certain I must be
‘Akin to some great Family,
‘That either have been Kings, or are,
‘Altho' I cannot tell you where:
‘However should the King refuse
‘To give me's Daughter for a Spouse,
‘'Twill be to Knighthood no Dishonour
‘To put a pleasing Force upon her,
‘And in a Coach by Night, or rather
‘On Horseback steal her from her Father;
‘To whose revengeful Indignation
‘Time must give End, or Death Cessation.

You're right, quoth Sancho, never creep
For what by struggling you may reap:
Some Ladies will be won, they say,
By Force, and by no other Way:

197

But all I fear, when you have wed
This Princely Heiress in your Head,
And come to wait, as I suppose
Your Worship must, for Deadmens Shoes,
That I must barefoot go 'till you
Possess the Kingdom in your View,
Unless her Highness would agree
Her Maid should be a Match for me;
And then perhaps your trusty 'Squire,
By Cast off Smocks, and old Attire,
Might make a shift, 'till you obtain
That Kingdom where you mean to reign.

‘I've told thee, quoth the Knight already,
‘As soon as I have stoln the Lady,
‘Thou hast immediate Right to wed
‘The pretty Dam'sel that's her Maid:
‘Her forwardness will need no Force,
‘The Lass will know she's thine of Course;
‘For when her Princess weds the Knight
‘His 'Squire becomes her Perquisite;

198

‘And if she finds thee not come to,
‘She'll claim thee as her lawful Due;
‘Besides as soon as we possess
‘Our Kingdom, we can do no less
‘Than raise thee high in our Esteem,
‘And rank thee next the Diadem;
‘Make thee a Duke of some fine place,
‘And then thou must be stil'd his Grace;
‘Whilst high-bred Ladies in their Coaches
‘Give Visits to your Bride the Dutchess,
‘And noble Lords and Knights, to shew
‘Their Breeding, pay the like to you.

Were I, quoth Sancho, to appear
In Costly Robes, I dare to swear,
I should the same as well become
As any Lord in Christendom;
For once I had the Luck to be
Beadle to a Fraternity;
And then, tho' bred a Country Clown,
When dizen'd up with Staff and Gown,

199

The Broth'rhood oft would say, no Creature
On Earth could e'er become it better;
Therefore how nobly must I look
In costly Robes, when made a Duke!

‘But, quoth the Knight, you must take care
‘To prune that frowzy Crop of Hair,
‘Or in your Beard the World will see
‘Your humble homespun Pedigree;
‘The Barber will renew your Face,
‘And Taylor give you Shape by Dress:
‘Therefore what Nature has deny'd
‘To th' Great, must be by Art supply'd.

Right, quoth the 'Squire, for should a Lord
Appear in Beggar's Coat and Beard,
His noble Blood, for all his Brags,
I doubt, would scarce shine thro' his Rags;
Therefore since frowsy Hair and Patches
Would make great Persons look like Wretches,
Why mayn't rich Robes and beardless Face
Make me as comely as his Grace?

200

For to be plain, in Pomp and Pence
Lyes all the mighty Difference;
So that when once you reign in State
O'er all those Kingdoms in your Pate,
Take you but care, that I shall be
A Lord, and leave the rest to me.

Thus Lust of Pow'r and Wealth, we find,
Too oft does humane Reason blind,
And make depending Slaves give way
To what their Betters madly say.

201

CANTO XXXII.

Don Quixote from the Gally saves
Twelve Convicts, sentenc'd to be Slaves,
Who after bang the Knight and 'Squire,
And rob them of their loose Attire.

The doubty Champion of La Mancha,
Ending his Talk with Sancho Panca,
As throwing round his roving Eyes,
Before him saw to his Surprize
Twelve wretched Mortals in a Train,
All link'd in one continu'd Chain,
So close, that their adjoining Heads
Seem'd strung upon a Line like Beads;
For each was fasten'd by the Neck
With a long Chain too strong to break;

202

All moving like a Western Teem,
That tug up Barges 'gainst the Stream;
Two ill-look'd Horsemen, arm'd with Swords
And Carabines, rid by as Guards:
Two more on foot, austere and gruff,
With Pistols stuck in Belts of Buff,
And Javelins in their Hands to pierce
The Skins of those that hung an Arse.

No sooner had poor Sancho spy'd
These Scare-crows on the High-way side,
But having seen the like, he knew
What Service they were marching to,
And fearing that the Knight should make
This an Adventure by Mistake,
That might bring on the usual Curse
Of heavy Blows, or something worse,
He cry'd, I beg you, Sir, take care,
And meddle not in this Affair;
For these are Rogues, strong lusty Fellows,
To th' Gallies doom'd instead of Gallows;

203

They're each to labour for a Time,
Lengthen'd according to his Crime,
That painful Pulls and scanty Meals
May make 'em sorry for their Ills;
Therefore consider they are going
To serve the King in Galley-rowing,
And that 'tis dangerous to prevent
Their just and lawful Punishment.

‘It's Tyranny, replies the Don,
‘In any Prince, that rules a Throne,
‘To force his Subjects to be Slaves
‘By Land, or on the foaming Waves;
‘The worst of Rogues may be abus'd;
‘Men should not be like Horses us'd;
‘Therefore by Knighthood, and by Nature,
‘I'm bound t'enquire into the matter.

But Sir, quoth Sancho, if you please,
The King has put no Force on these;
They're all by Law condemn'd to be
For such a time in slavery;

204

And if we rescue them for certain,
Their Punishment will be our Fortune,
And all our Kingdoms by your Folly
Be turn'd at once into a Gally.

‘I say, replies the Knight, the Name
‘Of King and Law imply the same;
‘And if we are opprest by either,
‘The Fault must be in both together;
‘When the Law's hard, the Legislator
‘Should shew himself a Moderator;
‘And if he does not, we may say
‘With Justice, he's as bad as they:
‘Who therfore knows but these poor Wretches,
‘That now are driving under Hatches,
‘May for some trifling Faults be hurry'd
‘To Sea, where they'll alive be bury'd;
‘Wherefore I cannot let 'em pass
‘In Honour, 'till I've heard their Case.

The Jailors with their fetter'd Troop
Of Slaves by this time were come up;

205

So that the Knight in civil Terms
Accosted those that were in Arms;
And ask'd 'em why those wretched Creatures
Were led along in Chains and Fetters.

To which a Brute, with Nose and Eyes
Like a vex'd Bull-dog, thus replies;
They're Criminals condemn'd to mow
The great green Meadow, if you'd know,
And not to come again on shoar,
'Till their long Harvest-time is o'er.

‘I understand you, quoth the Knight;
‘But is their Sentence just and right?
‘Has not the Judge been too severe?
‘What are their Crimes? pray let me hear.

Just, quoth the Jailor, or unjust,
They're all condemn'd, and go they must:
But what good Services they've done,
What Pranks they've plaid, what hazards run,
To recommend 'em to a Gally;
Pray, ask 'em, they'll be proud to tell you.

206

With that the Knight applies unto
The foremost of the slavish Crew;
Enquiring gravely by what Knav'ry
He'd brought himself to Gally-Slav'ry.

I only was in Love, reply'd
The Rogue, and by that means decoy'd
Into these Chains, for want of Sence
To govern my Concupiscence.

‘Hard, quoth the Knight, that thy Affection
‘Should bring thee to such sharp Correction;
‘Should all that are in Love be us'd
‘As Slaves, my self may be abus'd:
‘But I suppose you hanker'd after
‘Some high-born Noble's Wife or Daughter;
‘Or beauteous Lady, whose Degree
‘Was far above your Quality:
‘So that they've sent you to a Gally
‘For your rude Impudence and Folly.

No Sir, reply'd the Slave, I'm vitious
'Tis true but ne'er was so ambitious;

207

In short I only chanc'd to fall
In Love with a Gold Cup, that's all:
Therefore in hopes to mend my Fortune,
One Night I nimm'd it, that's for certain.

‘Then thou'rt a Rascal, cryes the Knight.
Faith Master, quoth the Slave, that's right;
And if your Worship wants to find
Eleven more, they're close behind.

Then turning to the next, the Don
Desir'd he'd make his Vertues known,
Whose Answer was, His only Fact
In short was lifting what he lack'd,
And piking off by Night or Day
With any Booty in his way.

‘Then you, replies the Knight, profess
‘The Mistery of Theft, I guess.

I borrow'd, quoth the Slave, sometime,
But ne'er return'd, there lay the Crime.

Then the Don turning to the Third,
At him, who answer'd not a Word,

208

But look'd as sullen, and as moody
As a cross'd Lover in a Study.
This surly Booby, cryes the next,
That is so mute, and seems so vex'd,
Does in this manner droop and languish,
Because the Coward sung in Anguish.

‘I must confess, replies the Knight,
‘I do not understand you right:
‘Sing away Sorrow I have found,
‘When Mirth and Wine went briskly round,
‘But Sing in Anguish is a Phrase
‘I never heard in all my Days.

Then, quoth the Slave, you shall be more
Accomplish'd than you were before;
To sing in Anguish is to make
A clear Confession on the Rack;
And this same Fellow here, whose Crime
Was stealing Sheep from time to time,
Tattl'd or sung, by which is meant
Acknowledging his Guilt in Cant;

209

A Fault, which hardy Rogues agree,
Is scandalous and cowardly;
He's therefore made the common Jest,
And laughing stock of all the rest;
That makes the moody Rogue, and please ye,
So sullen, silent, and uneasy.

Then to the fourth Don Quixote turn'd,
A grave old Don, who wept and mourn'd,
And shook his Beard, as if he felt
Some inward prickings of his Guilt:
‘How, now, old Father, quoth the Knight,
‘What hast thou done, that is not right?
‘What Crimes have brought thy aged Furrows
‘To these unseasonable Sorrows?
‘When Nature scarce has strength to bear
‘The galling Weight of so much Care:
But this would not procure an Answer
From the poor penitential Grandsire;
So that a merry Rogue, among
The rest, both quick of Wit and Tongue,

210

Reply'd, that old religious Dad,
That prays and weeps all Day like mad,
Is a Whim-broker for the fair,
Who deals in bringing things to bear;
He's an old pious Pimp in short
Between the City and the Court,
Who us'd to make rich gouty Nobles,
And wild Extravagants his Bubbles,
By topping young experienc'd Jades
Upon the Gulls for Maiden-heads;
And bringing Sharpers of the Town
For Men of Title and Renown
To ease the Itch, and cool the Flames
Of barren lustful City Dames:
Besides he did pretend to be
An Artist in Astrology,
Told Fortunes, manag'd Love-Intrigues,
Made Matches, settl'd amorous Leagues,
Had Female Fern-Seed, Dragons, Glasses,
To shew young Fools their Lovers Faces,

211

And made unlawful Conjuration
A gainful part of his Profession,
For which the old deceitful Cuff
At Market-Cross wore wooden Ruff,
And now with us must quit the Shoar
For Stripes, hard Bisket, and the Oar:
Chear up Old Daddy in thy Age,
Thou'lt ne'r be drown'd, I dare engage,
As long as there's a Gallows standing
Thou'rt safe, what signifies complaining?

‘Had not the Sin of Conjuration
‘Been, quoth the Knight, an Aggravation
‘Of his Love-Managements, which you
‘Have giv'n so ill a Title to,
‘I think such sort of friendly Knavery
‘Would not deserve a starving Slavery;
‘For tho' you stile him like a Novice,
‘A Pimp, his Trade's a civil Office,
‘Which any cordial Friend or Brother
‘Will freely do to serve another:

212

‘Happy's the Noble, that can bring
‘A beauteous Mistress to the King,
‘Nay, thinks it no Dishonour neither
‘To hold the Door when they're together;
‘Blest is the Valet, who can sneak
‘To his Lord's Chamber once a Week,
‘Up the back-stairs with a new Face,
‘To please his Lordship or his Grace;
‘And glad is Madam's trusty Maid
‘To usher to her Lady's Bed
‘Some strong-back'd Cousin, and to guard
‘The Chamber for a small Reward;
‘In short, both Sexes do approve
‘Their Pimps, as Messengers of Love;
‘And faithful Cent'ries, that secure
‘At once both Honour and the Door:
‘They're in all Courts esteem'd we see,
‘For Service and Fidelity;
‘And therefore ought to be protected,
‘Instead of punish'd or corrected:

213

‘For since both Sexes are inclin'd
‘To Love by Nature, and be kind,
‘'Tis hard to persecute such Friends,
‘That help us to obtain our Ends.

The Knight then riding to the side
O'th' fifth Offender, thus apply'd;
‘How now, young Spark, pray what Offence
‘Has brought your Rogueship into Chains?
‘You look as if you did not value
‘The slavish Penance of a Gally.

Sir, quoth the Slave, to tell you truth,
My Crimes were but the Sins of Youth,
Meer Failings of the Flesh, which all
Are tainted with from Adam's Fall;
Only th' unfortunate are caught,
And punish'd, but the lucky not:
A Blot's no Blot, untill it's hit,
All sin, but some are more discreet,
And if detected in a Crime,
Swear heartily 'tis the only time;

214

But I, like an unthinking Dunce,
Crept into Bed to two at once;
Both my own Nieces, and begot
Two Bastard Cousins on the Spot;
And by incestuous Fornication
Rais'd up so strange a Generation,
That all the Casuistick Train,
Of Holy Fathers now in Spain,
Or skilful Heralds in the Nation,
Can't fix or settle our Relation:
And this is all for which I'm sent
Six Years to Gally Punishment,
That Labour and hard Fare may tame
The Member, that has wrought my Shame;
Therefore I hope Sir Knight you'll give me
A Spill to comfort and releive me;
For I was really bred a Scholar,
Tho' now I'm chain'd in Iron Collar;
And had I been but gelt before
I'd plaid these foolish Pranks on shoar,

215

I'd been the Pastor of a Flock;
But now I'm bound to curse the Smock.

‘Well, well, be patient, quoth the Don,
‘I'll stand thy hearty Friend anon.
Then turning to the sixth, a bold
And daring Rogue 'twixt young and old;
Loaded with Fetters and a Clog,
Like a mad Horse or Mastiff-Dog,
And manacl'd with greater Care
Than all his guilty Comrades were:
‘What Monster's this, quoth doubty Knight,
‘Chain'd like a Tyger for a sight?
‘Why is this squinting Wretch opprest
‘With heavier Irons than the rest?
‘Because that Fellow, quoth the Keeper,
‘In Villainy is learn'd much deeper
‘Than all the Rogues, that e'er were sent,
‘Or carr'd from Jail to Punishment:
‘He's plagu'd and rob'd thro' e'ery County,
‘His Name is Gines de Passimonte;

216

‘Chang'd sometimes into Ginesillo,
‘To which he adds de Parapillo,
‘With many alias's beside,
‘All mention'd when the Rogue was try'd.

Hold Sir, reply'd the Thief, forbear,
Tho' you're my Keeper, 'tis not fair
To give a Gentleman more Names,
In Trouble, than he justly claims:
'Tis true, the World may say I've taken
These Names perhaps to save my Bacon;
What then, th' ill-natur'd World may call
You Rascal too, if that be all:
Who can help that? What Man is able
To stop the Mouths o'th' giddy Rabble?
I own no Name, if I have twenty,
But honest Gines de Passimonte:
Then boldly turning to the Don,
Cry'd, You Sir, with your Armour on,
Who're so inquisitive to know
From whence we come, and where we go;

217

If you'll relieve us with a Ducat,
Be quick, and pull it out your Pocket,
And hold us not in such Suspence,
To answer your Impertinence:
Blood I am Gines de Passimonte,
And that's my Name Sir, no Affront t'ye;
As for my Life and Conversation,
My Parentage and Education,
There's an Account in black and white,
That will in Season come to Light.

‘That, quoth the Officer, is Truth,
‘He's penn'd a Journal from his Youth,
‘Of e'ery roguish Prank and Crime
‘He's plaid and acted in his time;
‘The Manuscript lies now in pawn,
‘He's borrow'd fifty Crowns thereon.

Yes, quoth the Slave, and shall, I hope,
Redeem it, spight of Sea or Rope.

‘Sure, quoth Don Quixote, it must be
‘A witty piece of Roguery;

218

‘And pray, Sir, is your Hist'ry quite
‘Compleated, cryes the busy Knight.

How should that be, replies the Thief,
As long as I am blest with Life?
D'ye think me such a Lump of Clay,
That has no more Rogues Tricks to play?
No, no, I hope to live and reign,
'Till it's inlarg'd as big again:
You see as for us honest Fellows,
The Gally saves us from the Gallows,
And then the Gallows, when we're Slaves,
Secures us from the drowning Waves:
Therefore my Sentence makes me laugh,
Because I know 'twixt both I'm safe.

‘Pray, Sir, quoth Quixote, if you please,
‘Let's hear the Title of your piece,
‘That I may know it from the Croud
‘Of other Books, that steal abroad.

What, quoth the Rogue, d'ye think should be
The Title of my History,

219

But this? A full and true Account
Of Captain Gines de Passimont,
Containing an exact Relation
Of his high Birth and Education;
Also his merry Pranks and Feats,
His Rob'ries, Rogu'ries, and his Cheats;
His pleasant Frolicks and Amours
With Maids, Wives, Widows, Jades and Whores,
Written by 'mself, and verify'd
By his own Tongue before he dy'd.

‘I'm apt to fancy, what you write
‘Will outdo Gusmond, quoth the Knight.

His musty study'd Book, replies
The Slave, is but a pack of Lies;
I'd have you know he's not to be
Compar'd with such a Rogue as me:
I scorn to treat the World with Fiction,
Mine's Truth beyond all Contradiction;
I borrow nought to cheat the Reader,
But run the length of my own Tedder:

220

Or may I ne'er return to Shoar
This second Time from Gally-Oar.

‘Quoth Quixote, I perceive you know
‘Already what it is to row:
‘This time is not the first you've fan'd
‘The Ocean with a painful Hand.

No, no, Sir, I've learn'd already
The Diff'rence betwixt thus and steddy:
My stubborn Back knows how to bend
Beneath the Weight of a Rope's End,
And oft have born, I tell you that,
The stroakings of a nine-tail'd Cat,
And mump'd hard Bisket like a Rat.

‘I'll swear thou seem'st, replies the Knight,
‘To be a Fellow of some Wit.

Unfortunate enough to have
Good store of Wit, replies the Knave,
For Foroune crosses them the most,
Who have the greatest share to boast;

221

And those, who have the smallest stock,
She wraps as Darlings in her Smock;
So Hens are kindest to the Chick,
That is of all the Brood most weak;
And Mothers for this Cause or that,
Are fondest of the silly'st Brat;
And that one Reason is for certain,
Why the best Wits have the worst Fortune.

‘Do you Sir, cries the Officer,
‘Set up for Brains, you slipstring Cur,
‘And Poet-like, because yo've writ,
‘Ascribe your Hardships to your Wit,
‘When you are only wretched made
‘By the Rogue's Tricks you know you've plaid.

Pray Master Dubnose, ben't so rough,
Quoth Gines, I ken you well enough.
What need you scandalize my Parts?
Had e'ery Rascal his Deserts,
Those that ride by perhaps might be
In Chains and Hand-cuffs well as we.

222

The Keeper much enrag'd to hear
The Knave return so shrewd a Jeer,
Advanc'd his Staff at the Reflection,
To give the sausy Rogue Correction:
But Quixote interposing stop'd
The Mischief, e'er the Blow was drop'd,
And gravely told him 'twas unkind
T'insult a Wretch in Chains confin'd:
Then turning on the Guards his Breech,
To th' Slaves he made the following Speech.

‘Dear Brethren, who are bound in Fetters
‘By those proud Tyrants, call'd your Betters;
‘And stand condemn'd as Gally Slaves,
‘For ought I know, by bigger Knaves;
‘I say, no Christian upon Earth,
‘Since by the Law he's free by Birth,
‘Can forfeit Liberty, the Mother
‘Of Health and Comfort, to another;
‘'Tis born with us, and therefore fit
‘That e'ery Man should die with it:

223

‘'Tis true, the wicked may sometimes
‘Forfeit their Lives for heinous Crimes:
‘What then? Death makes us still more free,
‘Not robs us of our Liberty:
‘Law may extend to Limb or Life,
‘But Liberty is each Man's Wife;
‘Which none have Right by Law or Force,
‘To put asunder or divorce;
‘Besides, who knows but want of Money
‘Might make the Jury hard upon ye;
‘Or that the Judge might be severe,
‘Because he saw no Friends appear:
‘Therefore since I am doubly bless'd
‘With Strength to succour the oppress'd,
‘And am by my Profession ty'd
‘To rescue Slaves from humane Pride,
‘By Interception or by Sword,
‘Will I perswade, or force your Guard,
‘To loose your Chains, and set you free
‘From so unjust a Slavery.

224

The Rogues, not knowing what to say,
Stood grinning in the dusty Way,
Yet shew'd some little signs of Gladness,
Altho' they took it all for Madness,
Whilst Quixote turn'd his Horse aside,
And to the Keepers thus apply'd.

‘You Gentlemen, but cruel Creatures,
‘That triumph o'er these Slaves in Fetters,
‘Know, that by Knighthood I am bound
‘To range all Christian Countries round,
‘To check vile Malice, and redress
‘The Wrongs impos'd on humane Race:
‘I therefore beg you to inlarge
‘These Slaves, by granting their Discharge;
‘In doing which, you will for ever
‘Remain intitl'd to my Favour.

Zouns, quoth a Keeper, full of Vigour,
With glaring Eyes like angry Tyger,
What is't you mean, Sir Knight, you'd best
Take care, or we shall spoil your Jest.

225

‘Sir, I'm in earnest, quoth the Don,
‘And what I ask, insist upon:
‘I say, it is not fair, that old
‘Cross Chirls should sit in Chains of Gold;
‘And to support their Pride, inviron
‘Poor Wretches thus with Chains of Iron:
‘Or is it just for greater Knaves
‘In Pow'r to make the lesser Slaves:
‘I'm therefore bound and sworn to see
‘These Pris'ners set at Liberty.

Quoth the next Keeper, then in troth,
Sir Knight, you're like to break your Oath:
Who dares controul the higher Pow'rs?
They're the King's Gally-Slaves, not ours:
Therefore pray march about your Business,
You're troubl'd with a drunken Dizziness,
Or sure you'd never stand to prate
At such a foolish random Rate:
Pray set your Barber's Bason right;
Your Helmet hangs awry, Sir Knight;

226

And trouble not your Pate with what
We're well assur'd concerns you not:
Remember, he that plays with Cats
Must expect nothing less than Scrats.

‘I tell thee, quoth the Knight, that thou'rt
‘A Dog, a Cat, a Rat, a Coward:
Then spurring Rozinante heart'ly,
Attack'd the Officer so smartly,
That down he fetch'd him Horse and all,
And laid both sprawling with the Fall;
At sight of which the Slaves began
With their joint strength to snap their Chain,
Whilst Quixote with successful Force
O'erthrew the other Keeper's Horse,
Before they'd time to cock a Gun,
Or fire a Pistol at the Don:
The Guards on foot surpriz'd to see
The Slaves attempt their Liberty,
Ran thither to secure their Charge
From turning Prisoners at large:

227

But by that time the famous Gines
With Sancho's help had broke his Chains,
And snatch'd up one o'th' Carabines;
Which with such Oaths and Threats he level'd,
That made the Jailors look bedevil'd,
And kept 'em in a Consternation,
From daring any Molestation,
'Till all his Brother Slaves got free,
From Iron Bonds as well as he.

By this time those the doubty Knight
Had left but in a sorry plight,
With much ado were rid away,
Not caring for a farther Fray;
And now the Rogues, with Stones they got,
So pelted those that were on foot,
That all their Guards were glad to fly,
And leave the Slaves at Liberty.

Sancho, who now began at last
To gravely think of what had past,

228

And knowing Crimes of such a Nature
Might prove, if catch'd, a hanging matter,
Advis'd his Master to retire
With Speed, for fear of Hugh the Cryer:
But Quixote having no Regard
To what his Man press'd very hard,
Would not be work'd on to comply,
Because 'twas cowardly to fly;
But calling all the tatter'd Creatures,
He'd rescu'd from their Chains and Fetters;
The foll'wing Speech he made to shew
What he expected they should do.

‘Now Brethren, you're restor'd by me
‘From Bondage to your Liberty,
‘And by my Courage and Discretion
‘Freed from base Slav'ry and Oppression;
‘There now remains a grateful Act
‘On your side, which I must exact:

‘That is, that e'ery Slave should take
‘His Chains and Fetters on his Back,

229

‘And to Toboso make his way
‘Without Let, Hindrance, or Delay;
‘There pay your Homage to the chast
‘Dulcinea, Sov'raign of my Breast;
‘And tell her what a glorious Deed
‘I've done, by which your selves are freed;
‘Then may you go wheree'er you please,
‘Eat, drink in Peace, and live at Ease.

So Princes, when they lend their Aid
To save a People, that's betray'd,
Proud of the Kindness they have done,
They tax 'em, 'till they make it none.

Their Leader Gines de Passimont,
Taking his Station in the Front,
Thus undertook for all the rest
An Answer to the Knight's Request.

Noble Deliverer, 'tis true
We owe our Liberty to you:
But what you now impose upon us
O'er ballances the Good you've done us;

230

For should we undergo the Pain
Of taking up our Chains again,
And were we willing all to go so
Far loaded with them as Toboso,
The Weight would crippl' us ten times more,
Than all we have endur'd before,
And make us more unhappy Wretches,
Than sev'n Years Service under Hatches;
Besides the Hue and Cry must take us,
And then upon the Wheel they'd break us;
So that what you exact is really
Worse than the Slav'ry of a Gally:
We therefore hold up all our Hands
Against your Worship's hard Demands,
Because this unexpected Doom
Is worse than what you snatch'd us from;
And he Sir Knight, who does pretend
To help the wretched as a Friend,
And when he's snatch'd him from one Curse,
Forthwith condemns him to a worse,

231

I say, whilst one Hand serves his Brother,
He basely knocks him down with t'other.

‘Ingrateful Dog! replies the Don,
‘Thither I'll make you creep alone,
‘Like a chid Spaniel, or a Hound,
‘With your Rogue's Belly to the Ground.

These Threats provoking Gines the Thief,
Who was of all the Villains chief,
He now concluded from the Dangers
The Knight had run for Rogues and Strangers,
And from his present odd Request,
He must be mad, or drunk at best,
So tip'd the Wink upon his Crew,
Who to the Right and Left withdrew,
And soon presented such a Volly,
In scorn of their Deliverer's Folly,
That fell as thick as Hail about
His Ears, his Bason, and his Snout,
'Till shoals of Flints and Pebble-stones
From Rozinante fetch'd such Groans,

232

And made him winch, and backward start
At such a Rate, that all the Art
Of Quixote could not make him feel
The stabbing Force of armed Heel;
Whilst Sancho stood behind his Ass,
And stoop'd to save his handsome Face;
Making poor Assin in the warm
Attack his Bullwark 'gainst the Storm:
At last the Knight, no longer able
To stand the shock of such a Rabble,
Submitted to the galling Force
Of a hard Clod, or something worse,
And tumbl'd headlong from his Horse;
Which Conquest was no sooner won
By th' Rogues, but in the Student run,
Bruising his Bason on the Head
O'th' Knight, 'till he was almost dead;
Then taking off his Iron-Coat,
Eat up with Rust, not worth a Groat,

233

He laid that by, but what was under
He stripp'd and carry'd off as Plunder;
But was so civil, when he'd done,
To put the worthless Armour on
Again, and in this sorry plight
He left the poor unhappy Knight:
Nor did his 'Squire escape without
Some Marks about his Eyes and Snout;
Because his Tunick, which they took,
Caus'd him to give 'em such a Look,
That made the Rascals, who had thrown him,
Bestow a Thump or Two upon him;
So that when rifl'd by the Vermin,
As well as beat, we can't determine,
Whether the Champions griev'd the most,
For what they got, or what they lost.

He that redeems us from one Curse,
And when he's done intails a worse,
The serv'd from Gratitude he frees,
And makes his Friends his Enemies.

234

CANTO XXXIII.

The Knight for safety and his 'Squire
Do into desart Woods retire;
The Ass is stol'n whilst Sancho lyes
Asleep, who after finds a Prize.

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?

235

‘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.

CANTO XXXIV.

The Knight does with the mad Man meet,
And kindly they each other greet;
They talk a while, at length they quarrel,
The Hermit beats, and bids 'em farewel.

The Knight now eager of his Game,
Beat ev'ry Copse to which he came,
Whilst Sancho, who had Reason for't,
Curs'd both the mad Men in his Heart,
And now began to sorely miss
That trusty Ass which once was his.

268

At length, as they were ranging through
A Plat where Thorns and Brambles grew,
In the most solitary, rude,
And desart Part of all the Wood,
Up starts the mad Man bolt upright,
Not many Paces from the Knight;
And, at that Juncture, being free
From his accustom'd Lunacy,
The tatter'd Wretch came gravely on,
With courteous Mein, to meet the Don,
Who seeing that, dismounts, to pay
The like Civility half Way,
Kindly saluting frantick Brother,
As one Beau Courier does another.
No sooner had they hugg'd and kiss'd,
Like Lovers ready for the Priest,
And toss'd their Heads from Ear to Ear,
As if they closely whisp'ring were;
But the wild Vagrant of the Wood,
Withdrew one Step from whence he stood,

269

And clapping both his Hands upon
The Shoulders of the weaker Don,
With a strong Wrestler's upright Grace,
He stares the Champion in the Face;
Not with Intent to strike or throw him,
But view his Phiz, in Hopes to know him,
Wond'ring as greatly to behold
So strange a Knight in Armour old,
Whose rusty Scales, and batter'd Flaws,
Gave t'other Lunatick some Cause
To take the odd-look'd Don to be
A Mountaineer, as well as he;
And that he rid so girt about
With Arms, to find some Rival out.

When thus the Anch'rite of the Wood,
His Steel-bound Visiter had view'd,
He calmly quits the Hold he'ad got,
And crys, Dear Sir, I know you not.
Pray tell me how you came to steer
Your Course into these Mountains here?

270

Most noble Sir, replies the Don,
Who lives in Peace, and reigns alone,
As bearded Knight of all these Rocks,
Whose Title's printed in your Looks,
Having heard often of your Fame,
To seek you out, I hither came,
In Hopes to learn the hidden Cause
That from your Palace thus withdraws
Your troubl'd Soul, to sigh and grieve,
Where none can your Distress relieve;
I therefore beg you would impart
The painful Secrets of your Heart,
That I some speedy Means may find
To please and ease your tortur'd Mind;
Which I, by this victorious Arm,
Do firmly promise to perform;
Or if in the Attempt I fail,
And no Endeavours will avail,
These Rocks shall evermore inclose
My self, as Partner of your Woes;

271

With you I'll dwell, and frankly bear,
In all your Discontents a Share;
Add 'em to mine, that you may see
Your Sorrow's far out-mourn'd by me,
That my Misfortunes, by their Weight,
May cause your Wrongs to seem less great;
As the Sun's Brightness takes away
The Light of other Stars by Day.

I thank you for your Love: But, Sir,
Replies the hungry Forester,
Neglect of eating, makes me faint;
If you have Food, relieve my Want;
For no Man's able to discourse well,
Whilst his Guts grumble for a Morsel.

With that, Don Quixote did unty
The Bag, and gave him a Supply;
Which, like a Tyger, he devour'd,
And cranch'd the Bones without a Word,
Till the sweet, timely, welcome Scraps,
Had fill'd his Guts, and tir'd his Chaps;

272

Then beck'ning to the Knight and 'Squire,
He led 'em down we know not where,
Into some neighb'ring pleasant Place;
And when he'ad quatted on the Grass,
Now, Sir, said he, if you would know
The Causes of my present Woe,
Sit down by me, and I'll declare
The Suff'rings I am forc'd to bear;
But you must promise not to speak
One Word or Syllable, to break
The Chain of that unhappy Story,
Which I'm about to lay before ye;
For whilst you're silent, I'll go on,
When interrupted, I have done;
For I'd be quick, because I hate
The curs'd Remembrance of my Fate.

This Caution put the Don in Mind
Of Sancho's Tale, half left behind,
Because he had not Pow'r to hold
His Silence 'till the same was told;

273

So that he now more firmly hung
A heavier Padlock on his Tongue,
Resolving not to speak a Word,
Till he the whole Discourse had heard.
Now, quoth the tatter'd frantick Lover,
All my Misfortunes I'll discover;
Attend, with Patience, what I say,
And ask no Question by the Way.

My Name, which you desire to know,
I own to be Cardenio:
In Andalusia was I born,
Of noble Race, tho' now forlorn:
My Parents living rich and great,
Tho' I their Son unfortunate.
Within that City where I first
Drew Breath, and tenderly was nurs'd,
There also the divinely bright
Lucinda first beheld the Light,
Whose Beauty, tho' it gives us Joy,
Like Helen's, would inflame a Troy.

274

Near to each other were we bred,
In early Days together play'd,
'Till infant Love sprang up apace,
And found in both our Hearts a Place:
There gently smother'd for a Time,
But blaz'd too fiercely in our Prime,
That our kind Fondness of each other
Alarm'd her Father and her Mother;
Who, jealous of our Youth, soon after
Forbid my Visits to their Daughter.
I to her Father then apply'd,
To beg Lucinda for my Bride;
Unable thus to live remov'd
From her I so ador'd and lov'd.
At my Request, he first sate thoughtful,
Then made an Answer very doubtful;
However, told me I should rather
Apply my self to my own Father,
And beg of him to come and treat
Of an Affair of so much Weight.

275

With this Advice, I Home return'd,
And our unhappy Absence mourn'd,
Resolving, by the Help of Heaven,
To take the Counsel he had given;
But going with Design to move
My Father to approve my Love,
I found him leaning in his Chair,
And reading with a joyful Air.
Cardenio, cries the good old Man,
Then rising, to the Window ran,
Here's happy News for thee, my Boy,
That gives thy aged Father Joy.
This Letter's from the Duke Ricardo,
Who tells me he has often heard how
Obedient you to me have been,
And what a comely courteous Mein
You shew to others, and how free
You are of all Debauchery,
That he requires you to be gone
With Speed unto his eldest Son,

276

As a Companion, and assures
They both will serve you to their Pow'rs.

This Letter to my Father sent,
Quite interrupted my Intent,
And render'd him unfit to mind,
Or me to speak what I design'd,
But thought the prudent'st way, was rather
T'acquaint Lucinda and her Father
With what had happen'd, and to give her
My solemn Vows to ne'er deceive her;
Which pleas'd the youthful charming Dame,
And caus'd her to return the same;
Her Father giving me his Honour
To never force a Match upon her.

When thus betroth'd, to ease our Fears,
We parted, but alas! in Tears.

I now prepar'd to wait upon
The Duke Ricardo and his Son,
From whom I had a friendly kind
Reception suited to my Mind;

277

I specially was entertain'd
So courteously by Ferdinand
The second Son, that Friendship grew
Each Day so fast between us two,
That ev'ry Secret of his Breast
And mine, we mutually possest.
He told me all his am'rous Leagues,
His youthful Frolicks, and Intrigues;
How he debauch'd a Grasier's Daughter,
And left the beauteous Dam'sel a'ter,
Tho' he had brought her lovely Charms,
By Vows of Marriage, to his Arms.

These Freedoms tempted me, alas!
To open my unhappy Case;
Also to shew him, at a Window,
The Beauty of my fair Lucinda.
Astonish'd at so bless'd a Sight,
He gaz'd with Wonder and Delight,
And vow'd her Features brighter far
Than the Sun, Moon, or Ev'ning-Star.

278

Now ev'ry Step he mov'd along,
Lucinda's Name was made his Song;
And ev'ry study'd, am'rous Phrase
He spoke, was in her Beauty's Praise.
I now repented, tho' too late,
I'd shewn him such a tempting Bait,
On whom no Mortal Eye could cast
A Look, but must desire to taste;
But still was willing to suspend
Distrust of such a gen'rous Friend;
Nor could my partial Soul foresee
Lucinda's Infidelity,
'Till finding my uneasy Breast,
At length, with Doubts and Fears opprest,
I set a-part a certain Day
To steal from Home, that I might pay
A Visit to the fairest She,
T'acquaint her with my Jealousy;
And, by fresh Vows and Protestations,
Renew our former Obligations;

279

For female Oaths no longer bind,
Than new ones keep the old in Mind.

When I to fair Lucinda came,
I found her Temper still the same,
Pleasing herself with the Romance
Of the twelve famous Peers of France,
By which, upon a little Table;
There lay another ancient Fable,
Containing many strange Exploits
Perform'd long since by Errant Knights.

How! quoth the Don; and does the Lady
Make Books of Errantry her Study?
Forgetting he was bound to hold
His Tongue 'till all the Tale was told.
Then am I certain she is fair,
And chaste as Gods or Angels are;
Kind, constant, generous, and wise,
And all that's good beneath the Skies;
Deserving of that Love and Duty
You owe to her illustrious Beauty.

280

Whilst Quixote thus run rambling on,
Cardenio hung his Noddle down,
And in a sullen Posture sate,
To hear his Brother mad Man prate,
Ne'er interrupting what he said,
Or stirring his attentive Head,
'Till weary of the Don's long Rattle,
More tiresome than a Gossip's Tattle,
At length he gave a sudden Flounce,
And started from his Pause at once;
Put on a threat'ning stern Grimace,
And staring Quixote in the Face,
Cry'd, He's a Dog, that dares to say
Snapsuds the Barber never lay
With the fair Queen Madasima.
'Tis a false scandalous Report;
That cut-beard Rogue was ne'er at Court.
Besides, can you believe, said he,
A Lady of that high Degree,

281

Rich, beauteous, great enough by Birth
To bed the proudest Prince on Earth,
Would fall upon her Royal Back,
To please a Draw-tooth Dog, a Quack?
O fye! and he that dares to say,
That such a Scoundrel ever lay,
Kiss'd, hugg'd, or mingl'd Legs or Thighs
With that fair Queen, I say he lies,
And ready am, by Day or Night,
Arm'd or unarm'd, to do her Right,
And make the Rascal, with my Sword,
Retract his Scandal ev'ry Word.

Cardenio star'd upon the Don,
To hear him thus run rambling on,
And growing downright mad beside,
To find himself so much defy'd,
Dropt of a Sudden nimbly down,
And snatches up a mighty Stone,
With which he gave the Knight such Slaps
Upon his thin unwary Chaps,

282

That down he tumbl'd with the Blows
Receiv'd about his Eyes and Nose;
At Sight of which, the trusty 'Squire,
Inflam'd with Honour, and with Ire,
Fell on as fiercely as a Tyger,
To shew his Valour, and his Vigor;
But mad Cardenio, with his Stone,
Gave Sancho's Snot-galls such a Con,
That laid him flat upon his Back,
Half dead the very first Attack,
Then trod his Bowels, without Quarter,
Like Country Lab'rer treading Mortar.
Thus beat 'em both; and when he'ad done
Among the Mountains hooping run,
Leaving his Victims full of Sadness,
Mo mourn their Folly, and his Madness.

Thus he that foolishly enrages
A mad Man, and the same engages,
Will, to his Shame, well beaten be,
Except himself's as mad as he.

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.

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;

284

Tho' Sancho's more impatient Brain,
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,

285

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.

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.

286

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.

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,

287

Provided that the same shall carry
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,

288

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.

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;

289

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;

290

Nor would the Knight o'th' Rock have said
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?

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,

291

That durst so much as think or say
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:

292

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.

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;

293

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.

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,

294

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.

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.

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?

No, crys the Knight, thou need'st not fear
Kick, Cuff, or Blanket, I aver;

295

Yet Fortune, if she's angry, may
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.

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.

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.

Since thou'rt to bear a friendly Part,
I'll open, quoth the Knight, my Heart,

296

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,

297

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.

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;

298

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.

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

299

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.

Thus great Mens Faults are standing Rules
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;

300

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?

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?

301

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.

302

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?

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.

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.

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.

Poor silly Wretch, the Don replies,
Thou see'st not with Knight Errant's Eyes;

304

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;

305

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.

As some Mens Vice do others taint,
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,

306

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:

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:

307

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.

308

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.

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,

309

That thy obsequious Tongue may bear
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.

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:

310

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.

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.

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

311

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.

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.

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.

For Heaven's Sake, replies the 'Squire,
Don't quarrel, in your frantick Ire,

312

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.

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.

313

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.

Good Sir, quoth Sancho, say no more,
My Bung-hole's ready to run o'er:

314

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.

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.

315

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.

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.

Well thought on, Sancho, quoth the Knight;
I'll not forget to do thee right;

316

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.

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.

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?

317

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.

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!

318

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.

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.

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.

320

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.

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,

321

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,

322

We ne'er could love to any Height,
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.

With that, the Don withdrawing, took
Cardenio's Pencil, and his Book;

323

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.

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:

324

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.

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.

325

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.

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.

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,

326

By me Don Quixote de la Mancha,
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.

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.

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.

327

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.

328

By thus indulging odd Conceits,
Men gradually eclipse their Wits,
And from small Whims, to great proceed,
'Till Custom makes 'em mad indeed.

CANTO XXXVI.

The Freaks and Gambols of the Don
Among the Mountains, when alone,
And all his most refin'd Devices,
To bring his Madness to its Crisis.

The Knight now, finding Sancho fled
With Rozinant, and all the Bread,
Left off his frisking, and his tumbling,
And fell to muttering and grumbling,
Wisely considering that Madness
And starving, were a double Sadness;
And that in case he storm'd aloud,
Now destitute of Friend and Food,
The World might think he rav'd a Cheat,
Not for his Mistress, but his Meat:

329

So that at present he suspended
His Madness, and the Rock ascended,
Seating his weary Hips aloft
On a hard Stone, for want of soft,
Debating in his struggling Breast,
Which sort of Frenzy would be best;
For solitary Imitation,
Amadis melancholy Passion,
Or Don Orlando's raving mad Tricks,
Who always took Delight in bad Tricks;
And that his pensive Worship might
Be sure to hit upon the right,
He thought it now a proper Season,
Thus with himself to talk and reason.

Well might Orlando rave and gnash
His Teeth, and with 'em tare his Flesh;
Knock his hard Head 'gainst Rock or Post,
And many furious Whimsies boast,
Since of all Ills that strike us dead,
Orlando had but one to dread:

330

Nor was it either Sword or Spear,
Or Stick or Stone, he was to fear;
But a small Pin, that was to wound
His Foot, as treading on the Ground;
Which was, in spite of Surgick Art,
Decreed to be his fatal Dart:
He therefore wisely shod his Feet
With Iron Shoes, stitch'd very neat,
Whose Soals were seven Inches thick,
To save him from the mortal Prick.
Besides, his Madness, all agree
Arose alone from Jealousy,
Because, as ancient Writers say,
His only dear Angelica
Took Medor, Page to Agramant,
A swarthy Moor, for her Gallant,
And hug'd him in her kind Embrace,
Not for his Shapes, or tawny Face,
But for some other hidden Part,
That better pleas'd the Lady's Heart.

331

What's this to me? I dare be sure
Dulcinea never hug'd a Moor;
So that if I was bent to follow
His Foot-steps, and to rave and hollow;
Batter my Head against the Stones,
And gnaw my Flesh from off my Bones,
This would be no true Imitation,
Except I had the like Occasion;
For where the Causes don't agree,
The Effects must also diff'rent be.

Therefore, since wise Amadis thought
Such rampant Lunacy a Fau't,
And chose grave Methods of Distraction,
Instead of so much hot-brain'd Action,
Raising his Fame by sober Sadness,
And not by wild stark staring Madness;
O'th' two, it ought to be confest
His patient Method was the best;
For Sighs and melancholy Moans,
Tormenting Thoughts, and rending Groans,

332

At Foot of some high Rock or Mountain,
By purling Stream, or trickling Fountain,
Express a Lover's Grief and Passion,
Beyond unbounded Indignation,
And give his Woes a better Grace,
Than glaring Eyes, and Fury's Face.
Amadis therefore shall be my
Example, tho' I pine and die;
Or weep in Solitude for Years,
And make new Rivers with my Tears;
'Till by Degrees I melt away,
Like Ice upon a sunny Day:
For why should I, with Tooth and Nail,
The flinty Rocks and Mountains scale;
Or with my Fingers, when I rave,
Dig a small Mouse-hole to a Cave;
Tear up those harmless shady Trees,
That now contribute to my Ease;
Devour the Hills, drink up the Rivers,
And with my Skull knock Stones to Shivers?

333

Not I; Amadis shall alone
My Pattern be, tho' dead and gone;
His melancholy Steps I'll trace,
And fill, with Sighs, this mournful Place;
Like him, turn Penitent, and mourn
My Sins with fair Dulcinea's Scorn;
Offer to both my Tears and Pray'rs,
That Heav'n and She may ease my Cares.

The Brain-sick Champion having now
Resolv'd what Course to take, and how
He should perform, in solemn Sadness,
His lonely penitential Madness;
Having not taken Care to bring
A Set of Beads upon a String,
Was puzzl'd much which Way to muster
A Ros'ry for his Pater-Noster;
At length, descending from the Mount,
Upon that pious good Account,
He walk'd the Woods, until he found
Some Acorns scatter'd on the Ground,

334

With which he artfully prepares
A useful Tally for his Pray'rs,
Wishing some Hermit might but stand
In Bush or Corner near at Hand,
That might bear Witness of his great
Devotion in his wretched State;
For if none hears but Heav'n, most
Are apt to think such Pray'rs are lost;
Therefore so many Christians come
To Church, that never pray at Home.

Now, Thoughts of Heav'n, and of Love
Of Things below, and Things above,
Made him so very mad, at last,
That he turn'd Poet in all Haste,
Making the Sands, and ev'ry Tree
He met, record his Poetry:
But Fame reports his Genius shines
The brightest in the following Lines;
And that they've gain'd, above the rest,
Deservedly the Name of best.

335

Come without Legs, ye Rocks and Trees;
Hear without Ears my sad Complaints;
Pity, tho' senseless, my Disease,
And without Hands relieve my Wants.
Let all your Bats and screeching Owls,
That in your Caves and Hollows dwell,
Out-ring the melancholy Tolls
Of lazy doleful Passing-bell;
Whilst I in horrid Sighs and Groans
Express my sad despairing Grief
To Mountains, Fountains, Stocks, and Stones,
Altho' alas! they're dumb and deaf.
Melt all, ye Rocks, to liquid Streams,
As I do into briny Tears,
That I may rince my Head from Dreams,
And wash my Heart from jealous Fears.
What Mortal ever bore a Curse
Like mine, so heavy and so great?
And that which makes the Torment worse,
No Wine to drink, or Bread to eat.

336

Ah! fair Dulcinea, did'st thou know
How I am tortur'd in this Wood,
Thou would'st not only Pity show
In Tears, but send thy Lover Food.

Thus did the Knight imploy his Brains
In Pray'rs, and in Poetick Strains;
And all his tedious Minutes spent,
Like a true crazy Penitent:
One Hour his wretched Fate lamenting,
The next his sinful Life repenting:
Sometimes contemplating upon
The Nut-brown Beauty, who had won
His Heart, and, by her dowdy Graces,
Bewitch'd him to such desart Places;
Simpling sometimes for Herbs to feed on,
And Acorns, which he stood in need on;
Treading these starving Steps to Glory,
'Till dwindl'd t'a Memento Mori,
That's hollow Eyes, and Jaws so thin,
Assum'd the Skelitonian Grin;

337

And made his Worship look as frightful,
As stern, as threat'ning, and as spiteful,
As Ghost of executed Ruffian
Just started from his rotten Coffin.

Leaving the poor dejected Knight
In this sad melancholy Plight,
To Sancho we'll return, who left
His freakish Master thus to shift.

No sooner had the mounted 'Squire
Set forward, to his Heart's Desire,
But he the good Advice persu'd
The Don had giv'n him in the Wood,
And did at ev'ry Turning, strew
A Bough, to serve him as a Clew,
That with more Ease he might repass
So wild a Lab'rynth of a Place,
Which scarce had e'er before been trod
By Man or Beast since Noah's Flood.
However, after tedious Scrambles
Thro' thorny Thickets, Sloughs, and Brambles,

338

Sancho turn'd Tail upon the vast
Untrodden Wilderness at last,
And found, by Chance, the beaten Road
That brought 'em first into the Wood;
Which happy Luck made Sancho smile,
And Rozinante Neigh the while,
Who travell'd on until they came
Unto an Inn, which prov'd the same
Where the poor 'Squire, some Nights before
Had met with the inchanted Moor,
And where the Clowns had also toss'd him
In Rug or Blanket, 'till they lost him.
Scarce did his roving Eyes discover
Those fatal Walls the Knight peep'd over,
When he beheld the tragick Scene
So terribly perform'd within,
But such an Ague seiz'd the 'Squire,
And shook him as he still drew nigher,
That Fear of t'other Dance in Woollen,
Made him so very sick and sullen,

339

That he resolv'd to pass the Gate,
And, spite of Hunger, not to bait,
Tho' 'twas about the Hour that Sinners
Refresh'd their Stomach's with their Dinners,
And that he might expect a good
Hot welcome Meal for wholesome Food,
Yet still his great Aversion grew
Too strong for Hunger to subdue:
Which shews, that Human Hate or Spite,
Too pow'rful are for Appetite.

But as strange Accidents unseen,
Will often step untimely in,
And break, in spite of all our Cautions,
Our most delib'rate Resolutions;
Just as the 'Squire was passing by,
And casting tow'rds the Gate an Eye,
Who should be standing close together,
But the young Curate and the Shaver,
Who, with Don Quixote's Niece and Maid,
Had to the Flames his Books betray'd,

340

And now were wander'd from la Mancha,
In Search of Knight and Sancho Pancha,
And looking steadfastly upon
The 'Squire, as he was jogging on,
They jointly were assur'd they knew
Both Horse and Man at present View,
And having been inform'd the Don
And Sancho were together gone,
They seiz'd the Bridle of his Steed,
And stopt at once his farther Speed,
Crying, Hold, Gaffer, we must know
From whence you came, before you go;
And where you did your self divide
From him who owns that Horse you ride?

Sancho, altho' he knew 'em both,
Not caring to declare the Truth,
Us'd all his Cunning to evade
An Answer positive, and said,
That his dear Master was of late
Advanc'd into a lofty State,

341

Wherein he was extreamly busy,
To his own Good, and wond'rous easy;
But truly, as to his Affairs,
He'd not discov'r 'em for his Ears.

Pray, Gaffer, triflle not, quoth Tonsor,
But give us a sufficient Answer:
Inform us truly where you've been,
And all Things that have pass'd between
The Don and you, since his Retreat
At Midnight from his Country Seat?
Whither you're going in this Haste?
And where you left your Master last?
Or, if you won't confess, Cotsbobs,
We'll have you carry'd coram Nobs.
How do we know but that your Master
Is kill'd, or come to some Disaster.
We've found you here upon his Horse,
Must therefore think he's robb'd, in Course,
Nay, perhaps murder'd too, that's worse.

342

Neighbour, quoth Sancho, pray take Care,
You'd best, of what you say or swear.
I'm on my Master's Horse, 'tis true,
But am no more a Thief than you;
Nor Slayer of my fellow Creature,
I thank the Lord I know much better.
I kill no Man, unless it's he
That offers first to murder me;
Therefore I leave all Men to fall
By th' Hand of him that made us all.

Ne'er mind it, Gaffer, quoth the Priest,
My Neighbour only spoke in Jest:
However, you must tell us where
You left your Master; that's but fair;
For we are both upon the Scout,
In short, to find the Seignior out:
You'd therefore better freely yield
To tell us, than to be compell'd.

Well then, quoth Sancho, since I must,
For Safety's sake, betray my trust,

343

After some three Days Wild-goose Hunting,
You'll find him up in yonder Mountain,
Just at the Bottom of a Rock,
By which there runs a shallow Brook,
Standing upright upon his Crown,
Or madly tumbling up and down,
Shewing more Tricks than dancing Bear,
Or well-taught Monkey in a Fair;
For so I left him, I declare it,
And so you'll find him, you may swear it.

As Woman, when she's once drawn in,
Without Remorse persues the Sin,
So Sancho, when he'd once begun
To break his Trust, went briskly on,
And frankly open'd all their past
Adventures, from the first to th' last;
Discov'ring also what a Letter
He had for that delicious Creature
Aldonza, noted far and near
For taking Stones up in her Ear,

344

And scatt'ring, with a Face of Brass,
Her Favours like a gen'rous Lass.
But when the Priest desir'd to view
The Love-sick Champion's Billet-deux,
Poor Sancho found he'ad quite forgot
The only Thing he should have brought,
And that he now might e'en go whistle,
Since he had lost the Love-Epistle,
On whose Back-side (which vex'd him worst)
The Bill of Asses stood indorst.
This sad Misfortune teaz'd the 'Squire,
And turn'd him into Tow and Fire,
Who, not convinc'd of his Mistake,
By all the Searches he could make,
Would o'er and o'er repeat his Groaps
And Fumbles, prompt by fruitless Hopes,
'Till the unhappy 'Squire grew quite
As mad as penitential Knight,
Clawing his cogitative Crown,
As if with Vermin over-run,

345

And that his Brains were in a Trice
Turn'd all to Maggots, or to Lice.

The Curate, much surpriz'd to find
His Neighbour so disturb'd in Mind,
Was very 'nquisitive to learn
Th' Occasion of his high Concern,
Who told him, he had been so heedless,
That now his Journey would be needless;
For that his Noddle had forgot
The Letter which his Master wrote;
To which was join'd a little Piece
Of Writing to his Worship's Niece,
Which was, quoth Sancho to require her
To pay at Sight to me the Bearer,
The best three Asses I could chuse
Of five, for one I chanc'd to lose,
Who, for the Goodness of a Beast,
Was worth, I'm sure, fifteen at least;
But I must be a Loser still,
For want of this same plaguy Bill,

346

And, like a dull forgetful Drone,
Instead of three, return with none.

As for the Letter, quoth the 'Squire,
To th' Lass my Master does admire,
I could with that deal well enough,
For I have all the dainty Stuff
And gorgious Wompliments by Heart,
Of Wounds and Dagger, Love and Dart,
And could have told her how he's smitten,
As well as if it had been written;
But having lost the Bill of Asses,
Talk will be fruitless in such Cases;
She'll not give Ear to my Demand,
Unless she sees her Uncle's Hand.

Come, Neighbour Sancho, quoth the Priest,
We'll soon get this Mischance redrest;
The Asses sha'n't be lost for want
Of a more firm and binding Grant;
If you can but conduct us on
To th' Place where we may find the Don,

347

We'll soon prevail with him to give
Another Bill for three in five.
But prithee first repeat the Letter
Thy Master wrote to his dear Creature:
It must for certain make us smile;
I know his florid pleasant Stile.

Sancho, in order to begin,
Now scratch his Ears, and stroak'd his Chin,
And humm'd and haw'd about the Matter,
But could not recollect the Letter,
Stamm'ring sometimes a Word or two,
Then stopping, cry'd, That would not do.
At length recov'ring, as he thought,
Some Words he had before forgot,
Crys, Now I have it right enough,
Then blunders out the foll'wing Stuff.

He that is stabb'd unto the Quick,
And plays in Woods at Hide and Seek,
Sends you his 'Squire, to let you know
He's well, and hopes that you are so:

348

But if your Beauty will not cure him,
And you should say you can't endure him,
Then must he always live herea'ter,
Like any Horse, on Grass and Water;
On stony Pillows rest his Head,
And make a Rock his Feather-bed;
Nor is he only sick and sad,
But naked and stark staring mad,
Shewing such Wonders to his 'Squire,
That would have made your Self admire,
Had you, my only lovely Dame,
Been near enough to've seen the same.
As to the rest, I leave unto
The trusty Bearer, so adieu.

Thus he went forward, quoth the 'Squire,
With Sugar'd Words plac'd here and there,
Until at last his womplimenting
Brought him to sinking and to fainting,
And then he ended, in a Trance,
Yours, Knight o'th' woeful Countenance.

349

When Sancho thus had done reciting
The Letter of his Master's writing,
He then proceeded to make known
The Resolutions of the Don,
Which were, to wed some Emp'ror's Daughter,
That he might be a King hereafter;
Then with an Army sally forth,
And conquer all the Thrones on Earth;
That his old trusty 'Squire should be
A pow'rful Prince, as well as he;
Wed some illustrious wealthy Dutchess;
B' attended with a Train of Coaches,
And, like to other Kings, be whirl'd,
In flying Chariots, round the World.

This Sancho told with such a Grace,
And put on so demure a Face,
Stroaking his Beard, as if he made
No Doubt of what the Don had said,
But that he really thought they shou'd be
Both Kings in Time, as sure as cou'd be,

350

In case Dulcinea had but sent
An Answer to the Knight's Content.
Which strange Conceit was such a Jest
To th' list'ning Barber and the Priest,
That they were both surpriz'd to find
The 'Squire so credulously blind,
But did not think it worth their Whiles
To undeceive him by their Smiles,
Because they thought it might prevent
His Freedom and their Merriment:
So that they rather buoy'd him up
In his delusive groundless Hope,
That his dull Innocence and Folly
Might give no Room for Melancholy.

Why truly, Gaffer, quoth the Priest,
Thy Master, it must be confest,
Is bold enough to hack and hew
Down Kingdoms for himself and you.
I always thought his Sword would bring him
To Empire, or at least must King him.

351

Besides, his Learning, Prudence, Wit,
And other Vertues, make him fit
For an Arch-bishop, would he wear
The Robe, and that high Office bear.

But pray, quoth Sancho, what good Places,
Among their Mattins and their Masses,
Have Bishop-Errants to bestow
Upon their 'Squires, I fain would know?

Many fat Livings, quoth the Priest,
With noble Tythes and Incomes blest,
Where you'll be free of all Fatigues,
And feed on dainty Geese and Pigs;
Live easy, lord it o'er your Neighbour,
And reap the Fruits of others Labour;
Be honour'd by the Wives and Maids,
And fear'd by all the wanton Jades;
And when once in, you're safe, without
You're mad, for none can turn you out.

That, quoth the 'Squire, in my Opinion,
Is better than a King's Dominion,

352

For Subjects will sometimes, by Force,
Dethrone one Prince, and crown a worse.
But should his Worship once, I'll warrant,
Be chosen an Arch-bishop Errant,
I can have no such easy Place,
Unless I understand the Mass;
And 'tis well known I do not know
One Letter in the Christ-cross Row:
So that such Livings are design'd
For Scholars, not for 'Squires, I find.
As to a Lord, or such a Thing,
In case my Master was a King,
I should like well, for that I know
Is all fine Cloths and outward Show.
But as for any Place beneath
A Bishop, as I live and breathe,
I should be made, by such a Call,
The greatest Blockhead of 'em all.

The Dinner by the Hostess drest,
Was now full ready for the Guest;

353

So that the Priest and Barber went
To give their Appetites Content,
But could not work upon the 'Squire
To 'light, or spur his Courser nigher,
Rememb'ring how he once had far'd
Before in that confounded Yard;
And tho' he still conceal'd his Shame,
Would not be coax'd into the same,
For fear more Goblins might be got
Within, to hatch a second Plot;
Or that the damn'd inchanted Moor,
Or Hags, whose Claws he'ad felt before,
Should mount a second Time, to ride him,
And plague him 'till they'd half destroy'd him.

However, Sancho, being hungry,
As well as with the Inn so angry,
Entreated both the Priest and Shaver,
To do his honing Guts the Favour
To bring him out a good warm Luncheon
Of whatsoe'er they had to munch on,

354

Declaring that he had not eat,
In a Month's Time, one pleasant Bit
Or Morsel hot from Pot or Spit.
Accordingly they promis'd fair,
That he should have a Neighbour's Share;
So near the Gateway left the 'Squire,
And to their Dinner did retire.

As soon as they themselves had serv'd,
Whose Guts were likewise almost starv'd,
The Barber then took Care to feed,
Not only Sancho, but his Steed;
And left 'em such a plenteous Store,
That neither could have need of more
At present; when he'ad done, return'd
To th' Priest, who, when they'd din'd, adjourn'd,
To think of Means by which they might
Best manage the distracted Knight,
And from the Rocks and Woods allure him
Home, by fair Means, in Hopes to cure him;

355

At length sprang up a lucky Thought,
And thus they laid the cunning Plot.

Both jointly fond of their Device,
Agreed to put on a Disguise.
The Curate was to lay aside
Th' Externals of his holy Pride,
And wear some tatter'd female Dress,
Like Errant Lady in Distress.
The Barber was to make as odd
A scare-crow Figure as he could,
And was to hand and wait upon her,
As Gentleman or Page of Honour.
And thus they were to range about
The Woods, to find Don Quixote out;
Which when, by Sancho's Help, they'd done,
The Lady was to make her Moan,
And beg the Friendship of the Knight,
To do an injur'd Princess Right;
Who'd been abus'd, and driven out
Her Castle, by a Rabble Rout,

356

Encourag'd by the mortal Spight
Of some discourteous cruel Knight.
Thus may we draw him, by Degrees,
From solitary Rocks and Trees,
And dril him on, without the Use
Of open Violence, to his House.

Both pleas'd with this their lucky Motion,
Resolv'd on speedy Execution;
And therefore, to effect the Matter
The sooner, easier, and the better,
They beg'd their Hostess to sit down;
And when with Wine they'd warm'd her Crown,
They told her all they had agreed on,
And what Apparel they had need on,
That by their Stratagem they might
Bring Home a poor distracted Knight,
Who now was wand'ring in the Woods,
To conquer Kingdoms in the Clouds.

Bless me, replies the swanking Dame,
This Blade must be the very same

357

That came in Armour t'other Night,
And put us into such a Fright.
He'ad with him then a lusty Looby,
T'attend him, on a little Hobby:
An Ass, I think it was, I vow,
Or Mule, I know not whether now.
However, here they drank and eat
The best of Wine, and best of Meat;
Cramm'd 'till they made us all admire,
Especially that Hound the 'Squire;
Guzzl'd like Carriers, call'd ding dong,
And play'd the Devil all Night long;
Put the whole House in a Disorder;
Quarrell'd in Bed, and cry'd out Murder;
And when they'd thus disturb'd our Guest,
Broke both our own and Servants Rest,
Away rode Knight, Rope stop his Breath,
And never paid one Cross, E'saith;
But some arch Fellows in the Yard,
Seiz'd t'other Bandog by the Beard;

358

And that Rogue rather chose to draw
The Punishment of Blanket-Law
Upon his Shoulders, than he'd pay
One Groat before he loap'd away,
Urging, that no such Men of Titles,
As Knights, e'er pay'd for Drink or Victuals;
And that their 'Squires, by Night or Day,
Always eat frank, as well as they.

The Priest soon apprehending why
The 'Squire appear'd so very shy,
Upon the Barber wink'd, for fear
Of's telling Sancho was so near,
And that some warm Disputes arising,
Might frustrate what they were devising;
So now th' again began to press
The Hostess for a Woman's Dress,
The most fantastick that her Hoard
Of female Reliques would afford;
The Coif and Petticoat of Grannum,
Or any Geer to put upon 'em.

359

She bid 'em take no farther Care,
But said she'd fit 'em to a Hair.
Accordingly, to give the Jest
A Lift, she trudg'd to Oaken Chest;
From whence she brought a Woollen Gown,
The Seams with Liv'ry-Lace laid down,
And hemm'd and border'd round the Skirts
With Velvet black of sev'ral sorts,
New Patches having been apply'd
As fast as old ones were destroy'd.
To this, a Petticoat was added
Of scarlet Plush, but sadly jaded,
Which had a Lace that once was Gold,
But worn to Silk, 'twas now so old.
Some other Ornaments beside,
That nearly were to these ally'd,
As Muff and Whisk, she also brought,
And a huge Rump prepost'rous Knot.
In these Habilliments, the Priest
His holy Corps most nicely drest;

360

And next, instead of Coif and Pinner,
Now worn by modern female Sinner,
He only put upon his Crown
A white stitch'd Night-cap of his own;
Then with a Garter from his Knee,
Which was of broad black Taffety,
He binds the Cap upon his Head;
Does o'er his Beard the Ribbon spread,
And hides that hairy Part the Chin,
Where manly Sprouts before were seen,
Tying the other Garter o'er
That Part o'th' Head we call the Fore;
So only shew'd Eyes, Nose, and Mouth,
'Twixt Muffler, and a Fore-head Cloth;
Which being black, now made his white Face
Appear to be a very bright Face,
That our quaint Lady, take her rightly,
Was truly much about as sightly
As an old formal Abby-Queen,
That stands in Querpo to be seen.

361

The Barber ty'd unto his Chin
An Ox's Tail, which long had been
A Brush for Louse-traps, dirty worn
By Dandrew-Combs, and Combs of Horn;
Then taking Pains to mat his Hair
As bad as Mane of Forrest Mare,
Put on an odd-shap'd high-crown'd Hat,
Which look'd as old, I'll tell you that,
As if 't'ad cover'd no Man's Ears
Before for many hundred Years.

When thus th' ungainly Page was ready,
As well as the distressed Lady,
And a Side-saddle put upon
The Curate's Devil of a Drone;
Then both the Scare-crows nimbly mounting,
Took Leave, and rid a Mad-man hunting,
Joining with Sancho near the Gate,
Who was their Guide, as well as Mate.

The Fox, when he decoys the Hare,
Always dissembles equal Fear;

362

So those who would to Chains betray
The Mad, should seem as mad as they.

CANTO XXXVII.

'Squire Sancho, by Consent, rides on
Before the rest, to find the Don;
The Priest and Barber loit'ring a'ter,
Hear Singing by a running Water.

The Curate, now they'd left the Inn,
Grew conscious of the shameful Sin
He had committed, in disguising
A Priest in Habit so surprising;
Vex'd that a Man of his Profession
Should wear the Weeds of Fornication,
And, with so scandalous a Dress,
Profane his Rev'rend Holiness.
The Curate therefore beg'd the Shaver
To grant one amicable Favour,
Which was, that he'd vouchsafe to take
The female Rigging on his Back,

363

And, in the Wood, consent to be
The Lady in the Comedy;
For that himself, with greater Art,
Could act the Page or Usher's Part;
So begg'd he might his Garb translate
To Cow-tail Beard, and high-crown'd Hat;
Which Tonsor readily pull'd off,
And chang'd for Grannum's Gown and Ruff,
Giving the Conscience of the Priest
Content, that sweet continual Feast.
Just so the Babylonian Smock
Does tender Consciences provoke;
But when 'tis chang'd into a Cloak,
The Scruples vanish all like Smoak.
The very Turky-Cock will fly
At Colours that offend his Eye;
Why then mayn't those, whose weaker Sight
Approve of Black, instead of White,
Love Darkness better than the Light?

364

Now all were pleas'd, away they rode,
Prattling and jesting tow'rds the Wood;
Like stroling Players ready drest,
To act some Droll at Country Feast;
Talking of Quixote's frantick Tricks,
His Combats and advent'rous Freaks,
'Till painful Steps of weary-Drudges,
Had brought them to the Shrubs and Hedges,
That did the Woody Mountains bound,
Where the mad Knight was to be found;
Then looking for some Mark or Token,
Which Sancho from the Trees had broken.
At length the Branches they espy'd,
By Sancho strew'd to be his Guide;
Like Heroes then they boldly enter'd
The dismal Gloom, and forward ventur'd,
Instructing Sancho, by the Way,
What would be best to do and say,
That might give Comfort, and recover
The Senses of the frantick Lover,

365

Advising him to tell his Master,
That he had brought his Wounds a Plaister;
And when you find him pleas'd a little,
Say thus, and don't forget a Tittle.

For as I live, I took great Care
To have your Letter copy'd fair;
And when I'd done, without Delay,
Rid Post to fair Dulcinea,
And into her own Hand I thrust it,
When none were near us, to mistrust it.
She simper'd, and so kindly took it;
First kiss'd it, then she open broke it,
And look'd so pleas'd, as I'm a Sinner,
As if she felt new Life within her:
I wish your Worship had but seen her.
Then wanting Paper for a Letter,
Poor Lady, I shall ne'er forget her,
She sent you back, by Word of Mouth,
This Answer, vowing that 'twas Truth:

366

Pray tell that val'rous Knight, your Master,
I'm sorry for his sad Disaster,
And am my self stark mad to see him,
That from his Torments I may free him;
And as for those strange Things he shew'd
To you, his Servant, in the Wood,
Assure his Worship I'd be glad
To tame them also, if they're mad;
Therefore pray charge him, upon Pain
Of my Displeasure, to refrain
His Pennance in that wretched Place,
And fly, with Speed, to my Embrace,
That these kind Arms of mine may hide
My Dear from Danger. Then she cry'd.

Adsheart, quoth Sancho, this must do;
He'll think it ev'ry Tittle true.
I know 'twill please him to the Heart,
In case my Members a'n't too short;
Therefore I think I'd best be going
Before, and see what 'tis he's doing.

367

The sooner I can find him out,
The readier I shall be, no doubt.
Besides, this Answer, I account,
Will make him leave this plaguy Mount,
That he may ride in Search of Kingdoms,
Crowns, Empires, Thrones, and those fine Thingdoms,
And not in this confounded Place
Loiter and starve away his Days.

The Priest and Barber both approv'd
What Sancho had so wisely mov'd,
Consenting he should first jog on,
And try the Temper of the Don,
Provided he'd return, and give 'em,
A just Account, and not deceive 'em;
Which Sancho promising to do,
Rid on, and left the other two
At no great Distance from a Brook,
That gently glided by a Rock;
Upon the Banks of which there stood
The tallest Trees in all the Wood,

368

Where both alighted, and sate down,
Skreen'd from the Violence of the Sun.

But few sweet Minutes had they stay'd
In this obscure refreshing Shade,
Before a charming Voice began
To breathe forth a melodious Strain,
As if 'twas artfully design'd
A Prelude to some Song behind;
Nor did the Blessing longer last,
Than just to give the Ear a Taste,
But melted into Annih'lation,
And left a silent Expectation;
Nor had the intermitting Hush
Hung long on ev'ry list'ning Bush,
E'er the sweet Sound again arose,
And charm'd the Hearers to the close
Attention of a mournful Song,
Thus breath'd progressively along.
Obscure Retreats are all in vain,
No silent Shade's an Ease to me;

369

I still, alas! must bear the Pain
Of Absence, Love, and Jealousy.
Why then should I the Tyrant dread,
When his amazing Shapes appear?
Death's welcome, now my Hopes are fled;
What is there that I ought to fear?
She's gone, and in another's Arms;
'Tis Folly to be jealous now:
Why should I love, she'as lost her Charms,
In basely breaking of her Vow?
Yet the fair Image still remains
So firmly painted in my Breast,
That, spite of Reason, there she reigns,
And hourly robs me of my Rest.
Then let the Wise no more discourse
Of Peace, or true Content below;
The Pow'r of Love, and Beauty's Force,
Distracted Lovers only know.
The skulking Hearers both were fill'd
With Wonder, at a Voice so skill'd,

370

Well knowing, that no rural Swain
Could bless their Ears with such a Strain,
And his hard Sufferings impart
With so much Elegance and Art;
Therefore struck dumb, with Admiration,
They kept their Silence, and their Station,
Expecting they e'er long should hear
A farther sweet harmonious Air:
But waiting 'till they quite despair'd
Of what so greatly they desir'd,
They rose, at length, from off the Ground,
To search the Bow'rs and Grotto's round
With Diligence, in Hopes to find
The Songster, who had been so kind;
But just as they began to move
From their delightful little Grove,
The follow'ing Song engag'd their Stay,
And kept their list'ning Ears in Play.
Friendship, farewel, since thou ar't fled,
With Justice, to thy native Skies,

371

Whilst Vertue hangs her drooping Head,
And all that's honest, fades and dies.
Both Sexes counterfeit thy Face,
And thy external Habit wear;
But strip off the alluring Dress,
And Fraud and Falshood then appear.
O! happy Genius, hither fly,
And let the World once more be blest,
That Love may be a sacred Tye,
And solemn Vows no more a Jest.
This Ditty, to their great Surprise,
Was ended with such Sobs and Sighs,
That now Compassion mov'd them more
Than Curiosity before,
To find the Wretch that was opprest
With so much Sorrow in her Breast.
Accordingly they stepp'd along
That Way from whence they heard the Song,
And peeping o'er some Bushes, found
The Author of the charming Sound,

372

Pensively walking by a Rock,
At no great Distance from the Brook.
No sooner had they view'd his Stature,
His Face, and here and there a Tatter,
But by all Symptoms they could see,
They both concluded this must be
Cardenio, Champion of the Rock,
Of whom the 'Squire before had spoke.
However, being two, they fear'd
No naked Limbs, or frizzl'd Beard,
But ventur'd forward, with Intent
To pay the Wretch a Compliment.

No sooner did Cardenio 'spy
Two such uncommon Figures nigh,
But he stopt suddenly, and star'd
At Grannum's Gown, and Cow-tail Beard,
As if more frighted at their Dress,
Than they at his wild Nakedness.

373

After both Sides, with some Surprize,
Had gaz'd, and reconcil'd their Eyes
T'each other's antick strange Disguise,
The Curate to the ragged Wretch
Stept forth, and made the foll'wing Speech:

Excuse me, Sir, that I'm thus rude
T' accost you in your Solitude,
But I'm commission'd from above,
In Christian Charity and Love,
T'enjoin you, for your heav'nly Good,
To quit this solitary Wood,
And all these gloomy Shades and Hills,
Where melancholy Horror dwells:
Resign them to the feather'd Kind
And Brutes, for whom they were design'd.
These are no Places for Relief
Of troubl'd Minds, that swell with Grief:
No human Sorrows can abate
Their Force, by such a lonely State.

374

'Tis here in vain, if Hopes are crost,
To seek the Happiness you've lost.
Content's a Blessing never found
By Man on such unhallow'd Ground.
No purling Streams, or shady Banks,
Where bending Willows grow in Ranks;
No hollow Winds, or whisp'ring Trees,
Can yield an anxious Bosom Ease.
No Peace of Mind on Earth is given,
But by the healing Hand of Heav'n;
Who will not hear the mournful Voice
Of those that make such Lives their Choice,
And fly from human Race, to dwell
With Brutes in such an Earthly Hell.
We therefore beg that you'll forsake
Your fruitless Pennance, and go back
To your Abode, and there converse
With holy Men; and by the Force
Of Pray'r and heav'nly Admonition,
Rescue your Soul from this Condition.

375

Cardenio happ'ning to be free
From his accustom'd Lunacy,
Hung down his Head upon his Breast,
And gravely listen'd to the Priest,
Fix'd as a Statue made of Stone,
'Till the surprizing Speech was done;
Then raising up his drooping Head,
In answer, thus the Lover said.

Since Heav'n, in Pity to my Grief,
Has sent such Friends to my Relief,
That I may be reduc'd again
To the Society of Men;
Least you should think that I commence
This vagrant Life for want of Sense,
And that the Mis'ries I sustain,
Arise from a distemper'd Brain,
Pray give me Leave to let you know
The real Causes of my Woe,
And why I fly from Human Race,
To dwell in this unhappy Place;

376

Then will you pity, not condemn
The Wretch whom you, unheard, may blame.

The Priest and Barber, well inclin'd
To hear Cardenio ease his Mind,
Reply'd, They'd give their best Attention
To all he should be pleas'd to mention:
Not only so, but jointly be
His Friends in this Extremity;
And therefore begg'd him to reveal,
Without Reserve, what did but swell
His Sorrows, and disturb his Mind
The more for being close confin'd.

Cardenio, when he'ad clear'd his Voice
By some preparatory Sighs,
Began his melancholy Story
With all the Grace of Oratory,
And did so feellingly set forth
His Passion, and Lucinda's Worth,
That both the Hearers stood amaz'd
To find a Man reported craz'd,

377

Express such unexpected Sense,
Adorn'd with so much Eloquence,
As if some famous Orator,
Bred for the Pulpit, or the Bar,
Had slighted Human Race, to teach
Wild Brutes and Birds the Use of Speech,
And charm the Rocks, tho' deaf and mute,
With's Tongue, as Orpheus with his Lute.
The slender Audience gap'd and star'd,
And to each Word had such Regard,
That their fix'd Eyes let fall their Tears,
To prove th' Attention of their Ears,
Whilst, without Trip or Hessitation,
Cardenio gave the sad Relation,
Which Quixote had before cut short,
When he and Sancho suffer'd for't,
About the Queen that us'd to harbour
Her Friend Elizabat the Barber.

Cardenio having now run o'er
The Part which he had told before,

378

Proceeded thus about the fair
Lucinda, whom he lov'd so dear.
—But when the charming Angel sent
Amadis back the Book I'd lent,
Between the Leaves, the tender Creature,
To shew her Love, had plac'd a Letter:
But I, a Stranger to the kind
Obliging Favour she design'd,
My Rival Ferdinand one Day,
Turning the Leaves wherein it lay,
By Chance the fatal Secret found,
The Sight of which renew'd his Wound,
And caus'd him to admire her Sense,
As well as beauteous Excellence.
I snatch'd it from him, but too late;
He'ad first perus'd it, as he sate,
And, in his fainting Looks, display'd
His high Concern at what he'ad read;
And that your selves may know how near
Consummating our Joys we were,

379

Tho', to my Sorrow, I'll repeat
The Sum of what she kindly writ.

Cardenio ev'ry Day sets forth
Your farther Gratitude and Worth,
That I am forc'd to more and more
Esteem your Merits, than before.
If this Acknowledgment will prove
Any Advantage to your Love,
Use it in all that you design
For your own Honour, and for mine.
My Father knows you, and is free
To farther my Felicity:
He's a good Parent, and too kind
To force or contradict my Mind,
But will comply with whatsoe'er
I ask, that's honourable and fair;
Therefore 'tis now your Part to shew
You Love, as you pretend you do:
If just, you ought to be believ'd;
If false, Lucinda is deceiv'd.

380

This Letter, adds the sighing Lover,
Did such Sincerity discover,
That I resolv'd to ask, or rather
Once more demand her of her Father:
But Ferdinand, at Sight of what
He found she had so kindly wrote,
Grew so inflam'd, that tho' he still
Did in his Breast his Love conceal,
Yet he determin'd in his Heart
To act a base unfriendly Part,
And to persue, unknown to me,
His Love by means of Treachery,
Whilst I, without the least Distrust,
Believ'd him amicably just,
And frankly told the Traytor all
The am'rous Secrets of my Soul,
And how I fear'd my cautious Father
Would not approve my Choice, but rather
Suspend my Marriage, 'till he found
The Duke his aged Hopes had crown'd,

381

By giving me some kind Advance,
That might improve my Circumstance;
But the perfidious Ferdinand,
Instead of acting like a Friend,
With promis'd Service fill'd my Ears,
But took Advantage of my Fears,
Pretending that himself would move
My Father to approve my Love,
And win him to propose the same
To th' Parent of the lovely Dame,
That their Consent with ours might meet,
And make our Joyes the more compleat.
But Ferdinand o'ercome, alas!
With bright Lucinda's heav'nly Face,
His friendly Promises postpon'd,
To heal his own impatient Wound;
And did propose himself to be
The fair One's Spouse, instead of me.
Such Pow'r has Beauty to subdue
The Great, and all their Vertues too,

382

And does not only oft enslave,
But make meer Miscreants of the Brave.

This Offer of my faithless Friend,
With dear Lucinda's Father gain'd
Such great Esteem, that he approv'd
The advantageous Point he mov'd,
And, fond of such Alliance, clos'd
At once with all that he propos'd,
Exerting his paternal Pow'r
To bring Lucinda to the Lure,
Whilst my Attendance on his Grace,
Confin'd me to a distant Place,
Where I was busy'd, and detain'd
By th' Cunning of my treach'rous Friend,
And kept a Stranger to his vile
Supplanting Perfidy the while,
'Till sitting underneath some Trees
One Day, for Coolness and for Ease,
A Messenger, with nimble Feet,
Approach'd me, stewing in his Sweat,

383

And told me he was hir'd to run
Full thirty Miles from such a Town,
By a young Lady at a Grate,
Who weeping look'd disconsolate,
And that she slid into his Hand
A Letter, with a strict Command
That he should no where stop or stay,
But fly as swift as Time, away,
The same deliver as directed,
With Speed, in private unsuspected.
This made me tremble as I sate,
And fear some Ill, but knew not what,
Till op'ning what she'ad writ, and then
These Stabs she gave me with her Pen:

Don Ferdinand's perfidious Tongue
Has done both you and me much Wrong:
He to your Father spoke, 'tis true,
And mine, but for himself, not you.
He has demanded me his Bride,
My Father rashly has comply'd,

384

And, in few Hours, it is design'd
Our Hands in private shall be join'd,
Least Heav'n prevents the wretched Tye,
And stops my Fate that is so nigh.
Judge my Affliction by your own,
And let your speedy Love be shown;
Or all your Wishes will be crost,
And my sad Self for ever lost.

No sooner had I read these Words,
More piercing than the keenest Swords,
But starting up, 'twixt Love and Fury,
I flew to th' Stables in a Hurry,
And mounting nimbly, turn'd the Roads,
With flying Heels, to dusty Clouds,
'Till unmolested I arriv'd
Where the kind weeping Angel liv'd;
There waiting at a grated Window,
I found my only Hopes, Lucinda,
Who, tho' her Eyes were blushing red,
Inflam'd by many Tears she'ad shed,

385

At my Approach, she found Relief,
And dry'd the Fountains of her Grief.
Welcome, Cardenio, to my Sight,
The Virgin cry'd with some Delight;
One farther Hour had been too late
To've stopt the Rigor of my Fate;
But since you're come, you've Time to put
An End to what we're now about;
Else, thro' this mournful Grate, appears
My Wedding-Garb thus stain'd with Tears;
For Ferdinand, that treach'rous Thief
To you, and Author of my Grief,
And my ambitious cruel Father,
Are walking in the Hall together,
Designing, when the Priest is come,
To call me to my nuptial Doom;
But now I hope you'll find a Way
The dreadful Sentence to delay,
And punish him, who had the Heart
To act so treacherous a Part;

386

Yet, like a worthless Wretch, pretend
To be your faithful Bosom-Friend.
Do all you can; but if you fail,
No Rival-Traytor shall prevail;
For if my Pray'rs and Tears together,
Want Pow'r to move my cruel Father,
A Dagger shall my Justice shew,
And still preserve my Vows to you.

Nobly resolv'd, said I, my Dear;
An injur'd Breast no Death should fear.
Let Action verify your Words,
If Life no Happiness affords;
And if my Sword cannot defend
Such Beauty from my faithless Friend,
I'll turn the Point upon my Breast,
And send my troubl'd Soul to rest.
This said, she vanish'd from my Sight,
And left me in a trembling Fright,
Call'd, in a Hurry, to fulfil,
As I suppos'd, her Father's Will.

387

No sooner was the Angel fled,
But sudden Fear half struck me dead,
That all my Limbs, when she was flown,
Like blasted Boughs, hung drooping down,
Till recollecting what she'ad said,
So wild a Frenzy rais'd my Head,
That with a mad indecent Force,
I leap'd from off my sweating Horse,
Then flying to the Door, stept in,
And thro' the Entry mov'd unseen,
Till to the Room I came, where fair
Lucinda and her Bridegroom were,
With all those few that were admitted
To see the private League compleated.
I undiscover'd stole behind
Loose Hangings which the Parlour lin'd,
There view'd thro' Holes the Moths had made,
The wretched Scene my Friend had laid;
A Sight of which, my Spirits sunk,
And Senses grew, with Passion, drunk,

388

That all before me did but seem
A wild Enthusiastick Dream.
At length, whilst fair Lucinda heeded
But little how the Priest proceeded,
He came unto the binding Clause,
At which she star'd, and made a Pause;
Shew'd such Disorder in her Eyes,
And round her gaz'd in such Surprize,
As if her Soul within her said,
Oh! come, Cardenio, to my Aid:
But I, unhappy Wretch, bereft
Of Sense, and like a Statue left,
Unapprehensive as a Stone
Of her Misfortune, or my own,
Stood all the Time as in a Trance,
And was too stupid to advance.
At last, the trembling Bride despairing,
As I suppose, of my appearing,
And press'd by'r Father, and the rest,
To give her Answer to the Priest,

389

Pronounc'd, with faint and feeble Voice,
That binding Word, the fatal Yes;
And when th' officious Priest went through
With the ill Work he had to do,
Which, soon as finish'd, to the Joy
Of those that were the Standers-by,
The faithless Bridegroom, full of Pride,
Stept forward to salute his Bride,
Who, at his loath'd Approach, fell down,
Palled and senseless, in a Swoon.

This pleasing Sight reviv'd my Heart,
And gave new Life to ev'ry Part,
Glad to observe she still could hate
My Rival, tho' her nuptial Mate,
And, like a true ill-natur'd Wife,
Marry to curse, not bless, his Life;
For Woman, when in Love she's crost,
Weds to revenge the Joy she' as lost.

But oh! when I began to weigh
The black Proceedings of the Day;

390

The Treach'ry of a Bosom-Friend,
Who did such cordial Zeal pretend;
Lucinda's false consenting Yes,
Then fainting at her Husband's Kiss;
Her Vows to rather stab and die,
And yet next Minute to comply;
These odious Riddles so confus'd
My Senses, and my Soul amus'd,
That I concluded Human Race
And Devils, equally were base;
Yet had Lucinda's Charms possest
My Thoughts, and so inflam'd my Breast,
That I could rather have approv'd
A thousand Deaths, than not have lov'd,
Tho' all those Prospects, once so fair,
Were turn'd to Horror and Despair.
However, since the Knot was ty'd,
And she was now my Rival's Bride;
Had also prov'd as bad as he,
In breaking her Fidelity,

391

I left the cursed House unseen,
With the like Care that brought me in,
Without attempting to revenge
The Treach'ry that had wrought so strange
An Alteration in Lucinda,
Betwixt her Wedding, and the Window,
Resolving ever to refrain
The faithless Company of Man,
Nor more on Beauty cast an Eye,
But from inconstant Woman fly.
Determin'd thus, I Home return'd,
And as I rode, my Usage mourn'd;
Wept for Lucinda's Breach of Trust,
And laid, with Tears, the rising Dust.
All Night I travell'd, and by Break
Of Day, to the Duke's House got back,
Where, for a Mule that I admir'd,
I chang'd my Horse, that now was tir'd;
Some Gold and useful Linnen took,
And from that Time, Mankind forsook,

392

To herd in Woods, with Brutes of Prey,
Less hurtful Animals than they.
At length, in wand'ring up and down,
O'er Plains and Rocky Hills unknown,
I found this unfrequented Place,
Adapted to my wretched Case,
Resolving in these Shades to stay,
And sigh my anxious Hours away;
But many Days I had not spent
In the vain Searches of Content,
E'er my Mule perish'd in the Wood,
(More cruel I) for want of Food;
Soon after which, my self was found
Stretch'd out, and fainting on the Ground,
By Shepherds passing by this way,
Who kindly fed me as I lay
Bereft of Reason, as they said,
And tho' so weak, yet raving mad;
Nor have I since been always free
From Passions of Indecency;

393

But when Despair inflames the Wounds
Of Love, and overflows the Bounds
Of Reason, then I madly fly
From Place to Place, and howl and cry
Thro' all the Desart, and proclaim
Lucinda's Beauty, and her Name,
And furiously attack and beat
The Goat-herds, and the Clowns I meet,
Who, notwithstanding these my Crimes,
Relieve my Wants at other Times.
This is my miserable Case,
And thus I spend my wretched Days;
Nor can my Love, that raging Passion,
Admit of any Consolation,
Least you could bring Lucinda's Charms
To these unhappy naked Arms.

Thus sighing, the despairing Wretch
Ended his melancholy Speech,
Which left the Curate and his Mate,
Bemoaning poor Cardenio's Fate.

394

Since solemn Vows and Oaths, when broke,
So highly do the Wrong'd provoke,
Let Friends and Lovers never make 'em,
Or justly keep 'em, if they take 'em.

CANTO XXXVIII.

New melancholy Moans and Sighs,
At some small Distance, do arise.
They serach the Wood, at length discover
A Lady mourning for her Lover.

Just as the Curate was preparing
An Answer worth Cardenio's hearing,
Complaining Accents fill'd each Ear,
Arising from some Thicket near.
Surpriz'd at the lamenting Voice,
They listen'd to the mournful Noise,
And tho' no Person yet appear'd,
The foll'wing Words they plainly heard.

O Heav'ns! how timely have I found
This Desart, this untrodden Ground!

395

Where I may vent my Grief, and none
My Sorrows know, but thee alone,
'Till I have wasted, Tear by Tear,
This Flesh my Soul abhors to wear,
And dug my Grave with these my own
Long Nails, like Monster's Claws o'er-grown.

O wretched Creature! to confide
In Man, so false as soon as try'd;
Who, when he gains a Conquest, grows
So proud of broken Oaths and Vows,
As if he held the same to be
But Trophies of his Victory.
Farewel, thou Tyrant of my Breast;
These Woods and Rocks shall yield me Rest.
No more will I expect from thee
Relief in my Extremity,
But court the Trees and Mountains now,
Less faithless, and more kind than thou.

Cardenio hearing, with the rest,
Distinctly all that was exprest,

396

And thinking it some Ease, to see
Another Wretch as mad as he,
Search'd ev'ry neighb'ring Bush and Arbour,
Attended with the Priest and Barber,
All jointly hoping to discover
This new-despairing female Lover.
At length, behind an Ash, they found
A Youngster sitting on the Ground,
With his Feet padling in a Brook
That flow'd and murmur'd by a Rock.
They still approach'd, but trod as light
As dancing Fairies step by Night,
'Till they came near, then stopt unheard,
And view'd the Figure that appear'd
Surpriz'd that any Clown should show
Such taper Legs, as white as Snow,
Whose tender Feet seem'd much too fine
To tend on Goats, or fetch up Kine,
Or stride with Oxen in the Field
O'er rugged Acres, when they're till'd.

397

The Toil of Vassals, who display
Their utmost Pride in Russet Grey,
Such that this fair surprizing Clown,
At that Time happen'd to have on.

The Curate therefore led the rest
Into a secret bushy Nest,
Where they their prying selves might skreen,
And see the Youth, but not be seen;
There they all skulking stood, with Patience,
To make their farther Observations.
At length, the Youth, when he had wash'd
His Legs, and pretty Feet refresh'd,
He took a 'Kerchief off his Head,
Round which it loosely hung display'd,
And as he drew the Linnen from
Beneath a home-spun Cap of Thrum,
Down dropt such lovely Locks of Hair,
So long, so charming, and so fair,
That when he shook the Flaxen Pride,
It spreading, did his Shoulders hide,

398

And dazzl'd the Spectators Sight,
Like pointed Beams that shine so bright,
And glow around the God of Light.
These flowing Beauties soon betray'd
The Youth to be some lovely Maid,
Or wand'ring Female at the least,
In Country Clown's Apparel drest,
That, cross'd in Love, she might disguise
Her tender Sex from Human Eyes.

As thus in Thought they were employ'd,
She chanc'd to turn her Head aside,
And shew'd 'em so divine a Face,
So full of Sweetness, and of Grace,
That those who view'd the lusheous Creature,
Were Light'ning-struck with ev'ry Feature.
Cardenio gaz'd, and since she cou'd
Not be his dear Lucinda, vow'd
She must be more than Flesh and Blood;
Some Goddess from the Skies descended,
To wash in private unattended.

399

She now began, with Hands as white
As Moon-shine in a Winter's Night,
To comb, and into Tresses part
Her flowing Hair, with Care and Art;
Which am'rous and attractive Sight,
Fill'd all that view'd her with Delight,
That they no longer could forbear
T'approach a Nymph so truly fair,
But left the Bush, t'accost the Lass,
As sitting on a Bank of Grass.
No sooner did she hear their Tread,
And turn about her Eve-like Head,
But, starting from her verdant Seat,
Upon her tender naked Feet,
And nimbly snatching up a Bundle
That lay upon a little round Hill,
Away she tript (as well she might)
From three such Figures, in a Fright,
Who might have scar'd, with Looks uncommon,
The stoutest Man, as well as Woman.

400

But the poor Damsel's Sattin Skin
She trod on, was so soft and thin,
That Stones and Clods soon stopt her Speed,
And caus'd her wounded Soals to bleed,
So that few Steps in rugged Way,
Caus'd her to stumble, where she lay
'Till those from whom, as Foes, she fled,
As Friends stept timely to her Aid.
The Curate, just as he came at her,
Crying, Sweet Madam, dearest Creature,
Don't fly; we for no Harm persue;
We're Flesh and Blood, as well as you:
Therefore fear nothing, lovely Fair,
Tho' you're discover'd by your Hair,
That still inclines us but the more
To help and serve you to our Pow'r.
Pray let us know, dear Soul, wherein
Such peerless Charms have injur'd been,
That we some speedy Ways may find
To ease your discontented Mind.

401

While thus the Curate labour'd hard
To keep the Lass from being scar'd,
She star'd, and wonder'd into what
Strange Mortals Clutches she was got;
One with his Arse hung round with Tatters,
That scarc'd would hide his other Matters.
A second dizen'd up like some
Old Witch about to mount a Broom.
A third with dangling Beard, that hung
In matted Locks six Handfuls long,
And Hat so ancient, it might be,
For Shape, esteem'd a Novelty.

However, Madam was so wise,
Amidst her terrible Surprize,
As to consider all the three
Might be disguis'd, as well as she,
And wander'd up and down the Mount
In Cog', upon the same Account:
So that her second Thoughts supprest
The Terror of her throbbing Breast;

402

And then, recalling, like a Maid,
Her modest Blushes, thus she said:

Since these rude Mountains, over-grown
With thorny Shrubs, and Heaps of Stone,
Will not conceal, in Man's Disguise,
A female Wretch from human Eyes,
'Twould be in vain to now disown
My Sex, since I my Hair have shown;
Nor can I from your Knowledge hide
The Cause that draws me thus aside,
To seek on Mountains near the Skies,
That Ease my present Grief denies,
Since you've express'd so much good Nature
To such a helpless injur'd Creature,
And made so many gen'rous Offers
To her unworthy of your Proffers;
I therefore beg I may retire
Behind those Shrubs, to bind my Hair,
And cover, with my Woollen Hose,
What, to my Shame, I now expose.

403

This Freedom which the Lady wanted,
No sooner was desir'd, but granted;
So that she stept, and staid behind
A Hedge to do what she design'd;
And then return'd, in decent Order,
To open her Condition farther;
But first, by way of Preparation,
She wip'd her Eyes, to move Compassion,
As Women very seldom fail
To do, when they their Grievance tell;
Then sobbing, like a Widow, just
Return'd from putting Dust to Dust,
She drew her 'Kerchief from her Face,
And stated thus her mournful Case.

In Andalusia did I first
Take Breath; there was I born and nurst;
A Province whence a Duke derives
His Title, also where he lives.
Near to the Palace of his Grace,
My Parents many Lands possess;

404

Th' industrious Husbandry of which
Has made them, tho' but Vassals, rich;
Nor do they want the Pray'rs of poor
Distressed Clowns, to bless their Store;
Nor a good Name among their Neighbours,
To crown their honest daily Labours;
But kept a House, where Friends might dine
In Plenty, and refresh with Wine;
And always liv'd but one Degree,
Or less, beneath Gentility.

Unhappy I, tho' now the chief
Occasion of their aged Grief,
Was once their Darling, and their Pride,
And only Daughter they enjoy'd;
I was their Blessing, and their Heir,
My Good their only Fear and Care;
And all their tender Thoughts were bent
To daily purchase my Content;
Nor did my Vertues less incline
To their true Peace, than they to mine,

405

Till base perfidious Man destroy'd
That mutual Comfort we enjoy'd,
And, by false Love, with Oaths disguis'd,
My tender Innocence surpriz'd,
And, by his treach'rous Vows, ensnar'd
A Heart I had not Pow'r to guard.

O! had I been but nobly born,
I ne'er had felt the Traytor's Scorn.
Diff'rence in Blood repell'd his Love,
And made him so perfidious prove;
That vain imaginary Stream,
Which springs from nothing, but a Dream;
That Mist, by Heralds rais'd to blind
The Slave, and please the haughty Mind,
That one may think the other great
In Blood, as well as in Estate;
When all the Diff'rence lies in Earth,
Meer dirty Acres, not in Birth;
When those are spent, the House decays,
And all their boasted Blood grows base.

406

The Duke, whose Title you have heard
Before, by these pale Lips, declar'd;
To his illustrious Blood, I owe
The Causes of my present Woe;
By his perfidious second Son,
Have I been treacherously won,
And, by his faithless Vows, misled
To credit what he falsely said.
Don Ferdinand's the hated Name
Of him, who, to his endless Shame,
Has brought Distraction not, on me
Alone, but all my Family.—

No sooner did Cardenio hear
His Rival mention'd by the fair
Complaining Lass, but he began
To tremble, and look pale and wan,
And, in his Looks, betray'd such strange
Disorder, by their sudden Change,
That his Companions fear'd his Wits
Were giving Way to frantick Fits;

407

But, with much struggling, he subdu'd
The rising Passion in his Blood,
And only fix'd his Eyes upon
The Country Maid, who'd nam'd the Don,
Guessing the lovely Lass to be
The Farmer's Daughter Dorothy,
Whom Ferdinando had deluded,
And basely, to his Shame, impuded;
But she not minding how his Eyes
Were fix'd, he gave her no Surprize,
That she continu'd her Narration,
'Thout the least Trip or Hessitation;
And thus proceeded to discover
The Falshood of her vitious Lover.

How often has he vow'd, alas!
That when he first beheld my Face,
He could for Ages, with Delight,
Have gaz'd upon the heav'nly Sight,
And that he felt such light'ning Dart,
Its fiery Beams thro' ev'ry Part,

408

That his Blood thunder'd thro' his Veins,
And fill'd him with a thousand Pains;
Such that no human Art could ease,
Or Mortal, but my self, appease!
These moving Words, and all the fine
Expressions, Wit and Love could coin,
He daily whisper'd in my Ears,
To gain upon my tender Years;
Not only so, but won my Friends,
By Favours, to obtain his Ends,
And brib'd the Servants to approve
His daily Visits, and his Love;
Feasted each Neighbour in his Walk,
To make 'em partial in their Talk,
And tempted them, with Fruits and Wines,
T'interpret well his ill Designs;
Made ev'ry Day, a Day of Mirth,
As if to celebrate his Birth,
And fill'd the neighb'ring Crosts each Night
With Songs, and Musick of Delight.

409

By these deceitful Means he us'd,
He all the Neighbourhood seduc'd,
That Maid or Wife, at his Command,
Would steal his Letters to my Hand,
Stuff'd with a thousand Vows, to move
My youthful Innocence to Love;
But my good Parents daily Cautions
Against so great a Lover's Motions,
Which only tended, as they thought,
To what was scandalous and naught,
And the strong Guard my Vertue had,
At all Times, 'gainst Designs so bad,
Still caus'd me to despise his Pain,
And render all his Hopes but vain.

Besides, I now began to fear
His Visits would my Fame impair,
And that the Favours he had done me,
Might bring, in Time, some Stain upon me;
I therefore was resolv'd, tho' rude,
To shun him all the Ways I could,

410

And to deny his vitious Passion
The Priv'ledge of Sollicitation,
Yet own I still had some Respect
To qualify my cold Neglect;
As grateful Women will retain
For those who love 'em, to their Pain.

However, for my Vertue's sake,
I sent him all his Letters back;
And when I saw his Face, or heard
His Voice, I always disappear'd.
However, these Affronts, I found,
Made no Abatement of his Wound;
For still the more that I withdrew,
The more outrageous still he grew.
At length, one Night, when in my Bed,
None with me, but my faithless Maid,
My Chamber-door both lock'd and barr'd
By my own Hand, because I fear'd
Don Ferdinando, in his Rage,
Might take th' indecent Priviledge

411

To gratify his Love or Spight,
By basely ent'ring in the Night,
Since he by Day no Way could find
To ease the Passion of his Mind.
I took some Pleasure, as I lay,
To see the Moths and Insects play
Around the Candle-flame, and burn
Their busy Wings at ev'ry Turn:
But as my Eyes were thus employ'd
In seeing silly Flies destroy'd,
My Breast was struck with sudden Fear,
As if some Ghost or Fiend was near,
And looking round me, soon I saw
Don Ferdinand the Curtains draw.
Had I an evil Spirit seen,
More frighted I could scarce have been.
His first Appearance in my Room,
Struck me at once both blind and dumb,
That I could neither see to fly,
Nor call to any Person nigh;

412

Or could I hear the Words he said,
But fainted backwards in my Bed,
Whilst he, with eager Arms, embrac'd
My Neck, then clung about my Wast,
And did his Love so far advance,
That soon he 'wak'd me from my Trance;
Then did he whisper in my Ears
All that was kind, to sooth my Fears;
Us'd such indearing Vows, and swore
To all he said, that I no more
Could call Assistance, than before.

My Maid, who basely had betray'd
Her Trust, was from my Chamber fled,
And for a Bribe, had left my Charms
Expos'd to Ferdinando's Arms;
Tho' he had offer'd no Offence
As yet to Virgin-Innocence,
But what a chast and modest Maid,
Surpriz'd as I was in my Bed,

413

Might, with a seeming Coyness, suffer,
And such an eager Lover offer;
So that consid'ring, as I lay,
What I should do, or rather say,
At length I thrust him from my Breast,
Which, with his glowing Cheeks, he prest,
Took Courage, feign'd an angry Look,
And warmly gave him this Rebuke:

Sir, if you love, as you pretend,
You would not be my Foe, but Friend:
You'd scorn to gratify your Passion,
By 'ndang'ring thus my Reputation.
Such Violence looks as if, in short,
You came to ravish, not to court;
And that your Love does, to your Shame,
Deserve a much more odious Name;
Therefore, if you have any Sense
Of your unmanly rude Offence,
Or Value for the Fame of her,
Who 'njoys a spotless Character,

414

Pray quit the Room you've enter'd thus
By Means so base and treacherous,
And leave me to enjoy my Rest,
Which, by your Presence, you molest;
Else will you force me to rely
On such a fatal Remedy,
That, least all Honour's laid aside,
You must repent of, when apply'd.

'Tis true, I was your Vassal born,
But not your Slave; and therefore scorn,
Upon ignoble Terms, to grant
Those Favours I conceive you want.
Tou are, alas! too Great to be
A 'Spouse for one of my Degree;
And I'm too good to condescend
To be your base poluted Friend;
Why then should you indulge a Flame
Hurtful to'ur self, to me the same,
Since Honour will not let you wed,
Nor me, without Disgrace, my Bed?

415

O! why, reply'd the faithless Lord,
Dear Angel, do you judge so hard?
Believe me, I have no Design,
But for your Good, as well as mine.
Would you comply to bless my Arms
In Wedlock, with those joyful Charms,
No Birth or Quality shall prove
A Hindrance to our nuptial Love.
Such matchless Beauty, is alone
A Dow'r sufficient for a Throne.
What does without so lovely shine,
Can harbour nothing base within,
But must be to the Gods akin;
And therefore fit to bless the Side
O'th' Greatest Monarch, as a Bride.
All I desire, is such a Wife
To crown the Happiness of Life.
If Heav'n and you vouchsafe to grant
Me that one Boon: 'Tis all I want.

416

Thus he went on, and vow'd and swore
He'd be my Husband, o'er and o'er,
And that I should not think he jested,
The same he solemnly protested
By th' holy Image o'er my Head,
And all the Saints around my Bed.
Pray, my good Lord, said I, take Care
Of what you rashly say and swear:
Bind not your Self, by sacred Vows,
To do what Reason disallows:
Act not with such Precipitation,
To humour an unbridl'd Passion:
Dishonour not your Noble House,
With such a homebred worthless Spouse,
By no means qualify'd to bear
Those Honours you would have her share:
Vex not your Father with a Bride
So ill accomplish'd and ally'd,
Who, tho' her Hopes are quite contrary,
May prove your Ruin, if we marry.

417

For should our Nuptials so enrage
The Duke, that nothing could asswage
His Anger, you would soon repent
Your rash Request, and my Consent:
Therefore I hope, e'er you commence
A Troth of so much Consequence,
You will forget your am'rous Pain,
And give your Reason Leave to reign.

These, and more Arguments beside,
I to the Case in Hand apply'd;
But Love had fill'd both Heart and Head,
And made him deaf to all I said,
That still he vow'd, and still reply'd,
None else but me should be his Bride,
And still new Protestations made,
To farther bind whate'er he said,
That now his Promises obtain'd
Some Faith, and more Attention gain'd,
And call'd into my Mind, how oft
The Beauteous have been rais'd aloft

418

To Coaches gilt, and Dresses fine,
From humbler Parentage than mine;
So fancy'ng my propitious Stars
Would prove as generous as theirs,
I thought it dangerous to flight
A Passion nurs'd to such a Height;
And therefore press'd him o'er and o'er,
To vow what he had vow'd before,
Which he continu'd to express
With greater Zeal and Eagerness,
Swearing, and gaining, by Degrees,
Such farther am'rous Liberties,
'Till at length, fainting in his Arms,
He reap'd the Pleasure of my Charms;
And when I struggl'd, tho' in vain,
He still bewitch'd me o'er again.
At length, as panting by my Side,
He calmly ask'd me how I did,
Whilst I in strange Disorder lay,
And scarce knew what to think or say,

419

Grown quite unable to deny
Whate'er he wanted to enjoy,
But tacitly, and free from Strife,
Comply'd, as if I'd been his Wife,
Fearing, should he obtain, by Force,
The Consequence might prove the worse,
Not knowing but he then might plead
He was, by Right of Conquest, freed
From all those Vows that he had tender'd,
Upon Proviso I surrender'd;
I therefore would not stand a Storm,
Because I'd bind him to perform
Th' Articles of Capitulation,
On which I gave him full Possession;
Nor did he scruple to repeat
His Vows, 'twixt ev'ry am'rous Heat;
But when he hugg'd me, still he swore
Those solemn Oaths he'ad made before.

Thus, 'till the Dawning of the Day,
We kindly toy'd the Time away;

420

Then starting up from my Embrace,
He kiss'd each Feature of my Face,
And crying thrice adieu, dear Soul,
Withdrew, and thro' the Garden stole,
Whilst I remain'd some Time alone,
Confus'd with thinking what I'd done;
Yet, when my treach'rous Maid was come,
With blushing Cheeks, into my Room,
I had not Pow'r to chide the Jade,
Who had her Mistress thus betray'd;
For Guilt had so restrain'd my Tongue,
That I with Silence bore the Wrong.

The foll'wing Night, my Lordly Spouse
Renew'd his Visit, and his Vows;
For now I took my self to be
His Bride, and gave him Liberty
To come as often as he pleas'd,
That his fierce Passion might be eas'd,
'Till he thought fit, in publick Manner,
To own me, and preserve my Honour;

421

Which being in his Lordship's Pow'r,
Was now in Danger ev'ry Hour;
But when the second Night was past
In Joys too exquisite to last,
I'th' Morning he arose, alas!
So coolly from my soft Embrace,
As if two Nights to Ice had turn'd
His Breast, that once so fiercely burn'd;
Nor did he, at his Parting, give
Th' Assurances he us'd to leave,
Or one tenacious Kiss bestow,
But cry'd, Well, Madam, I must go;
Then bowing, sidl'd to the Door,
Bid me farewel, and said no more.
When I this Alteration see
In him, it work'd a Change in me;
My Hopes to sudden Fears were chill'd,
My Spirits sunk, my Blood congeal'd,
'Till Fury thaw'd my frozen Veins,
And made me fit for Bedlam Chains;

422

Then I the treach'rous Hussy slav'd,
And twenty Billingsgates out-rav'd;
Curs'd the perfidious Wretch, whose Arms
Had thus deflow'r'd my Virgin-Charms;
For, in his parting Looks, he shew'd
Contempt, and base Ingratitude.
In this Disorder I remain'd,
Betray'd, forsaken, and disdain'd;
For notwithstanding all he swore
And vow'd, I never saw him more.
A Month in Sorrow did I spend,
Beat my own Breast, my Tresses rend;
Yet was I forc'd to still disguise
My Trouble from my Parents Eyes,
Lest their Enquiries should increase
That Grief they knew not how to ease.

At length I heard my faithless Spouse,
Forgetful of his Oaths and Vows,
Had chose another Bride in Haste,
To whom the Priest had ty'd him fast;

423

A more deserving Lady, nam'd
Lucinda, for her Beauty fam'd.

No sooner had Cardenio heard
His Mistress mention'd, but his Beard
He claw'd, and rowl'd his goggle Eyes
From Eastern to the Western Skies;
Shrugg'd up his Shoulders, knit his Brows,
And tore down some adjacent Boughs;
At length let fall some Tears, and then
Grew calm and temperate again;
So that fair Madam did not fail
To thus go forward with her Tale.
This strange surprizing News, instead
Of leading me heart-sick to Bed,
Inflam'd my Breast with burning Rage,
And ground my Passions to an Edge,
That my Revenge was now as keen
As blighting Winds, that wound unseen;
Nor could I rest, 'till I had sought
The base ungrateful Traytor out,

424

That I might publickly upbraid
The Wretch with all the Vows he'ad made,
And early broke, to his Dishonour,
In such a vile and faithless Manner.

To farther my Design in Hand
Against the false Don Ferdinand,
I made my Grievance fully known
Unto my Father's trusty Clown;
A jolly Fellow, kept to till
The Ground, and carry Corn to Mill;
But he, with all his best Disswasions,
Oppos'd my furious Inclinations,
Begging I'd pass by the Affront,
Be calm, and think no more upon't:
But I, too resolute to be
Advis'd by such a Clown as he,
Persisted, and at length ensnar'd
The Youth to be my Body-Guard,
Borrow'd of him his Sunday's Suit,
With all Things answerable to't,

425

And put my self in this Disguise,
To hide my Sex from Human Eyes;
Then with some Money, Jewels, Rings,
My finest Cloths, and other Things
Of Value, which I still have got
Within this Bag, I've hither brought,
We travell'd forward out of Hand,
In Search of faithless Ferdinand,
Who might be found, we did suppose,
At his new Lady's Father's House.
Accordingly we made our Way,
For Haste, by Night, as well as Day,
'Till to the distant Town we came,
Where liv'd the fair new-marry'd Dame,
But found, upon Enquiry, soon,
That his dear lovely Bride was flown,
And had not suffer'd him to bed
Her Virgin-Charms, before she fled;
And that himself was stoll'n aside,
Asham'd, and much dissatisfy'd;

426

For, as the Town were pleas'd to say,
They'd but a woeful Wedding-day;
The Bride fell into swooning Fits
As leading to the Nuptial-Sheets;
And as the Bridegroom forc'd her Stays,
To give his fainting Lady Ease,
He found a Dagger and a Letter
Hid in the Bosom of the Creature;
One, to be sure, for Death design'd,
The other to divulge her Mind,
Importing, That altho' her Father,
For Honour's sake, and Wealth together,
Had so unjustly giv'n her Hand,
In Marriage, to Don Ferdinand,
Yet that her Heart was due to none
But to Cardenio; he alone,
By Contract, had a Title to her,
And no Man else should ever know her.

No sooner had the Bridegroom read
The Letter, and its Purport weigh'd,

427

But he'd have giv'n a mortal Wound
To th' Breast where he the Dagger found,
Had he not been prevented by
The Priest and others standing nigh;
Nor could the startl'd Friends asswage
His wild ungovernable Rage,
But from his Sight convey'd the Bride,
Where from his Fury she might hide,
'Till Time and fatherly Perswasion
Had made a Reconciliation.
But in a little Time, said they,
The fair Lucinda stole away:
Nor has she since been seen by any,
Or heard of, tho' persu'd by many.
This mournful News, as soon as known,
Made Ferdinando fly the Town,
Raving and roaring, quite bereaft
Of Reason, and of Patience left:
Nor have we, said the Neighbours, heard
What Course the frantick Lover steer'd:

428

And, in this sad Confusion, ended
The Match that was so well intended.

This News, so pleasing to my Ears,
Reviv'd my Hopes, and check'd my Fears;
But just as we thus list'ning stood,
To gather what Advice we could,
A Cryer Proclamation made,
That I from Home was stoll'n or stray'd,
Describing what I us'd to wear,
Also my Features, Shape, and Hair,
That nothing but my Clown's Disguise,
Could have deceiv'd the Peoples Eyes;
Besides, 'twas whisper'd I was run
Away with such a Neighbour's Son,
Who serv'd my Father as a Plough-man,
A Match unfit for such a Woman.
This hateful scandalous Report,
Added new Sorrow to my Heart;
Nor did it only make me mourn,
But look upon my self with Scorn.

429

However, I resolv'd, with Caution,
To still pursue my Resolution,
Which was, to wander 'till I found
The Traytor, if above the Ground.
Accordingly we sneak'd aside,
Leaving the Peoples Tongues employ'd,
And, in the Ev'ning, unsuspected,
March'd off, for fear of b'ing detected,
Wand'ring about, 'till we, by Chance,
Did into these wild Shades advance,
Where my Companion soon began
To faulter, like unfaithful Man,
And grew so bold, as to impart
Such Love, as made me blushing start;
Resolving he no Time would waste
In Courtship, but with Clownish Haste
Attempted rudely what he meant
To do, 'thout asking my Consent:
But not consid'ring that he stood
By a deep Pit amidst the Wood,

430

Just as he press'd me, like a Clown,
In order to have thrown me down,
I push'd him head-long back, at once,
And heard him give a mighty Flounce
Into some dismal Well or Pool,
At Bottom of the dusky Hole;
And, by these providential Means,
Preserv'd my self from his Designs.

Thus Heav'n oft rescues, in Distress,
The Weak, and punishes the Base.

Next Day, as wand'ring in this Shade,
Contemplating on Good and Bad,
I met a Rustick in my Way,
In Search of Cattel gone astray,
Who took me to his House, and made
Me welcome, thinking me a Lad;
At length prevail'd with me to keep,
Among the Rocks, a Flock of Sheep;
But notwithstanding all my Care,
He soon discover'd, by my Hair,

431

Which slipt one Day, by a Mishap,
From underneath my woollen Cap,
That I was Woman, in Disguise;
Which gave him such a strange Surprize,
That from that Time he would not rest,
'Till I th' unhappy Truth confest;
Which I'd, alas! no sooner told,
But he too grew so fond and bold,
That I was puzzl'd to evade
The am'rous Overtures he made;
And was, at last, compell'd to fly
His House, to shun the Danger nigh;
For I foresaw, that he'd have try'd
To gain, by Force, what I deny'd;
So that I chose this Desart-Place,
Once more, to save me in Distress;
And, in these Woods, have ever since
Bemoan'd my Loss of Innocence,
And begg'd good Heav'n to lead me where
I might o'ercome my sad Despair;

432

Or die, and bury'd lie among
Those Wretches who have suffer'd wrong,
And been seduc'd to rashly join
In such a shameful Sin as mine,
More thro' Misfortune, than Design.

The sweetest Joys of Human Kind,
If sinfully obtain'd, we find,
Like lusheous Wines, soon lose their Taste,
And turn to Vinegar at last.

CANTO XXXIX.

Fair Dorothea shifts her Cloths,
Then as a Queen to Quixote goes;
And, by her charming Tittle-tattle,
Deludes the Knight to fight her Battel.

The poor distressed Country Lass
Having, at large, made known her Case,
And mov'd the Hearers, by her Story,
To shew themselves extreamly sorry,

433

That one so charming, and so fair,
Should fall into so bad a Snare.
The Curate thinking it his Duty
To comfort so much Youth and Beauty,
Began to whisper in her Ear
What he thought proper she should hear;
But the good Man had scarce proceeded
To that Advice her Sorrows needed,
Before Cardenio, stepping close
Her Side, did bowing interpose,
And gently lifting up her Hand,
Cry'd, O thou faithless Ferdinand,
That could delude so sweet a Creature,
And afterwards so basely treat her!
Then gazing on her lovely Charms,
As if he wish'd her in his Arms;
How, Madam! in Surprize, said he,
Are you that fair unhappy She;
That generous, tho' injur'd Creature,
The wealthy Cleonardo's Daughter?

434

With that, the young attentive Dame,
Surpriz'd to hear her Father's Name
From such an odd-look'd tatter'd Wretch,
With scarce a Rag to hide his Breech,
Cry'd, Honest Friend, pray who are you,
That talks so free, as if you knew
My Father? For in all I've said,
I dare be certain, that I made
No Mention of his Name, or where
He dwells; but still took all the Care
I could, to keep my Parents free
From that Disgrace that follows me.

Madam, reply'd the vagrant Lover,
I could, alas! much more discover;
But think it proper to delay
At present what I have to say:
But thus far I shall let you know,
That I'm the Wretch Cardenio,
Made thus unhappy by the same
False Friend, who glories in your Shame.

435

To his Perfidiousness, I owe
The said Despair I undergo;
His broken Vows, and Breach of Trust,
To satiate his unbridl'd Lust,
Have robb'd me of my promis'd Wife,
And brought me to this vagrant Life;
Wherein Rags, Solitude, and Grief,
And loud Complaints, without Relief,
Are all that I can hope to find
In Woods scarce known to Human Kind,
'Till Death, more merciful than Man,
Shall end what faithless Friends began.

I was the Wretch that stood behind
The Arras, whilst the Pair were join'd;
There the consenting Yes I heard,
The only dreadful Word I fear'd;
More frightful to my Ears, than all
The Thunder that from Jove could fall;
Nor had I Patience then to stay,
But stole, with fault'ring Legs, away,

436

And left Lucinda in her Trance,
Not knowing what it might advance.
Thus disappointed, and distracted,
Scarce knowing what I thought, or acted,
I wrote my Mind, which, by a Maid,
Was to Lucinda's Hand convey'd,
Wherein I charg'd her with a Breach
Of Vows, and told her what a Wretch
She'd ever doom'd me to remain,
'Till Death alone should ease my Pain
In some wild Desart, where, unfound,
My Bones should waste above the Ground.

This done, no Answer did I wait,
But left the Town, to mourn my Fate,
And wander'd, 'till by Chance I found
This desolate untrodden Ground,
Where I intended to have spent
My Days in lonely Discontent;
But now, I hope, the happy News
You've told me, will, in Time, produce

437

Some good Event, that may incline
To your own Happiness, and mine;
And, in the End, restore to you
The faithless Man you now pursue,
And into my desirous Arms
Surrender fair Lucinda's Charms;
For Providence is still a Friend
To those who on its Care depend;
And never fails to right the Just,
Who in its Bounty put their Trust:
Nor will I leave you, 'till I see
An End of this our Misery,
But wander with you, and pursue
The Blessings we have now in View;
And never part, 'till we enjoy
Our wish'd for Happiness, or die.

Fair Dorothea, glad t'embrace
Such Friendship in so wild a Place,
Would have return'd, upon her Knees,
Thanks for his kind Assurances,

438

Had not Cardenio nimbly hinder'd
The grateful Homage she'd have tender'd.

The Curate, highly pleas'd to find
They thus had eas'd each other's Mind,
Applauded, to a great Degree,
Their gen'rous mutual Amity;
And, to confirm his Approbation
Of their Design in Agitation,
He kindly to his House invited
The Pair in Friendship thus united,
That, for some Days, they might refresh
With chearful Wine, good Fish and Flesh,
And go well furnish'd with Provision,
Upon their wand'ring Expedition.

The Barber, who had also been
Amus'd with this propitious Scene,
Assur'd 'em he'd be gladly ready
To yield Cardenio and the Lady
The utmost Service that he could,
To farther a Design so good;

439

Joining his Wishes, and his Pray'rs,
For both their good Success, with theirs.

When thus the Barber and the Priest
Had the two injur'd Friends address'd,
They open'd then their own Affair,
And told what Bus'ness brought 'em there;
Giving a comical Account
Of Quixote's Pennance on the Mount;
Of his strange Madness, and his past
Adventures, from the first to'th' last;
And how they stay'd for Sancho Pancha,
'Squire to the Champion of la Mancha,
Who to the Knight before was gone,
In order to prepare the Don,
That what Design they had projected,
Might the more eas'ly be effected.

This caus'd Cardenio to relate
The Scuffle, and the warm Debate,
About the Closet-Deeds between
The Barber-Surgeon and the Queen;

440

But scarce had he the whole imparted,
By which they all were much diverted,
Before they fancy'd, as they stood,
They heard a Holl'wing in the Wood:
And so it prov'd; for as the Sound
Approach'd, the Curate quickly found
'Twas Sancho's hunting Voice, design'd
As Notice for his Friends behind;
Which made 'em their Discourse adjourn,
To meet the 'Squire in his Return,
Who was no sooner come in Sight,
But they enquir'd about the Knight.

I left him yonder, quoth the 'Squire,
As lean as a consumptive Fryer,
Who feeds, as one would think by's Looks,
On nothing else but Beads and Books.
He'd starve a Ghost, I dare to swear;
For he no Victuals eats, but Air;
Nor has he other Food to ease
His hungry Guts, but Rocks and Trees;

441

And thus, like one beside his Wits,
In nothing but his Shirt he sits,
Sighing and whining for a Slattern
That's old enough to be a Matron,
And so disfigur'd, that a Hedger
Would scarce unbutton to oblige her.
I told him she was full as mad
As he; and that she would be glad
To see him at her Habitation,
That she might ease his Love-sick Passion;
Assuring him, whate'er he wanted,
Should be, without Exception, granted:
Yet he reply'd but little to't,
Resolving not to budge a Foot,
'Till he'ad done something that might better
Deserve the Love of such a Creature.
So that, quoth Sancho, should he lead
This Life much longer here, I dread
He'll ne'er become so Great a Thing
As Emperor, nor I a King.

442

Therefore, good Sirs, pray use what Means
You can to draw my Master hence,
Or all the Fat of our Desire,
I fear, will fall into the Fire.

Cheer up, good Sancho, cry'd the Priest,
Ne'er doubt but we'll contrive the best
We can, and do the most to bring him
To's Senses, that some Queen may king him,
Rather than thou, that art our Neighbour,
Shalt lose thy Wishes, and thy Labour.
Then, turning to the Couple join'd
In Friendship, told how they design'd,
By Stratagem, to draw him from
His solitary Pennance, home,
In hopes they might restore his Senses,
So drown'd in whimsical Romances.

Fair Dorothy, who much had eas'd
Her Sorrows, was so greatly pleas'd,
That she agreed to take upon her
The Part of some fair Dame of Honour,

443

And represent, in female Dress,
An injur'd Lady in Distress;
Urging, her Womanish Behaviour,
For certain, must out-do the Shaver;
Besides, that she had been so free
With ancient Books of Chivalry,
As to inform herself what Way
Wrong'd Wives and Virgins us'd to play
Their Parts, when they adderss'd a Knight
T'espouse their Cause, and do 'em Right.
So, by unanimous Consent,
She undertook the Management.

No sooner had they all exprest
Their Thanks, that she'd improve the Jest,
But Dorothea then unty'd
Her Bundle, which was well supply'd
With fine Apparel, and put on
A sumptuous Petticoat and Gown:
Her glitt'ring Jewels, Ribbonds, Rings,
And all her costly gorgeous Things,

444

Which in a wild distracted Manner
She hung disorderly upon her;
Yet look'd so beautifully fair,
So frollicksome, and full of Air,
That all beheld her with Delight,
And wonder'd Ferdinand could slight
A Creature so divinely bright.

Sancho was so amaz'd to see
So fine a Lass in Company,
That he was puzzl'd to devise
From whence such Beauty could arise;
And therefore privately apply'd
To th' Curate, to be satisfy'd
What youthful, charming, lusheous Dame
She was, and how she thither came.

The Curate, to amuze the 'Squire,
Reply'd, The most that I know by her,
Is, that she's Heiress to the Throne
O'th' Kingdom of Micomicon,

445

Kept, by a Gyant, from her Right,
Who owes her Family a Spight;
And having heard, as far as Guinea,
The Fame of Quixote and Dulcinea,
And how he wants, by some great Action,
To truly merit her Affection;
She therefore left her native Shore,
Took Shipping, and came riding o'er
The Main, to put it in his Pow'r.

So that in travelling about
To find the Knight, your Master, out,
She met with us, who being ready
T'oblige so fair a Royal Lady,
Told her we waited for his 'Squire,
Who, 'cording to her Heart's Desire,
Should soon conduct her to the Knight
She wanted, to espouse her Right.

That's well, quoth Sancho; this for certain,
If we succeed, must raise our Fortune.

446

I would not now agree, I'll swear,
To take a Country for my Share.
Alas! a Gyant's Life, I know,
Is, with my Master, but a Blow:
He'll make no more to whip off's Head,
Than I to plund'r him, when he's dead.
But, good Sir, beg him not to take
A Cope and Mitre, for my Sake;
For should he an Arch-bishop be,
He then can make no Room for me,
Because, God knows, I'm such a Dunce,
That all my Hopes must sink at once;
Therefore, when by his trusty Sword,
My Master has the Queen restor'd,
And, at her Foot-stool, humbly lays
The bearded Gyant's grinning Face,
Advise him to renouace the Vows
He'as sworn to his Tobosa Blowze,
And take the Princess for his Spouse;

447

Then will his Worship, for his Life,
Be made an Emp'ror by his Wife,
And I, altho' a Dunce, you'll see,
Become a Man of Quality.

'Tis very probable, reply'd
The Curate, such a Royal Bride
May, for the better, change the Face
Of Things, and Wonders bring to pass;
I'll therefore certainly encourage
The Knight t'embrace the Queen in Marriage,
That I may live to hear you stil'd
Lord Sancho by each Man and Child.

By this Time ev'ry Thing was right
In order to approach the Knight.
The Barber having chang'd once more
His Habit, for the first he wore,
And, now again disguis'd, appear'd
In high-crown'd Hat, and Cow-tail Beard,
Designing, in this odd Attire,
T'attend the Princess as her 'Squire.

448

When thus the Usher and his Lady
Were for their Expedition ready,
They mounted Madam on the Beast
Belonging to the courteous Priest;
So taking Sancho for her Guide,
She did in Quest of Quixote ride,
Attended with her Page of Honour,
Who'ad gladly chose to wait upon her,
His longing Senses to delight
With Charms so pleasing to the Sight.

Cardenio guess'd, if he appear'd,
The Knight might shake him by the Beard,
And, in his Freaks, renew his Spleen
About the Barber and the Queen;
He therefore thought 'twas best to stay
Behind, lest he should cause a Fray
By his Appearance, that might hurt
Their good Design, and spoil their Sport.

The Curate also thought 'twas best
For him to lag behind the rest,

449

Did therefore readily agree
To keep Cardenio Company;
So that the Queen, between the 'Squires,
Rode tow'rds the Knight, thro' Sloughs and Bryars;
And, at a Distance, t'other two
Walk'd after, keeping just in View.
Thus on they travell'd half a League,
In Haste, t'accomplish their Intrigue;
And then the Princess came in Sight
Of the forlorn la Mancha Knight,
Who now had got his Cloths upon
His Back, tho' not his Armour on;
So that by Woman he might be
Approach'd, without Indecency.
No sooner was the Lady told,
That there she might the Don behold,
But briskly she began to flog
Her palfry Drone, like any Dog,
That Quixote, by her Speed, might guess
She was driv'n thither in Distress.

450

At length, when near the pensive Knight,
Her 'Squire did off his Steed alight,
And from the Saddle, in his Arms,
Took down the Queen, all over Charms,
Who, when dismounted, putting on
A stately Mein, approach'd the Don
With lovely Page behind her Rump,
Bearing her Train in mighty Pomp,
'Till she came close, and then upon
Her Knees she dropt most humbly down,
Like a Stage-Paramour, before
Some bulky Prince, return'd from War,
And in an old romantick Speech,
Did thus his Worship's Aid beseech.

Thrice val'rous and victorious Knight,
Whose Fame extends as far as Light,
Decreed to be the sole Defence
Of helpless injur'd Innocence,
Compassionate the wretched Case
Of a wrong'd Virgin in Distress,

451

Who, led from Home by your Renown,
Has travell'd far to beg a Boon,
Which shall redound to your own Glory,
As well as hers who kneels before ye;
Therefore, O gen'rous Knight, vouchsafe
To grant what we so humbly crave:
Befriend, dear Sir, a Royal Maid,
A suff'ring Princess, with your Aid,
Dethron'd by an outrageous Foe,
And thus expos'd to Want and Woe;
Nor will her Mis'ries end, 'till you
Her pow'rful Enemy subdue,
And lug him headlong from that Throne
Which now he rules, tho' not his own;
Therefore take Pity on my Youth,
Do Justice, and defend the Truth,
And to a King's distressed Daughter,
Restore what you may share hereafter.

Most beauteous Princess, quoth the Knight,
That e'er appear'd to Human Sight,

452

I cannot answer, 'till you please
To rise from your submissive Knees;
An humble Tribute, only due
To Heav'n, from one so bright as you.

My Knees shall first be rooted here,
Replies the fair Petitioner,
Unless you condescend to grant
Your Friendship to your Supplicant;
For which, by Sea and Land, I'm come
So many tiresome Leagues from Home.

Then rise, dear Lady, crys the Don,
Be what it will, I grant your Boon,
Provided 'tis within the Bounds
Of Honour, and on righteous Grounds,
And tending to no Breach of Duty
To my King, Country, or that Beauty,
Who must for ever keep the Key
Of my Soul, Heart, and Liberty.

I scorn to ask, replies the Dame,
A Boon that should eclipse your Fame.

453

What I implore, will rather raise
Your Glory, and advance your Praise,
And bring you, if you stand my Friend,
To Crowns and Sceptres in the End.

Sancho, well pleas'd to hear the Lady
Make such large Promises already,
Cheer'd up with wond'rous Hopes, stept close
The Knight, and whisper'd to him thus:

Good Sir, oblige the Queen, I pray,
'Twill be your own another Day.
Lord, Sir, 'tis but a trifling Task,
At best, that she presumes to ask;
You'll quickly do't, you need not doubt it,
If once you do but go about it.
'Tis nothing but to give a Gyant
A mortal Wound, that he may die on't;
Cut off his Noddle at a Blow,
Or chine him down the Back, or so;
That's all, and please your doughty Worship,
For which she uses all this Courtship.

454

She's the true Heiress to the Throne
Of that vast Land Micomicon,
I think 'tis call'd; and, you must know,
This looby Gyant is her Foe;
A Rascal, who, by Dint of Arms,
Has been too pow'rful for her Charms,
And riggl'd his unweildy Rump
Into her Royal Seat of Pomp;
Therefore I think you're bound to see
That Right be done to Majesty.

Let her be what she will, reply'd
The Knight, my Honour is my Guide;
Nor will I shrink from Death or Duty,
When call'd to't by such injur'd Beauty;
Then turning to the Lady, said,
Rise up, thou fair and Royal Maid;
Whatever you demand, this Arm
Of mine shall faithfully perform.

All that I ask, reply'd the Dame,
In Tears and Blushes, to my Shame,

455

Is, that you'll instantly agree
To take up Arms, and follow me,
And promise, that you will not enter
On any Combat or Adventure,
'Till you've reveng'd my Wrongs upon
The Traytor who usurps my Throne,
And rules that Empire which is mine
By Laws both Human and Divine.

This will I grant, reply'd the Knight;
My strenuous Arm shall do you Right;
Therefore, dear Lady, dry your Tears,
And shake off your desponding Fears;
Revive your Hopes, and be assur'd
Your Kingdom shall be soon restor'd,
In spight of all the trayt'rous Foes,
That dare your lawful Right oppose.
My Valour soon shall make the Throne
Of your dead Ancestors, your own:
I'll pierce the vile Usurper's Heart,
And give his Rebels their Desert:

456

I'll make their giddy Numbers shake,
And crush whole Armies for your Sake.
But let's be hasty; for Delays,
In great Designs, new Dangers raise.
Come, my good 'Squire, and buckle on
My trusty Armour; let's be gone,
For great Attempts should be pursu'd,
By Heroes, in the Heat of Blood.

The Princess having thus obtain'd
The Knight to be her valiant Friend,
Made him a thankful short Oration,
With all obsequious Veneration;
Whilst the proud Knight, with eager Haste,
Girt on his Armour Back and Breast;
Then gives the Royal pretty Soul
A gentle Toss upon her Mule,
And after mounts himself upon
His own old Strammel of a Drone,
Leaving the 'Squire once more to curse
His Stars, on foot, for want of Horse.

457

However, now buoy'd up with what
He hop'd e'er long would be his Lot,
In case his Master could but rout
This Gyant, which he did not doubt,
And wed the Princess, to reward
The brave Atchievements of his Sword,
Caus'd him to trudge thro'Sloughs and Thorns,
Without complaining of his Corns,
Expecting some great Post at last,
Would make Amends for Troubles past;
But that which gave his Mind some Pain,
Was, thinking that the Knight should reign
O'er Negroes, in a Kingdom where
His Hell-born Subjects would appear,
With their black Faces, like a Train
Of Devils, rather than like Men.

At length, thought Sancho, 'Tis no Matter,
Their being Blacks, may prove the better;
A Ship-load carry'd into Spain,
Will be good Merchandize, that's plain;

458

Enough will gladly take 'em off
At ready Money, sure enough;
So that I'll raise a good round Sum,
And buy an Office here at Home,
That I may lead a happy Life
With my own Children, and my Wife,
And leave his Worship to command
His Æthiopian Heathen Land,
Where Blacks may fan him while its light,
And his Queen sweat him well at Night.
Hang him, I say, that has no Shift
To help him out at a dead Lift.
My merry Grannum oft would use
To say, 'twas but a sorry Goose
That would not baist herself, when turning,
To keep her dripping Sides from burning.
He's an ill Cook that cannot lick
His Fingers, ere he's hunger-sick.
Be it as 'twill, about I'll work it,
And bring my Hogs to a fair Market.

459

Big with these wild Imaginations,
Poor Sancho trudg'd on foot with Patience;
And tho' he us'd to hobble worse
Than any Higler's founder'd Horse,
His busy Noddle now forgot
The Torments of his tiresome Trot,
That with light Heels, and lighter Heart,
He did his fading Strength exert;
And tho' well past his youthful Days,
Ne'er boggl'd at the stony Ways,
But, without honing, follow'd after
His Master, and the Emp'ror's Daughter.

Cardenio and the Curate stood,
At some small Distance, in the Wood,
Where laughing, they beheld, between
The Shrubs and Trees, the pleasant Scene.
Both willing now to join the rest,
The better to improve the Jest;
But scarce knew how it should be done,
Without Cardenio's being known;

460

Fearing, that if he should, the Knight
Might recollect their former Fight,
And pick a Quarrel, to restore
The Honour he had lost before.

At length, the merry Priest, whose Skull
Was of Contrivance very full,
Remember'd, that he wore a Pair
Of Scissars to curtail his Hair,
And keeps it, that it might not rise
In length above canonic Size;
So from his Breeches-Pocket whipping
The useful Snippers, fell to clipping
Cardenio's Beard, 'till he had so
Disguis'd him, none his Face could know,
That in his Solitude had seen
The frowzy Thicket round his Chin;
Then pulling off a Riding-Hood
And Nightrail-Cloak, in which he rode,
Flung 'em upon Cardenio's Shoulders,
As if design'd to scare Beholders;

461

Then cross'd the Wood, in this same Plight,
To intercept the Queen and Knight.
No sooner was the armed Don,
With glitt'ring Majesty, come on
So far into the bryary Wood,
As where the Priest and Scare-crow stood,
But stepping forth, the Curate star'd
Upon his Worship very hard,
As Passengers are apt to do
On those they only think they know;
Then, like a Man, who in foreign Parts
Meets an old Friend, he forward starts
With Arms wide open, to embrace
The Knight, with Gladness in his Face,
Crying, Don Quixote de la Mancha,
Is't you? O! Providence, I thank ye
For kindly throwing in my way
The Flow'r of Gallantry this Day;
The Cream of Errantry, the Blood
And Soul of all that's Great and Good;

462

Mirror of Knighthood, and the ready
Defender of the Wrong'd and Needy;
The very Quintessence of Brav'ry,
That rescues from Distress and Slav'ry;
How joy'd am I to meet so dear
A Friend, the best of Worthies, here?
This said, the left Leg of the Knight
He hugg'd and kiss'd with such Delight,
As if the batter'd Limb had been
Belonging to the beauteous Queen,
Who'd two for Man to step between.

The Knight well pleas'd, and yet amaz'd
To find himself thus highly prais'd,
Knew not at first who 'twas set forth
His Magnanimity and Worth;
But looking wishfully, at last,
Remember'd 'twas his Parish-Priest:
At which Discovery, the Knight
Instantly offer'd to alight,

463

To shew him that Respect he thought
Was due to all Men of his Coat;
But the Priest willing to prevent
So 'xtravagant a Compliment,
Would not permit him to dismount
Upon so trifling an Account,
But cry'd, Good Sir, don't think of quitting
Your noble Steed; for 'tis not fitting
A worthy Knight of your Renown,
Should pay such Honour to the Gown,
In case I'd brought the rev'rend Cloth
Upon my Back; but, by my Troth,
I came without, 'cause Roads are dusty,
To save the Robe from growing rusty;
And therefore beg you will postpone
Dismounting, 'till I put it on,
And now consider me no other,
Than an unworthy frail Lay-Brother;
For 'tis the Badge, not Man, we know,
That awes the World to bow so low.

464

Dear Sir, I cannot sit upon
My Horse with Ease, replies the Don,
And see a holy Man of your
Unspotted Life and Character,
Stand, like a Lackey, by my Side
On Foot, whilst I in Triumph ride;
Therefore pray give me Leave to shew
Your Person what Respect is due.

In Verbo Sacerdotis, Sir,
You shall not from your Saddle stir,
Wherein you daily do perform
Such Wonders by your strenuous Arm.
The only Favour I entreat,
Except the Honour be too great,
Is, that on Foot I may not tire,
But mount behind your bearded 'Squire,
And I shall be as proud of riding
With him, as if I was bestriding
Swift Pegasus, or that huge Beast
Big as an Elephant, at least,

465

The Zebra, Pad-Nag to the Moor
Musaraque, whose Stable-Door
Was like a Castle-Gate, or greater,
To fit the Largeness of the Creature,
Whose Master lies, as People say,
Inchanted, at this very Day,
I'th' Caverns of Zulema, near
To Great Compluto, God knows where.

Sir, quoth the Knight, a Man of Letters
Is always honour'd by his Betters:
Your Learning merits, o'er and o'er,
Whatever you can ask, or more.
The Princess will command her 'Squire
To grant so slender a Desire;
Not only so, but, to be sure,
Ord'r him to let you ride before;
For 'tis not fit a holy Priest
Should mount the Rump-End of the Beast.

Quoth Cow-Tail 'Squire, The Lord forbid,
And so dismounted from his Steed,

466

Resigning to the Priest his Saddle,
Who on the same soon got a-straddle
With Joy, because he wisely knew
Four Legs were better far than two;
And that it was no more than fit
A Guide should have the foremost Seat.

No sooner in the Saddle plumb,
Had Curate fix'd canonic Bum,
But the poor Barber, like a Fool,
Stepping abaft the reisty Mule,
To mount behind his holy Friend,
By skipping up at Buttock-End,
But the vex'd Palfrey, full of Trouble,
To think that she must carry double,
Jerk'd up her Arse so very hard,
That she knock'd off the Cow-Tail Beard,
And gave the Barber such a Thump,
Not with her Heels, but with her Rump,
That the Blow made him curse the Beast,
And look but sourly at the Priest.

467

However, fearing that the Don
Should know him, now his Beard was gone,
Tho' not so hurt by the Disaster,
As to want Pity, or a Plaister,
Yet he began to roar and grin,
And clapt both Hands upon his Chin,
As if his Grinders, by the Stroke,
Had been knock'd out, or Jaw-bone broke,
'Till he'ad consider'd how he might
Disguise his Features from the Knight,
Whose Eyes discov'ring, as he star'd
About him, such a monst'rous Beard
Upon the Ground, cry'd, Bless my Soul!
O! strange surprizing Miracle,
That such a Beast should, by the Force
Of her robust unruly Arse,
Shave, at one Stroke, the bearded Chin
Of mortal Man so very clean!
Sure she'as been rid by Hags or Fairies,
And, by some Conjuration, carries

468

Inchanted Scissars in her Tail,
Or she could ne'er clip Beards so well.

The Curate, fearing this Mischance
Should their Intrigue discountenance,
In case the Barber should be known
Unto the freakish hasty Don,
Stept off his Mule, and taking up
The Beard that did untimely drop,
And nimbly to the Barber running,
Refix'd it with such Art and Cunning,
As if the dext'rous new Plantation
Of Hair, was made by Conjuration,
Mutt'ring the while he ty'd the Beard on,
Such a strange hocus pocus Jargon,
That not alone amuz'd, but frighted
The mounted Miracle of Knighthood,
And caus'd him to believe, the Priest
Was dealing with the Dev'l, at least,
If not invoking him to rise
With cloven Feet and saucer Eyes.

469

The Curate, when the Beard was fast,
Crying, Zandagolon, avast:
Zunder Blundunder, Fiends, begone,
For now the mighty Deed is done.

Don Quixote, much amaz'd to find
The fallen Beard so strangely join'd
To th' Chin it had before forsaken,
From whence 't'ad been as oddly taken,
And not conceiving, or discerning
The Fraud, admir'd the Pow'r of Learning,
That could restore, to human Face,
A Beard dismounted from its Place,
And also heal the wounded Part,
That just before felt so much Smart;
For now the Barber, you must know,
Had done complaining of the Blow,
And being pleas'd, began to frisk
About, and look so very brisk,
As if his Strength concenter'd were
In Beard, as Sampson's in his Hair;

470

Therefore the Knight, who could not rest
Without this Secret in his Breast,
Begg'd that the Priest would spare, at Leisure,
This Charm out of his learned Treasure,
Knowing, that what was good to fix
Dissever'd Beards to Chin and Cheeks,
Must needs be useful for a Knight
To solder Limbs lopp'd off in Fight.
The Curate readily reply'd,
His Worship should be gratify'd;
As soon as he had Time to write,
He'd give it him in Black and White.

The Barber, finding that the Mule,
Altho' a Drudge, was no such Fool
To bear two looby Knaves upon
Her Back, who had enough of one,
Took Warning by his first Salute,
And rather chose to walk on Foot.
At length it was by all thought fit,
That each, in Turn, should mount the Tit,

471

'Till, in this Order, they arriv'd
At the next Inn, to be reviv'd
With Food and Wine, to which the Knight
And Queen had no small Appetite.

When thus they had agreed together,
Knighthood went on he knew not whither;
Next Majesty of high Degree,
And after her, Divinity;
I'th' Rear, upon their ten Toes, march'd
Three Scarecrows, had the World been search'd,
'Twould scarce have match'd such frightful Figures;
Who, had they met with Wolves or Tygers,
The latter would have flinch'd and scow'r'd,
Fearing they should have been devour'd.
Thus in a Wild-goose Train they mov'd,
And o'er the woody Mountains rov'd,
Like Gypsies, marching in a Cluster
Thro' By-ways, to their gen'ral Muster.

As thus they jogg'd along, in Sight
Of one another, quoth the Knight

472

Unto the Queen, Dear Lady fair,
I beg you'll now inform me where
I'm to perform the valiant Task
Your Ladyship vouchsaf'd to ask?

The list'ning Curate hearing this,
And fearing she'd reply amiss,
Thought fit to interpose a Question,
That might remind her of her Lesson,
Adding, I think, most sov'reign Lady,
You told his Worship once already,
That the vast Kingdom where your Throne
Is seated, is Micomicon.

Madam rememb'ring now her Cue,
Cry'd, Yes, Sir, what you say, is true.

Then, quoth the Curate, we must steer
Our Course to the same Village, where
I live, when I am there, and then
We've a streight Road to Carthagen',
Where we may all embark together;
And if we're favour'd by the Weather,

473

A prosp'rous Gale may waft us o'er
In seven Years, or something more,
To th' Sudorifick Golden Shore;
And then we've but two Years by Land
To travel, upon curious Sand,
Before we shall descend upon
The Borders of Micomicon;
That Country, where we hope to see
Your Highness reign from Rivals free,
In all your Pomp and Majesty.

But, Sir, reply'd the Queen, you're wrong
To make the Journey nine Years long;
For I in less than eight came hither,
Altho' I met with cross-grain'd Weather;
And, in that Time, obtain'd the Sight
Of this illustrious worthy Knight,
Whose great Atchievements, Valour, Name,
And matchless universal Fame,
Have drawn me hither, to entreat
His gen'rous Friendship at his Feet.

474

Dear Madam, quoth the Knight, no more;
Such Adulation I abhor.
I thank my Stars, my Soul is rais'd
Above Desire of being prais'd.
I labour to deserve a Name,
But study to avoid the same;
Hide from the World, that I may skreen
My self from that Applause I win.
All I shall say, illustrious Lady,
If I'm unworthy, still I'm ready
To spend my Blood in the Defence
Of Royal injur'd Innocence.
Then turning from the Queen his Head,
Thus to the Priest the Champion said.

Pray, Rev'rend Sir, what brought you hither,
Thus far from Home, this sultry Weather,
In such a Disabil, without
Your Gown, a Servant, and on Foot?

I must confess, reply'd the Priest,
I am but very oddly drest;

475

Yet, when you hear my sad Misfortune,
You can't but pity me, I'm certain;
Therefore pray listen, and alas!
I'll tell you my unhappy Case:
I'th' Indies I've a Brother living,
Excessive, opulent, and thriving,
Who was so kind of late, to send me
Cobs twenty thousand to befriend me;
A blessed Sight, not one Piece under
Full Weight; and that, you know's, a Wonder.
Upon Advice, that this round Sum
Was to the Town of Sevil come,
Nich'lace, my honest Friend and Neighbour,
And I, agreed to take the Labour
To go and tell this mighty Wealth,
And bring it Home Bye-ways by Stealth,
For fear some Rogues should interpose,
And change our Money into Blows;
But spight of all the Care and Thought
We took, 'tis gone, Sir, ev'ry Groat.

476

Four Ruffians met us on the Road,
And at once eas'd us of our Load;
Compleated what we only fear'd,
And robb'd poor Nich'lace of his Beard;
Stript both of's of our upper Dress,
And left us here in this Distress.
Now, some Folks tell us, that the Knaves
Who us'd us thus, were Roguish Slaves,
Sav'd for the Gallies from the Gallows,
But rescu'd by two fighting Fellows
From th' Officers, who went to guard
The fetter'd Villains safe on Board.
Now, those who would release such Wolves,
Must surely be as bad themselves;
Nay, they are Rebels, which is worse,
Against their Prince, and stop the Course
Of Law and Justice, to the great
Abuse and Inj'ry of the State,
To th' Hazard (like unthinking Fools)
Not only of their Lives, but Souls.

477

This Application of the bold
Adventure, which the 'Squire had told
The Priest before, so gall'd the Knight,
That he was out of Humour quite,
And look'd as pensive and as dull,
As jaded Horse, or pounded Bull,
Unwilling to confess 'twas he
That gave the Slaves their Liberty;
But rode before the Train hum drum,
As if at once struck deaf and dumb.

'Tis the best Gallantry, to shun
Those Things we dare not own, when done,
And to pursue no Task or Action,
But what is sweet in the Reflexion.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

I, II. VOLUME I, II

[Whilst Butler in Immortal Glory Sits]

To Mr. Edward Ward,

on his Translation of Don Quixote into Hudibrastick Verse.

To Mr. Edward Ward,

on his excellent Version of Don Quixote into Hudibrastick Verse.

To my very good Friend Mr. Edw. Ward

on his excellent Version of part of the Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote into English Metre.

THE LIFE AND Notable Adventures, &c.

I. PART I.

CANTO I.

CANTO II.

CANTO III.

CANTO IV.

II. Part II.

CANTO V.

CANTO VI.

CANTO VII.

CANTO VIII.

III. PART III.

CANTO IX.

CANTO IX.

CANTO XI.

CANTO XII.

IV. PART IV.

CANTO XIII.

CANTO XIV.

CANTO XV.

CANTO XVI.

V. Part V.

CANTO XVII.

Canto XVIII.

CANTO XIX.

CANTO XX.

VI. Part VI.

CANTO XXI.

CANTO XXII.

CANTO XXIII.

CANTO XXIV.

CANTO XXV.

CANTO XXVI.

CANTO XXVII.

CANTO XXVIII.

CANTO XXIX.

CANTO XXX.

CANTO XXXI.

CANTO XXXII.

CANTO XXXIII.

CANTO XXXIV.

CANTO XXXV.

CANTO XXXVI.

CANTO XXXVII.

CANTO XXXVIII.

CANTO XXXIX.