Don Quixote - The Original Classic Edition. Saavedra Miguel

In Bejar bath provided thee:

       A royal tree whose spreading boughs

       A show of princely fruit display; A tree that bears a noble Duke, The Alexander of his day.

       Of a Manchegan gentleman

       Thy purpose is to tell the story, Relating how he lost his wits

       O'er idle tales of love and glory, Of "ladies, arms, and cavaliers:" A new Orlando Furioso-Innamorato, rather--who

       Won Dulcinea del Toboso.

       Put no vain emblems on thy shield;

       All figures--that is bragging play.

       A modest dedication make,

       And give no scoffer room to say,

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       "What! Alvaro de Luna here? Or is it Hannibal again?

       Or does King Francis at Madrid

       Once more of destiny complain?"

       Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee

       Deep erudition to bestow,

       Or black Latino's gift of tongues, No Latin let thy pages show.

       Ape not philosophy or wit,

       Lest one who cannot comprehend, Make a wry face at thee and ask,

       "Why offer flowers to me, my friend?"

       Be not a meddler; no affair

       Of thine the life thy neighbours lead: Be prudent; oft the random jest

       Recoils upon the jester's head. Thy constant labour let it be

       To earn thyself an honest name, For fooleries preserved in print Are perpetuity of shame.

       A further counsel bear in mind:

       If that thy roof be made of glass, It shows small wit to pick up stones To pelt the people as they pass.

       Win the attention of the wise,

       And give the thinker food for thought; Whoso indites frivolities,

       Will but by simpletons be sought.

       AMADIS OF GAUL

       To Don Quixote of la Mancha

       SONNET

       Thou that didst imitate that life of mine When I in lonely sadness on the great Rock Pena Pobre sat disconsolate,

       In self-imposed penance there to pine;

       Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state

       Off the bare earth and on earth's fruits didst dine; Live thou, of thine eternal glory sure.

       So long as on the round of the fourth sphere

       The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer, In thy renown thou shalt remain secure, Thy country's name in story shall endure, And thy sage author stand without a peer.

       DON BELIANIS OF GREECE To Don Quixote of la Mancha SONNET

       In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed, I was the foremost knight of chivalry,

       Stout, bold, expert, as e'er the world did see; Thousands from the oppressor's wrong I freed; Great were my feats, eternal fame their meed;

       In love I proved my truth and loyalty; The hugest giant was a dwarf for me;

       Ever to knighthood's laws gave I good heed.

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       My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned, And even Chance, submitting to control, Grasped by the forelock, yielded to my will.

       Yet--though above yon horned moon enthroned My fortune seems to sit--great Quixote, still Envy of thy achievements fills my soul.

       THE LADY OF ORIANA To Dulcinea del Toboso SONNET

       Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be!

       It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so--

       Could Miraflores change to El Toboso,

       And London's town to that which shelters thee! Oh, could mine but acquire that livery

       Of countless charms thy mind and body show so!

       Or him, now famous grown--thou mad'st him grow so-- Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see!

       Oh, could I be released from Amadis

       By exercise of such coy chastity

       As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss!

       Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy; None would I envy, all would envy me,

       And happiness be mine without alloy. GANDALIN, SQUIRE OF AMADIS OF GAUL, To Sancho Panza, squire of Don Quixote SONNET

       All hail, illustrious man! Fortune, when she Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade, Her care and tenderness of thee displayed, Shaping thy course from misadventure free. No longer now doth proud knight-errantry Regard with scorn the sickle and the spade; Of towering arrogance less count is made Than of plain esquire-like simplicity.

       I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name,

       And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff

       With comforts that thy providence proclaim. Excellent Sancho! hail to thee again!

       To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain

       Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff. FROM EL DONOSO, THE MOTLEY POET,

       On Sancho Panza and Rocinante

       ON SANCHO

       I am the esquire Sancho Pan--

       Who served Don Quixote of La Man--; But from his service I retreat-,

       Resolved to pass my life discreet-; For Villadiego, called the Si--, Maintained that only in reti--

       Was found the secret of well-be--, According to the "Celesti--:"

       A book divine, except for sin--

       By speech too plain, in my opin--

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       ON ROCINANTE

       I am that Rocinante fa--,

       Great-grandson of great Babie--, Who, all for being lean and bon--, Had one Don Quixote for an own--; But if I matched him well in weak--,

       I never took short commons meek--, But kept myself in corn by steal--,

       A trick I learned from Lazaril--, When with a piece of straw so neat-- The blind man of his wine he cheat--. ORLANDO FURIOSO

       To Don Quixote of La Mancha

       SONNET

       If thou art not a Peer, peer thou hast none; Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer;

       Nor is there room for one when thou art near, Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one! Orlando, by Angelica undone,

       Am I; o'er distant seas condemned to steer, And to Fame's altars as an offering bear Valour respected by Oblivion.

       I cannot be thy rival, for thy fame And prowess rise above all rivalry, Albeit both bereft of wits we go.

       But, though the Scythian or the Moor to tame

       Was not thy lot, still thou dost rival me: Love binds us in a fellowship of woe.

       THE KNIGHT OF PHOEBUS To Don Quixote of La Mancha

       My sword was not to be compared with thine

       Phoebus of Spain, marvel of courtesy,

       Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine That smote from east to west as lightnings fly. I scorned all empire, and that monarchy

       The rosy east held out did I resign

       For one glance of Claridiana's eye,

       The bright Aurora for whose love I pine. A miracle of constancy my love;

       And banished by her ruthless cruelty,

       This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame. But, Gothic Quixote,