Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote

ANTONIO.

Yes, lovely nymph, thou art my prize; I boast the conquest of thy heart, Though nor the tongue, nor speaking eyes, Have yet revealed the latent smart.

Thy wit and sense assure my fate, In them my love's success I see; Nor can he be unfortunate Who dares avow his flame for thee.

Yet sometimes hast thou frowned, alas! And given my hopes a cruel shock; Then did thy soul seem formed of brass, Thy snowy bosom of the rock.

But in the midst of thy disdain, Thy sharp reproaches, cold delays, Hope from behind to ease my pain, The border of her robe displays.

Ah, lovely maid! in equal scale Weigh well thy shepherd's truth and love, Which ne'er but with his breath can fail, Which neither frowns nor smiles can move.

If love, as shepherds wont to say, Be gentleness and courtesy, So courteous is Olalia, My passion will rewarded be.

And if obsequious duty paid, The grateful heart can never move, Mine sure, my fair, may well persuade A due return and claim thy love.

For, to seem pleasing in thy sight, I dress myself with studious care, And, in my best apparel dight, My Sunday clothes on Monday wear.

And shepherds say I'm not to blame, For cleanly dress and spruce attire Preserve alive love's wanton flame And gently fan the dying fire.

To please my fair, in mazy ring I join the dance, and sportive play; And oft beneath thy window sing, When first the cock proclaims the day.

With rapture on each charm I dwell, And daily spread thy beauty's fame; And still my tongue thy praise shall tell, Though envy swell, or malice blame.

Teresa of the Berrocal, When once I praised you, said in spite, Your mistress you an angel call, But a mere ape is your delight.

Thanks to the bugle's artful glare, And all the graces counterfeit; Thanks to the false and curled hair, Which wary Love himself might cheat.

I swore 'twas false, and said she lied; At that her anger fiercely rose; I boxed the clown that took her side, And how I boxed my fairest knows.

I court thee not, Olalia, To gratify a loose desire; My love is chaste, without alloy Of wanton wish or lustful fire.

The church hath silken cords, that tie Consenting hearts in mutual bands: If thou, my fair, its yoke will try, Thy swain its ready captive stands.

If not, by all the saints I swear On these bleak mountains still to dwell, Nor ever quit my toilsome care, But for the cloister and the cell.

I think I see her now, with that goodly presence, looking as if she had the sun on one side of her and the moon on the other; and above all, she was a notable housewife, and a friend to the poor; for which I believe her soul is at this very moment in heaven.

A clergyman must be over and above good, who makes all his parishioners speak well of him.

Parents ought not to settle their children against their will.

Though she does not fly or shun the company and conversation of the shepherds, but treats them in a courteous and friendly manner, yet, when any one of them ventures to discover his intention, though it be as just and holy as that of marriage, she casts him from her as out of a stone-bow. And by this sort of behavior she does more mischief in this country than if she carried the plague about with her; for her affability and beauty win the hearts of those who converse with her, and incline them to serve and love her; but her disdain and frank dealing drive them to despair; and so they know not what to say to her, and can only exclaim against her, calling her cruel and ungrateful, with such other titles as plainly denote her character; and, were you to abide here, sir, awhile, you would hear these mountains and valleys resound with the complaints of those rejected wretches that yet follow her. There is a place not far hence, where about two dozen of tall beeches grow, and not one of them is without the name of Marcela written and engraved on its smooth bark; over some of them is carved a crown, as if the lover would more clearly observe that Marcela deserves and wears the crown of all human beauty.

Revels, banquets, and repose, were invented for effeminate courtiers; but toil, disquietude, and arms alone were designed for those whom the world calls knights-errant.

For never sure was any knight So served by damsel, or by dame, As Lancelot, that man of might, When he at first from Britain came.

The soldier who executes his captain's command is no less valuable than the captain who gave the order.

"I am of the same opinion," replied the traveller; "but one thing, among many others which appear to me to be censurable in knights-errant, is that, when they are prepared to engage in some great and perilous adventure to the manifest hazard of their lives, at the moment of attack they never think of commending themselves to God, as every Christian is bound to do at such a crisis, but rather commend themselves to their mistresses, and that with as much fervor and devotion as if they were really their God; a thing which to me savors of paganism."

"Signor," answered Don Quixote, "this can by no means be otherwise; and the knight-errant who should act in any other manner would digress much from his duty; for it is a received maxim and custom in chivalry, that the knight-errant, who, on the point of engaging in some great feat of arms, has his lady before him, must turn his eyes fondly and amorously towards her, as if imploring her favor and protection in the hazardous enterprise that awaits him; and, even if nobody hear him, he must pronounce some words between his teeth, by which he commends himself to her with his whole heart; and of this we have innumerable examples in history. Nor is it thence to be inferred that they neglect commending themselves to God; for there is time and opportunity enough to do it in the course of the action."

"Notwithstanding all that," replied the traveller, "better had it been if the words he spent in commending himself to his lady, in the midst of the career, had been employed as the duties of a Christian require; particularly as I imagine that all knights-errant have not ladies to commend themselves to, because they are not all in love."

"That cannot be," answered Don Quixote: "I say there cannot be a knight-errant without a mistress; for it is as essential and as natural for them to be enamored as for the sky to have stars; and most certainly, no history exists in which a knight-errant is to be found without an amour; for, from the very circumstance of his being without, he would not be acknowledged as a legitimate knight, but a bastard who had entered the fortress of chivalry, not by the gate, but over the pales, like a thief and robber."

"Nevertheless," said the traveller, "if I am not mistaken, I remember having read that Don Galaor, brother to the valorous Amadis de Gaul, never had a particular mistress, to whom he might commend himself; notwithstanding which, he was no less esteemed, and was a very valiant and famous knight."

To which our Don Quixote answered: "Signor, one swallow does not make a summer." [4]

"If it is essential that every knight-errant be a lover," said the traveller, "it may well be presumed that you are yourself one, being of the profession; and, if you do not pique yourself upon the same secrecy as Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in the name of all this good company and in my own, to tell us the name, country, quality, and beauty of your mistress, who cannot but account herself happy that all the world should know that she is loved and served by so worthy a knight."

Here Don Quixote breathed a deep sigh, and said: "I cannot positively affirm whether that sweet enemy of mine is pleased or not that the world should know I am her servant. I can only say, in answer to what you so very courteously inquire of me, that her name is Dulcinea; her country Toboso, a town of la Mancha: her quality at least that of a princess, since she is my queen and sovereign lady; her beauty more than human, since in her all the impossible and chimerical attributes of beauty which the poets ascribe to their mistresses are realized; for her hair is gold, her forehead the Elysian Fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck, alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her whiteness snow, and her whole person without parallel. She is of those of Toboso de la Mancha; a lineage which, though modern, is yet such as may give a noble beginning to the most illustrious families of future ages; and in this let no one contradict me, unless it be on the conditions that Zerbino fixed under the arms of Orlando, where it said:--

'That knight alone these arms shall move, Who dares Orlando's prowess prove.'"

THE STORY OF CHRYSOSTOM.

"Comrades," said he, "do you know what is passing in the village?"

"How should we know?" answered one of them.

"Know, then," continued the youth, "that the famous shepherd and scholar, Chrysostom, died this morning; and it is rumored that it was for love of that saucy girl Marcela, daughter of William the rich; she who rambles about these woods and fields in the dress of a shepherdess."

"For Marcela, say you?" quoth one.

"For her, I say," answered the goatherd; "and the best of it is, he has ordered in his will that they should bury him in the fields, like a Moor, at the foot of the rock, by the cork-tree fountain, which, according to report, and as they say, he himself declared was the very place where he first saw her. He ordered also other tilings so extravagant that the clergy say they must not be performed; nor is it fit that they should, for they seem to be heathenish. But his great friend Ambrosio, the student, who accompanied him, dressed also like a shepherd, declares that the whole of what Chrysostom enjoined shall be executed: and upon this the village is all in an uproar: but by what I can learn, they will at last do what Ambrosio and all his friends require; and to-morrow they come to inter him, with great solemnity, in the place I mentioned; and, in my opinion, it will be a sight well worth seeing; at least, I shall not fail to go, although I were certain of not returning to-morrow to the village."