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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, happier thou dost prove,

       For thou dost live in Dulcinea's name,

       And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee.

      FROM SOLISDAN

       To Don Quixote of La Mancha

       SONNET

      Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it is true,

      That crazy brain of yours have quite upset,

       But aught of base or mean hath never yet

       Been charged by any in reproach to you.

       Your deeds are open proof in all men's view;

       For you went forth injustice to abate,

       And for your pains sore drubbings did you get

       From many a rascally and ruffian crew.

       If the fair Dulcinea, your heart's queen,

       Be unrelenting in her cruelty,

       If still your woe be powerless to move her,

       In such hard case your comfort let it be

       That Sancho was a sorry go-between:

       A booby he, hard-hearted she, and you no lover.

      DIALOGUE

       Between Babieca and Rocinante

       SONNET

      B. "How comes it, Rocinante, you're so lean?"

      R. "I'm underfed, with overwork I'm worn."

      B. "But what becomes of all the hay and corn?"

      R. "My master gives me none; he's much too mean."

      B. "Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween;

       'T is like an ass your master thus to scorn. "

      R. He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born;

       Why, he's in love; what's what's plainer to be seen? "

      B. "To be in love is folly?"—R. "No great sense."

      B. "You're metaphysical."—R. "From want of food."

      B. "Rail at the squire, then."—R. "Why, what's the good?

       I might indeed complain of him, I grant ye,

       But, squire or master, where's the difference?

       They're both as sorry hacks as Rocinante. "

      THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

       VOLUME I.

      Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this book, as it is the child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest, and cleverest that could be imagined. But I could not counteract Nature's law that everything shall beget its like; and what, then, could this sterile, illtilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry, shrivelled, whimsical offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts and such as never came into any other imagination—just what might be begotten in a prison, where every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes its dwelling? Tranquillity, a cheerful retreat, pleasant fields, bright skies, murmuring brooks, peace of mind, these are the things that go far to make even the most barren muses fertile, and bring into the world births that fill it with wonder and delight. Sometimes when a father has an ugly, loutish son, the love he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not see his defects, or, rather, takes them for gifts and charms of mind and body, and talks of them to his friends as wit and grace. I, however—for though I pass for the father, I am but the stepfather to "Don Quixote"—have no desire to go with the current of custom, or to implore thee, dearest reader, almost with tears in my eyes, as others do, to pardon or excuse the defects thou wilt perceive in this child of mine. Thou art neither its kinsman nor its friend, thy soul is thine own and thy will as free as any man's, whate'er he be, thou art in thine own house and master of it as much as the king of his taxes and thou knowest the common saying, "Under my cloak I kill the king;" all which exempts and frees thee from every consideration and obligation, and thou canst say what thou wilt of the story without fear of being abused for any ill or rewarded for any good thou mayest say of it.

      My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and unadorned, without any embellishment of preface or uncountable muster of customary sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies, such as are commonly put at the beginning of books. For I can tell thee, though composing it cost me some labour, I found none greater than the making of this Preface thou art now reading. Many times did I take up my pen to write it, and many did I lay it down again, not knowing what to write. One of these times, as I was pondering with the paper before me, a pen in my ear, my elbow on the desk, and my cheek in my hand, thinking of what I should say, there came in unexpectedly a certain lively, clever friend of mine, who, seeing me so deep in thought, asked the reason; to which I, making no mystery of it, answered that I was thinking of the Preface I had to make for the story of "Don Quixote," which so troubled me that I had a mind not to make any at all, nor even publish the achievements of so noble a knight.

      "For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about what that ancient lawgiver they call the Public will say when it sees me, after slumbering so many years in the silence of oblivion, coming out now with all my years upon my back, and with a book as dry as a rush, devoid of invention, meagre in style, poor in thoughts, wholly wanting in learning and wisdom, without quotations in the margin or annotations at the end, after the fashion of other books I see, which, though all fables and profanity, are so full of maxims from Aristotle, and Plato, and the whole herd of philosophers, that they fill the readers with amazement and convince them that the authors are men of learning, erudition, and eloquence. And then, when they quote the Holy Scriptures!—anyone would say they are St. Thomases or other doctors of the Church, observing as they do a decorum so ingenious that in one sentence they describe a distracted lover and in the next deliver a devout little sermon that it is a pleasure and a treat to hear and read. Of all this there will be nothing in my book, for I have nothing to quote in the margin or to note at the end, and still less do I know what authors I follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all do, under the letters A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle and ending with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slanderer and the other a painter. Also my book must do without sonnets at the beginning, at least sonnets whose authors are dukes, marquises, counts, bishops, ladies, or famous poets. Though if I were to ask two or three obliging friends, I know they would give me them, and such as the productions of those that have the highest reputation in our Spain could not equal.

      "In short, my friend," I continued, "I am determined that Senor Don Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of his own La Mancha until

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