To the book about don Quixote de La Mancha
URGANDA THE UNKNOWN
If to be welcomed by the good,
Oh, book! you make your steady aim,
No empty chatterer will dare
To question or dispute your claim.
To win of idiots approbation,
Lost labor will be your reward,
Though they’ll pretend appreciation.
They say a goodly shade he finds
Who shelters ’neath a goodly tree;
And such a one your kindly star
In Béjar hath 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 your shield;
All figures—that is bragging play.
A modest dedication make,
And give no scoffer room to say,
“What! Álvaro 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 your pages show.
Ape not philosophy nor wit,
Lest one who can 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 your neighbors lead:
Be prudent; oft the random jest
Recoils upon the jester’s head.
your constant labor let it be
To earn yourself an honest name,
For fooleries preserved in print
Are perpetuity of shame.
A further counsel bear in mind:
If that your 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.
AMADÍS DE GAULA
To don Quixote de La Mancha
SONNET
You that did imitate that life of mine
When I in lonely sadness on the great
Rock Peña Pobre sat disconsolate,
In self-imposed penance there to pine;
Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine
Of thine own tears, and who without a plate
Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state
Off the bare earth and on earth’s fruits did 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 your renown you shalt remain secure,
your country’s name in story shall endure,
And your sage author stand without a peer.
DON BELIANÍS DE GRECIA
To don Quixote de 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 to me;
Ever to knighthood’s laws gave I good heed.
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 your achievements fills my soul.
THE LADY 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 your mind and body show so!
Or him, now famous grown—you made him grow so—
Your knight, in some dread combat could I see!
Oh, could I be released from Amadís
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.
GANDALÍN, SQUIRE OF AMADÍS DE GAULA
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 your 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 squire-like simplicity.
I envy thee your Dapple, and your name,
And those saddlebags you were wont to stuff
With comforts that your 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
To Sancho Panza and Rocinante
I am the esquire Sancho Pan—
Who served don Quixote de 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—
To 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 feedings meek—,
But kept myself in corn by steal—,
A trick I learned from Lazari—,
When with a piece of straw so neat—
The blind man of his wine he cheat—.
ORLANDO FURIOSO
To don Quixote de La Mancha
SONNET
If you are not a Peer, peer you have none;
Among a thousand Peers you are a peer;
Nor is there room for one when you are 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
Valor respected by Oblivion.
I cannot be your rival, for your 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 your lot, still you do rival me:
Love binds us in a fellowship of woe.
EL CABALLERO DEL FEBO
To don Quixote de La Mancha
SONNET
My sword was not to be compared with thine
Phœbus of Spain, marvel of courtesy,
Nor with your famous arm this hand of mine
That smote from east to west as lightning flies.
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 you do prove,
For you do live in Dulcinea’s name,
And famous, honored, wise, she lives in thee.
By SOLISDÁN
To don Quixote de La Mancha
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 of 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
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 believe;
’ 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 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 you,
But, squire or master, where’s the difference?
They’re both as sorry hacks as Rocinante.”
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