Don Quixote eBook

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, 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.