CHAP. XII. Wherein are prosecuted the prankes played by Don-Quixote in his amorous humors, in the Mountaines of Sierra Mo rena. A ND turning to recount what The Knight of the ill-favoured face did when hee was all alone, the History sayes, that after Don-Quixote had ended his friskes and leapes, naked from the gyrdle downward, and from that upward aparelled; seeing that his Squire Sancho was gone, and would behold no more of his mad pranks; hee ascended to the top of a high Rock, and began there to thinke on that whereon hee had thought often times before, without ever making a full reso lution therein, to wit, whether were it better to imitate Orlando in his unmeasurable furies, then Amadis in his melancholy moodes; and speaking to himselfe would say, If Orlando was so valorous and good a Knight, as men say, what wonder seeing in fine hee was inchanted and could not bee slaine, if it were not by clapping a pinne to the soale of his foot; and therefore did weare shooes still that had seven folds of yron in the soales? although these his draughts stood him in no stead at Roncesuales against Ber nardo del Carpio, which understanding them, pressed him to death betweene his armes. But leaving his valour apart, let us come to the losing of his wits, which it is certaine hee lost through the signes hee found in the Forrest, and by the news that the Sheep-heard gave unto him, that Angelica had slept more then two noone-tydes with the lit tle Moore Medoro of the curled locks, him that was Page to King Argamante: and if hee understood this, and knew his Lady had played beside the cushion, what wonder was it that hee should runne madd? But how can I imitate him in his furies, if I can not imitate him in their occasion? for I dare sweare for my Dulcinea of Toboso, that all the dayes of her life shee hath not seene one Moore, even in his owne attyre as hee is, and shee is now right as her mother bore her: and I should doe her a manifest wrong, if upon any false suspicion I should turne madd, of that kinde of folly that did distract furious Orlando. On the otherside, I see that Amadis du Gaule, without losing his wits, or using a ny other raving tricke, gained as great fame of being amorous, as any one else whatso ever. For that which his Historie recites was none other, then that seeing himself dis dained by his Lady Oriana, who had commanded him to withdraw himselfe from her presence, and not appeare againe in it untill shee pleased: hee retyred himselfe in the company of a certaine Hermit, to the poore-Rock, and there crammed himselfe with weeping, untill that heav'n assisted him in the midst of his greatest cares and necessitie. And this being true, as it is, why should I take now the paines to stripe my selfe all na ked, and offend these Trees, which never yet did mee any harme? Nor have I any reason to trouble the cleere waters of these brookes, which must give mee drinke when I am thirsty. Let the remembrance of Amadis live, and bee imitated in ev'ry thing as much as may bee, by Don-Quixote of the Mancha: of whom may bee said what was said of the other, that though hee atchieved not great things, yet did hee die in their pursuite. And though I am not contemned or disdained by my Dulcinea, yet it is sufficient as I have said already, that I bee absent from her; therefore hands to your take, and yee famous actions of Amadis, occur to my remembrance, and instruct me where I may best beginne to imitate you. Yet I know already, that the greatest thing hee did use was Prayer, and so will I. And saying so, hee made him a payre of Beades of great Gaules, and was very much vexed in minde for want of an Eremite, who might heare his confession, and comfort him in his afflictions; and therefore did enter taine himselfe walking up and downe the little greene field, writing and graving in the rindes of Trees, and on the smoothe sands many verses, all accommodated to his sad nesse, and some of them in the prayse of Dulcinea, But those that were found tho rowly finished, and were legible after his owne finding againe in that place, were only these ensuing. OYe Plants, ye Hearbs, and ye Trees, That flourish in this pleasant site; In loftie and verdant degrees, If my harmes doe you not delight, Hea • e my holy Plaints, which are these. And let not my griefe you molest, Though it ever so feelingly went, Since here for to pay your rest, Don-Quixote his teares hath addrest, Dulcineaes want to lament of Toboso. In this very place was first spied The loyallest Lover and true, Who himselfe from his Lady did • ide: But yet felt his sorrowes anew, Not knowing whence they might 〈◊〉 Love doth him cruelly wrest; With a passion of evill discent; Which rob'd Don-Quixote of rest, Till a pipe with teares was full prest, Dulcineaes want to lament of Toboso. Hee searching Adventures blinde, Among these dearne Woods and Rocks, Still curseth an pi • ttilesse mind; For a Wretch amidst bushie lo • ks, And Crags may misfortunes find. Love, with his whip, wounded his brest, And not with soft hands him pent, And when hee his Noddle had prest, Don-Quixote his teares did forth wrest, Dulcineaes want to lament of Toboso. The addition of Toboso to the name of Dulcinea, did not cause small laughter in those which found the Verses recited, because they imagined that Don-Quixote conceived, that if in the naming of Dulcinea hee did not also add that Of Toboso, the time could not bee understood; and in truth it was so, as hee himself did afterward confesse. Hee composed many others; but as we have related, none could be well copied or found intire but these three Stanza's. In this, and in sighing, and invoking the Fa • nes and Silvanes of these woods, and the Nymphs of the adjoyning streams, with the doloro • s and hollow Ecch • , that it would answer, and they consort and listen unto him; and in the search of some hearbs to sustein his languishing forces, he entertained himself all the time of Sancho his absence; who had he staid three weeks away as hee did but three dayes, The Knight of the Ill-favoured face should have remained so disfigured, as the very mother that bore him would not have known him. But now it is congruent, that leaving him swallowed in the gulfs of sorrow and verifying, we turn and recount what hapned to Sancho Panca in his Embassage; which was, that issuing out to the high-way, hee presently took that which led towards Toboso, and arrived the next day following to the Inn where the disgrace of the Coverlet befell him; and scarce had he well espied it, but presently hee imagined that he was once again flying in the aire; and therefore would not enter into it, although his arrivall was at such an hour as hee both might and ought to have stayed, being dinner time, and he himself likewise possest with a marvelous longing to taste some warme meat; for many dayes past he had fed altogether on cold Viands. This desire enforced him to approach to the Inn, remaining still doubtfull, notwithstanding, whether hee should enter into it or no. And as hee stood thus suspended, there issued out of the Inn two persons which presently knew him, and the one said to the other, Tell me, Master Licentiate, is not that horseman that rides there Sancho Panca, hee whom our Adventurers old woman said departed with her Master for his Squire? It is, quoth the Licentiat, and that is our Don-Quixote his horse: And they knew him so well, as those that were the Curate and Barber of his own Village, and were those that made the search and formall pro cesse against the Books of Chivalry: and therefore as soon as they had taken full no tice of Sancho Panca and Rozinante, desirous to learn news of Don-Quixote, they drew neer unto him; and the Curate called him by his name, saying, Friend Sancho Panca, where is your Master? Sancho Panca knew them instantly, and desirous to conceal the place and manner wherein his Lord remained, did answer them, that his Master was in a certain place with-held by affairs for a few dayes, that were of great consequence and concerned him very much, and that hee durst not for both his eyes discover the place to them. No, no (quoth the Barber) Sancho Panca, if thou doest not tell us where hee sojourneth, wee must imagine (as wee doe already) that thou hast rob'd and slain him, specially seeing thou commest thus on his horse; and therefore thou must in good faith get us the horses owner, or else stand to thine answer. Your threats fear me nothing, quoth Sancho, for I am not a man that Robs or Murthers any one: every man is slain by his destinie, or by God that made him. My Lord remains doing of penance in the midest of this Mountain • with very great pleasure. And then hee presently recounted unto them, from the beginning to the end, the fashion wherein he had left him, the Adventures which had befaln, and how hee carried a Letter to the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, who was Larenco Corcuelo his daughter, of whom his Lord was enamoured up to the Livers. Both of them stood greatly admired at Sancho 's relation, and although they knew Don-Quixote 's madnesse already, and the kinde thereof, yet as often as they heard speak thereof, they rested newly amazed. They requested Sancho to shew them the Letter that he carried to the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. Hee told them that it was written in Tablets, and that hee had expresse order from his Lord to have it fairly copied out in paper, at the first Village whereunto he should arrive. To which the Curate answered, bidding shew it unto him, and he would write out the copie very fairly. Then Sancho thrust his hand into his bosome, and searched the little book, but could not finde it, nor should not, though hee had searched till Dooms-day; for it was in Don-Quixote 's power, who gave it not to him, nor did hee ever remember to demand it. When Sancho perceived that the book was lost, hee waxed as wan & pale as a dead man, and turning again very speedily to feel all the parts of his body, hee saw cleerly that it could not bee found; and therefore without making any more adoe, hee laid hold on his own beard with both his fists, and drew almost the one half of the hair away, and afterward bestowed on his face and nose in a momento half a dozen such cuffs, as hee bathed them all in blood: which the Curate and Barber beholding, they asked him what had befalne him, that hee intreated himself so ill? What should befall me, an swered swered Sancho, but that I have lost at one hand, and in an instant three Colts, whereof the least was like a Castle? How so, quoth the Barber? Marry, said Sancho, I have lost the Tablets wherein were written Dulcineas Letter, and a schedule of my Lords, addrest to his Neece, wherein hee commanded her to deliver unto me three Colts, of four or five that remained in his house: And saying so, hee recounted the losse of his gray Asse: The Curate comforted him, and said, that as soon as his Lord were found, hee would deal with him to renew his grant, and write it in Paper, according to the common use and practise; for as much as those which were written in Tablets, were of no value, and would never be accepted nor accomplished. With this Sancho took courage, and said, if that was so, he cared not much for the losse of Dulcineas Letter; for he knew it almost all by rote. Say it then, Sancho, quoth the Barber, and we will after write it. Then Sancho stood still and began to scratch his head, to call the Letter to memory, and now would hee stand upon one leg, and now upon another. Sometimes hee looked on the earth, other whiles upon Heaven, and after he had gnawn off almost the half of one of his nails, and held them all the while suspended, expecting his recitall thereof, he said after a long pause; On my soul, Ma ster Licentiate, I give to the Divell any thing that I can remember of that Letter, al though the beginning was thus; High and un • avorie Lady. I warrant you, quoth the Barber, he said not, but super-humane or Sovereigne Ladie. It is so, quoth Sancho, and presently followed, if I well remember. He that is woun ded and wants sleepe, and the hurt man doth kisse your worships hands, ingrate and very scornefull faire. And thus hee went roving untill hee ended in Yours untill death, The Knight of the ill-favoured face. Both of them tooke great delight to see Sancho 's good memorie, and praysed it to him very much, and requested him to repeate the Letter once or twice more to them, that they might also beare it in memorie, to write it at the due season. Sancho turned to recite it againe and againe, and at every repetition said other three thousand Errors. And after this hee told other things of his Lord, but spoke not a word of his owne tossing in a Coverlet, which had befaln him in that Inne, into which hee refused to enter. Hee added besides, how his Lord, in bringing him a good dispatch from his Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, would forthwith set out to endeavour how hee might become an Emperour, or at the least a Monarch; for they had so agreed betweene themselves both, and it was a very easie matter for him to become one, such was the valour of his Person and strength of his arme. And that when hee were one, hee would procure him a good marriage; for by that time hee should bee a widower at the least; and hee would give him one of the Emperours Ladies to wife, that were an Inheritrix of some great and rich state on the firme land, for now hee would have no more Islands. And all this was related so seriously by Sancho, and so in his perfect sence, hee scratching his nose ever and anon as hee spoke, so as the two were stricken into a new amazement, pondering the vehemencie of Don-Quixotes frenzie, which carried quite away with it, in that sort, the judgement of that poore man, but would not labour to dispossesse him of that Errour, because it seemed to them, that since it did not hurt his Conscience, it was better to leave him in it; that the recitall of his fol lies might turn to great recreation, and therefore exhorted him to pray for the health of his Lord; for it was a very possible and contingent thing to arive in the processe of time to the dignity of an Emperor, as he said, or at least, to that of an Archbishop, or other calling equivalent to it. Then Sancho demanded of them, Sirs, if fortune should turne our affaires to another course, in such sort as my Lord abandoning the purpose to purchase an Empire, would take in his head that of becomming a Cardinall, I would faine learne of you here, what Cardinalls-Errant are wont to give to their Squires? They are wont to give them (quoth the Curate) some simple Benefice, or some Parsonage, or to make them Clerkes or Sextons, or Vergers of some Church, whose living amount to a good penny rent, beside the profit of the Altar, which is oft-times as much more. For that it is requisite (quoth Sancho) that the Squire bee not married, and that hee know how to helpe Masse at least: and if that bee so unfortunate I, that both am married, and knows not besides the first letter of the A, B, C. what will then become of me, if my Master take-the humour to bee an Arch-Bishop, and not an Emperour, as is the Custome and use of Knights Errant? Doe not afflict thy minde for that, friend Sancho (quoth the Barber) for wee will deal with thy Lord here, and wee will counsell him, yea wee will urge it to him as a matter of con science, that hee become an Emperour, and not an Arch-Bishop; for it will bee more easie for him to bee such a one, by reason that hee is more valorous then learned. So me thinks (quoth Sancho) although I know he hath ability enough for all. That which I mean to doe for my part is, I will pray unto our Lord to conduct him to that place wherein he may serve him best, and give me greatest rewards. Thou speakest like a discreet man (quoth the Curate) and thou shalt doe therein the dutie of a good Chri stian. But that which wee must indeavour now, is to devise how wee may winn thy Lord from prosecuting that unprofitable penance hee hath in hand, as thou sayest: And to the end wee may think on the manner how, and eat our dinner withall, seeing it is time, let us all enter into the Inn. Sancho bade them goe in, and hee would stay for them at the door, and that he would after tell them the reason why he had no minde to enter, neither was it in any sort convenient that he should; but he intreated them to bring him somewhat forth to eat that were warm, and some Provand for Rozinante. With that they departed into the lodging, and within a while after the Barber brought forth unto him some meat: And the Curate and the Barber, after having pondered well with themselves what course they were to take to attain their design; the Curate fell on a device very fit both for Don-Quixotes humour, and also to bring their purpose to passe; and was, as he told the Barber, that hee had bethought him, to apparell him self like a Lady Adventurous, and that he therefore should doe the best that he could to fit himself like a Squire, and that they would goe in that habit to the place where Don-Quixote sojourned, feigning that she was an afflicted and distressed Damzell, and would demand a boon of him, which hee as a valorous Knight Errant would in no wise denye her; and that the gift which hee meaned to desire, was to intreat her to follow her where she would carry him, to right a wrong which a naughty Knight had done unto her; and that shee would besides pray him not to command her to unmask her self, or inquire any thing of her estate, untill hee had done her that right • against that bad Knight. And by this means he certainly hoped that Don-Quixote would grant all that he requested in this manner: And in this sort they would fetch him from thence and bring him to his Village, where they would labour with all their power, to see whether his extravagant frenzie could bee recovered by any remedy.