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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at |http: //books .google .com/I THE TUDOR TRANSLATIONS EDITED BY W. E. HENLEY xm THE HISTORY OF DON QUIXOTE OF THE MANCHA TEANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HIOUEL DE CEBTANTE8 BY THOMAS SHELTON ANNta 161S, 1620 With IntroductioDS by JAMES FITZMAURICE-KELLY VOLUME I LONDON Published by DAVID NITTT IN THE STRAND 1896 mge a : T. and A. Comstablb, Printen to H«r Mi^jeity o *^**^^rgrflriy[gtfl TO CHARLES FURSE IN WHOSE PICTUBB OF THE GOLDEN CHILD THE SHADOW OF HER SWEET AND VANISHED PRESENCE ABIDES TO TELL THE UNKNOWING TEARS A LTITLE PART OF THEIR INDflTABLE LOSS V I I INTRODUCTION TO THE FIEST PART UDGED by any test, whether of authority El or of vogue, Don Quixote mmt be ac- ^^^ counted amone the foremost books of ^^ Quixote the world. The Bible and the Imilalio de la CAmii— perhaps also Tht PilgrinCa Pro- *<'"«*« ffress — have been more often translated ; but the adventurous history of the Manchegan Knight appeals to a circle scarce less wide than they. 1'he sense of humour is no rarer than the exaltation of mysticism, and of humour Dte^ out of the ^ Spanish tongue, into the English "*; and he further recites that he completed his emprize ^ in the space of forty daies : ^ being therunto more then half enfoiced, through the im- ' portunitie of a very dee« friend, that was desuous to under- ^ stand the subject.^ From this avowal it follows that Shelton set to his work about the year 1607, a twelvemonth earlier than the date of Baudouin^s French version of the Curioso Impertmentej and two years before the publication of the Baudouinand Parisian rendering of the episode of Marcela. It can be proved that Oudin^s French translation, which follows Shelton at an interval of two years, is based upon the Madrid Text of 1608 : an Edition thought by some (for reasons hitherto unrevealed) to have been corrected by Cervantes himself. However that be, it becomes of interest to determine the text followed by Shelton; and the date HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE 1607 at once suggests the idea that he may have used the INTRO- Brussels Reprint of that year. And so, in effect, it was. AUCTION Shelton proffers in his margins such references as these : — *Btucando pan de TnutrigOj p. 47^; ^ Arcadvz de Noria^ p. 76 ^ ; ^ Forque la boca de la bozina est& encima de la cabe^j p. 168 ^ ; ^ F que todo lo armasca. p. 17S.'' These shoulder- Shelton's notes clearly indicate the pagination of the phrases as they occurred in Shelton^s original. And it is worthy of remark that the words quoted are to be found on pp. 47, 76, 168, and 17S of the Brussels Edition of 1607; while in all Brussels, lf?07 other Editions accessible to Shelton — those issued at Madrid, Lisbon, and Valencia in 1605, and that one printed at Milan dated 1610 — ^the passages are imprinted on pages quite differently numbered. This witness is, in Shelton^s phrase, * significative ^ ; but testimony more decisive remains. In the famous Ninth Chapter of the Third Book, where Sancho Panza is despoiled of his ass, the Editor of the Brussels text introduced an emendation of his own wit to remedy a flaw in the Editio Princeps. Thus, where the first version reads, * iba tras su amOj sentado a la mujeriega sobre su jumento '* : — the Brussels Editor substitutes : — ^ iba tras su amoy scuumdo * de qtumdo en qttando de un costal que Rozinante Uevaba sobre ^ si porjalta del asno. '* Shelton renders the passage — a crucial one — with unflinching severity after the Brussels model : — ^ And so hee followed his Lord, taking now and then out of a basket (which Rozinante carried for want of the Asse . . .).'* A few lines later the Brussels Editor interpolates a fresh variant : — ^ Fue necessario que Sancho hs alfassen,'* And once more Shelton maintains exactitude by setting forth that ^ Sanchoes assistance was requisite to take them up.^ In all xxxi Charles Jervas THE FIRST PART OF THE INTRO- there are not less than seven variants peculiar to the Brussels DUCTION Reprint, and, in the case of each, Shelton observes the Brussels reading. Inasmuch as these seven emendations are unknown elsewhere, the basis of Shelton'^s version is, it may be asserted, inefingably proved. A mysterious dispensation has decreed that Cervantists, as a race, should be mostly unmannerly and irrational ; and their most amiable weak- ness is to belittle their predecessors. Nor has Shelton escaped the general fate. Charles Jervas, himself the author of an excellent translation of Don Qtiiacote^ takes occasion to observe, concerning other versions, that ^ the first by Shelton ^ has hitherto passed as translated from the original, though ^ many passages in it manifestly shew it to have been taken ^ from the Italian of Lorenzo Franciosini.'* And Jervas, writing at his ease in the Eighteenth Century, goes on to cite two instances in support of his thesis. The contention is overthrown by a simple comparison of dates. I?mgegno90 CUtadino Don Chisciotte detta Mcmciaj as rendered by Lorenzo Franciosini, was published at Venice in 16SS, twelve years after the Milanese Reprint of the original. And a most admirable piece of work it is : worthy at all points of the praises lavished on it, and equal to the vaunt upon the title-page : — ' Tradotto cotijedeltd, e chiarezza.^ But, since Shelton anticipated the Italian by ten years, the theft (if any) would be on Franciosini'^s side. The plain fact is that Franciosini, like Shelton, used the Brussels Text: it may be in the 1611 Reprint. A like unfounded charge against Shelton's method is based upon his Englishing of a passage in the Prologue. Cervantes^ friend, ^ a very discreet and pleasantly witted man,"* is reported as saying: — ^Yo 08 vote d tal de Lorenzo Franciosini HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE ^ ttenaros los margenes y de gastar cuatro pliegos en el fin del INTRO- * Ztiro.' In Shelton^s version the words are rendered thus : — * I AUCTION ' doe promise thee that I will both fill up the margent, and ^ also spend foure or five sheetes of advantage at the end of ^ the Booke/ It is argued that ^ of advantage "* is not only An Accusa- a meaningless phrase, but that, as it evidently is a servile ^^ rendering of davantage^ Shelton must have translated directly from the French. Since Shelton was in the field two years before C^sar Oudin, the first of the French trans- lators of Don Quixote^ the argument has to be eked out otherwise. Upon this slender basis — ^the existence of the two words ^of advantage^ in one isolated passage — it is seriously contended that Shelton translated from a lost French manuscript version. If the conclusion be at once gratuitous and generous, the premises are small indeed. For the idlest theorist might have been expected to know that the expression ^of advantage ** (in the sense of ^more**) is found in Othello : even though he were ignorant of the Repelled fact that a chain of examples of this idiom is established, running back to the Ayenbite qf Inwyt written by Dan Michel, brother of the Cloister of Saint Austin of Canter- bury Mh the yeare of our Ihordes beringe 1840.' On a review of the available evidence, only one conclusion is possible : that Shelton translated directly from the Spanish Edition published at Brussels in 1607. Any other inference is, not only illegitimate but, manifestly absurd. His version is addressed by his ^ Honours most affec- The Patron tionate Servitor ** to ^the Right Honourable, his verie good Lord, the Lord of Walden ' : in other words, to Theophilus, Lord Howard of Walden, eldest son and heir of the Earl e xxxiii THE FIRST PART OF THE INTRO- of Suffolk and, about the time of the rendering of the DUCTION English Don QuixoiCf Grovemor of Jersey and Castle Cornet. So much as regards the patron. Concerning the translator no detail is to be gathered. It does not appear that Shelton was at either University or that he belonged to any of the Inns of Court. No biographical dictionary includes his name ; and the accustomed oracles are likewise dumb. For posterity Thomas Shelton remains the first translator of A Great Don Quixote: a proud distinction, which must suffice. Other ^^^ writers of the same name exist to baffle the searcher ; but their date makes it hard to believe that, in any case, their career of authorship began as early as 1607. It may be a mere coincidence that, in 1650, Thomas Shelton, author of Divine Drops distiUedJrom the Holy Scriptures by that worthy Gospel Preacher Gualter Cradockj should write in his Preface to the Reader : ^ I have not (nor ever did in any mans works) taken ^ the boldnesse to adde one piece of a sentence or to diminish ^ ought.' Just so, in Shelton^s version, the writer requests the Moor to translate from the Arabic ^ without adding or taking away any thing from them.** There is nothing impossible in the supposition that a writer'^s period of production should extend over forty-three years; but such cases are sufficiently rare to give one pause in concluding that Don Quixote and Divine Drops fell from the same fount. On the other side, there is absolutely no evidence to support a recent theory : that ^ Thomas Shelton ^ is a pseudonym. VI It remains to take account of the excellences and demerits of Shelton'^s achievement. His task once accomplished, the xxxiv HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE translator's interest in it waned. His declaration is that INTRO- * after I had given him once a view thereof, I cast it aside, AUCTION ^ where it lay long time neglected in a comer, and so little * regarded by me as I never once set hand to review or ^ correct the same**; then later, ^at the intreatie of others my The Apology ^ friends, I was content to let it come to light, condition- ^ ally, that some one or other would peruse and amend the ' errours escaped ; my many affaires hindering mee from ^ undergoing that labour.' An examination of the text fully bears out Shelton's statement. His limitations are apparent enough; his anxious haste and fine nonchalance are visible in page on page. His colloquial knowledge of Spanish urges him to a close adherence to the letter, and the first found word too often contents him, if in sound or semblance it approaches the Castilian. For Shelton ^a trance' suits the needs of trance far better than the more obvious ^ emergency ' which the context de- mands. Confronted with the words ^ todos los trances de la The Tnvesty guerra^ the translator airily transcribes ^ all the trances of warfare.' Face to face with ^ este tan impensado trance^ he shows impenitence by setting down ' this unexpected trance.' And as ^trance' stands for ^trance^ so do ^successes' im- personate * sucesos,^ Where Cervantes writes ^ todos los sucesos gue habia vtsto^ Shelton hits upon * all the successes of the thing she had seen.' The aspect of ^ tcdante ' resembles ^ talent' nearly enough to justify a blindness to the difference between a mood and a talent. Hence a rigid adhesion to the system produces ^ in a bad fashion and worse talent ' for ^ mala traza y peor tcdante.'* A more diverting example of the results of this impetuous fidelity occurs in the scene XXXV THE FIRST PART OF THE INTRO- with the galley-slaves. One of the guards says to Don DUCTION Quixote, * a este pecador le dieron tormento y confeso su delito ' ; the unmistakable meaning of which simple passage is that ^ they tortured this sinner and he confessed his crime.'* The likeness between * delight^ and ^ delito'^ is of exquisite suggestion, and forthwith a frolic humour impels Shelton to record that ^he confessed his delight."* He reads of ^ la reina convertida en una dama particular Uamada Doroteaj ^ con otros sucesos'*; and with invincible gaiety he manifests you ^ the Queen transformed into a particular lady called Dorotea, with other successes.^ The same tendency to the servile-exact is displayed in his treatment of the every- day verb desmayarse ( = to faint or swoon). He detects Cfiurdenio denouncing ^ el mydable de la desmojyada traidora^ and straightway transfixes Luscinda as ^the mutable and dismaied traytresse."* A fresh temptation recurs in the expressions ^voz desmayada'* and ^persona enferma y des- The Travesty mayada ^ ; and here again our Shelton unflinchingly main- tains his repute with a 'dismaied voice ** and a 'sicke and dismayed person."* Moved by the same honourable intent, he does justice to ^prosiguiS en sus maldiciones'* by a declaration that ' he prosecuted his maledictions ** ; and his persistent loyalty hinders him from perverting ' todos eran stispensos ** into any form less literal than ' all were sus- pended.'* Now and then he lends the right heroi-farcical touch. Thus when Cervantes describes the feigned fury of Camila, Shelton appreciates the opportunity of a lifetime and matches the occasion by picturing how ' shee praunced ' up and downe the roome with the poyniard naked in her ' hand, with such long and unmeasurable strides, and making xxxvi HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE ^ withal such gestures, as she rather seemed defective of INTRQ- * wit, and a desperate ruffian, then a delicate woman/ An AUCTION inimitable attachment to the letter (or to a part of it) will lead this incorruptible interpreter to tamper with statistics, but not to juggle with figures. He beholds ^ tres axwmbrea^ a measure of some six quarts : but, since ^ ires "* The Travesty is unquestionably Hhree,'* Shelton upholds the numeral, and generously doubles the quantity into ^ three gallons.' The passion for literality spurs him to invention : wherefore ^irremediables'^ becomes ^ irremedilesse,^ and ^ aUisonante'' grows nobler as ^ altisonant.^ Concerning this last con- trivance, it irks to learn that Sidney anticipated it, but Milton ignored. But at call, despite his crazy prepossession, Shelton can turn about and treat the Spanish with a gallant contumely Humours of his own. To a silk vendor walking the Alcand of Toledo ^a certaine boy by chance would have sold divers old quires and scrowles of bookes."* The silk vendor hides behind a mask no denser than ^sedero''; but, either the word sedero is banished from the Sheltonian vocabulary, or the connexion is deemed base, and lo ! the silk vendor ruffles it as ^ a Squire."* That * tafUndo ** is a term applied to stringed instruments was doubtless within Shelton^s know- ledge; but he has gone through the pastoral school, and observes the convention by the insertion of ^ piping,' where- unto follows the ^singing of Roundelayes, and playing on a Croud.** Doubtless, in some cases, an apparent blunder is but the slip of a man in a hurry. The ^pastor sardo'' who passes as a ^Sardinicall Poet,' had surely taken another guise in the course of that revision, the lack of which, as xxxvii THE FIRST PART OF THE *R0- recorded in the Letter Dedicatory, ^ did at the first some- riON what disgust mee.^ In other instances, Shelton had pleaded Johnson^s excuse of pure ignorance. There might be' a doubt as to whether the ^ esparragwra^ on the shield of Espartafilardo of the Wood connotes one asparagus plant or more ; but Shelton boggles not at petty subtleties, and bids you mark that the redoubtable fighter had ^ for his device a Harrow.^ ^ Aquel pastor de marraSj Ambrosio ^ Q that shep- herd of the other day, Ambrosio ^) has puzzled more than one subsequent translator, not to speak of commentators sundered from Covarrubias and other builders of lexicons ; and for Shelton the difficulty was greater, inasmuch as the Brussels Edition, maintaining a misprint in the PrincepSy delivers the passage as ^ aquel fMsior de MariaSj Ambrosio.'' Shelton resolves the crux at sight, and, conferring an additional name upon the man, despatches him in a twinkling as a writer in the pastoral kind known to fame as ^Marias Ambrosio his Sheepheard/ The Host Juan Palomeque bore the epithet of el zurdoj as who should say Hhe left-handed \ but ^zurdo'* and sordo are ranked as sjmonyms, and the Innkeeper takes place as ^ Palomeque the deafe.^ The like valour in facing an obstacle incited Shelton to transform the clause, ^ Porque la boca de la boxina estd endma de la cabe^ into ^ For the mouth of the fish is over the head/ The true meaning is that ^ the mouth of the Horn is overhead'*; but Shelton recks not of the Little Bear and accepts ^ bodna ^ as a legitimate variant of peace or piscma. Downright errors are presented, but in less profusion than might be conceived. A notable instance occurs in Don Quixote^s letter to Dulcined where ^ el Ua^ado »xvui HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE de Uu teku del corazon'* — ^the pierced-to-the-hearfs core — INTRO- is construed *the hurt by the Daiti of thy heart; A stUl DUCTION finer example of fallibility is offered in the First Chapter of the book. ^ Duelos y qtiebrmUos los sdbadoSy writes Cer- vantes, thereby baiting a dangerous trap for all to follow him. Shelton was the first to attempt the solution, and it interests to compare his results with those of his contem- poraries, all working in the dark before M. Morel Fatio^s time.^ Oudin renders the words by ' des oeufa et du lard les Dueloe y Samedis ' ; in Franciosini they appear as * il sdbbato firittate ^ " ragnose,'' The earliest Dictionary of the Spanish Academy limits the use of the expression to La Mancha, and warrants it to mean an omelette of brains. Pellicer — raro inverUor, like the Master, but in devious ways— contrives the fable that the Manchegan herdsmen brought to the farmers the week''s * braxies,^ that the broken bones {qtiebrarUados) were salted, and that the loss of the beasts caused grief (duehs) to the owners. The Pellicerian legend is obviously ridiculous, and the phrase is nothing more, as M. Morel Fatio demon- Morel Fatio strates, than a common binary form (akin to bubble-and- squeak) applied to the grosura or ofial — the head, trotters, tail, and tripe — which Spaniards were allowed to eat on Saturdays. Shelton, however, lived in the dark ages ; and, passing by the inevitable * braxy,** he jots down ^ griefes and complaints the Saturdays,*" without concern as to the meaning and, indubitably, without a notion that he was face to face with a conundrum. So also he takes * noria ^ ^ £tudis Romanei didUts ^ Gasion Paris . . . par sis iUvts fran^ais et its iUvts Hrangers des pays de langue fran^aise (Paiisy 1 891). Pp. 407- 418. xxxix Ellmposible Venekh THE FIRST PART OF THE INTRO- (ssa water-wheel) for a town. In no single instance does he DUCTION consult John Minsheu'^s Dktionarie in Spanish and English (1599), * enlarged and amplified with many thousand words ^ from Richard Percivale; nor had Minsheu helped him to grapple with duelos y qtiebranhs or with noria. But the translator spurns the lexicographer and advances dauntless in his own wild way. It is undeniable that in the resolution of a chance pro- blem like ^el sastre del CanHUo^ Shelton courts disaster with 'the Taylour that dwells in a comer "*; but in sum Sancho^s hurricane of proverbs is reported with enviable exactitude. ^ Plegue & Dios qtie orfgano sea"* might daunt any translator who knew not that origano was wild marjoram; and here had Minsheu aided, with his report of 'an herbe called Origanie, or wild Marierom.'* But, pedantry apart, the suggestion remains in the fer- vent utterance: — 'I pray God, that it be a purchase of gold.^ In the search for the impeccable phrase, Shelton will find himself smitten with a pious scruple : and here, veiling his face before ^ Dios poderosOj he will invoke ' Almighty Jove.^ When the whim takes him he will omit a line or two entire. In the colloquy following upon the downfall of the Biscayan, there is mention of the cheapness of Fierebras his balsam. Hereon Sancho pointedly inquires why his Lord delays teaching him to make it : — ' Pecador de ' mf, replic6 SanchOj ipues & qui aguarda vuestra merced & ' haceUe y & enseHdrmek f '* To Shelton'^s judgment the ques- tion is impertinent, and is instantly suppressed. Among such changes are certain positive improvements. The idea of a long-legged Sancho is nothing short of revolting, and xl Whimsies I V \ \ HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE (if it be not a burlesque transcription of the woodcuts in the INTRO- books of chivalry) the original phrase, * kis zancas largasj is DUCTION unhappy ; but Shelton^s dramatic sense comes to the rescue, and appropriately endows the flower of Esquires with ' thick legges.^ Dorotea announces that Don Quixote^s renown has spread abroad * not only in Spayne, but also in "* La Mancha ; the admirable Shelton scents danger of an anti-climax and La Mancha finds itself displaced by ^Ethiopia. Nor do his embellishments pause here. Cervantes may choose to write of Amadis, of Felixmarte of Hircania, and of Tirant lo Blanch, as commemorated by Mossen loanot Martorell and his assistant ^lo magnifich caviller Mossen Johan de GraHa"* ; but the name of Don Belianis de Grecia quite van- quishes Shelton'^s patience, and, in a fine burst of patriot- ism, he strikes a blow for England with the splendid interpolation of * Sir Bevis of Hampton, Sir Guy of War- * wicke. Sir Eglemore, with divers others of that nation and * age.** Where Cervantes dallies with sentiment, his English interpreter follows him, overtakes and matches him in orna- mentation of the culto taste. * La lastirtiada Dorotea "* shines as ' the sweetly grieved Dorotea "* ; and even the matter-of- Euphuisms fact Castilian ^ puso LiLsdnda en Cardenio los ojos"* is meta- morphosed into ' Luscinda first severing her eyelids, beheld Cardenio.'' Nay, the translator will create the opportunity, if it do not exist. So is it where Cervantes briefly states that Dorotea * sighed deeply and, breaking silence, spoke."* * Dando eUa un prqfimdo siispiro^ rompi6 el silencio y dijo ' is a clause as simple as was ever writ ; but Shelton recalls Marcela^s vapourings, perceives that here his author falls below the irreducible level of altisonance, and transfigures / xli I r t THE FIRST PART OF THE INTRO- all to purple and yermilion in his imaging of how the DUCTION heroine was wooed * at last to make a breach on her tedious ^ silence, and with a profound sigh, blow open her curall 'gates.' vn Achievement Shelton'^s title to remembrance is based upon the broadest grounds. He had no sympathy for the arid accuracy that juggles with a gerund or toys with the crabbed subjunctive. From the subtleties of syntax, as from the bonds of prosody, he sallies free; and the owls of pedantry have bitterly resented his arrogant disdain for them and theirs. And they have sought to avenge them- selves, after their manner, by reproaching him with taking a disjunctive for an interjection, and with the confounding of predicate and subject. They act after their kind. But Shelton'^s view of his function was ampler and nobler than the hidebound grammarian's. He appeals to the pure lover SheltonaMan of literature; and as a man of letters he survives. He brought to the execution of his enterprise an endowment and a temperament such as no later rival could pretend to boast. And his circumstances favoured him. He not only had the happy fortune to discover and appreciate an in- comparable book : he was admirably fitted to comprehend His QualitieB its spirit and to difiPuse its interpretation. He lived in the very age of Cervantes ; he had himself suffered from the malady of Enight-Errantry ; he looked with the eye of a contemporary ; he owned an alert intelligence, a perfect sympathy for his author's theme, and a vocabulary of ex* ceeding wealth and rarity. Moreover, and above all things, xlii HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE he was an Elizabethan, a contemporary of Shakespeare^s, INTRO- nurtured on the marrow of lions, and blessed with the dear DICTION accent of that spacious age. His language is ever fitted to the incident, whether he be concerned with the Rhodian bombast of the heroic madman or with the homely wisdom and shrewd sententiousness of Sancho Panza. He is always at his ease and, in the most trying case, he remains natural, unspotted from affectation. From later versions, however superior in mere scholarship, there is never absent a sense of strain and effort. Safe from the pitfalls of anachronism and the possibilities of Wardour-Street English, Shelton des- His English patches his phrase with address and vigour ; the atmosphere of the book is his own, and his perspective is naturally just. It were too much to say that so had Cervantes written in English ; but equity demands the admission that his manner is more nearly attained by Shelton than by any successor. This first translator is never lacking in a shrewd equivalent for an idiomatic phrase. ^ En lo de la vcUentCa no le iba en zagttj asserts Cervantes of Don Galaor; and Shelton responds with : — * In matters of valour, he did not bate him an ace.^ Again, for ^despuntas de agudo'^ his pregnant reading is ^thy frumps nippe.'* In reproducing the rodo- montade in praise of Dulcinea he is successful as her im- passioned lover : — * There drops not, I say, from her that * which thou sayest, but Amber and Civet, among bombase; ' and she is not blinde of an eye, or crooke-backt, but is * straighter then a spindle of Guadarama.^ Of marginal illustration he shows the wise economy of a writer who knows his readers to be fellows of parts. ^ The title of a * Marquesse,^ he informs you, ^ is less then that of an Earle xliii THE FIRST PART OF THE RO- ^ in Spaine/ He notes an allusion to one who knew ^abetter nON < and more ancient language^ than the Arabic ; and, with nimble resource, he annotates * To wit, a lew/ Or, observe him on a great occasion, in the famous celebration of ^ the happier Age of Grold*^: — ' Happy time, and fortunate ages were those, whereon our Ancestors bestowed the title of Groulden, not because Gold (so much prized in this our jrron age) was gotten in that happy time, without any labours, but because those which lived in that time, knew not these two words, TTiine and Minej in that holy age all things were in common : No man needed for his ordinarie sustenance to doe ought else then lift up his hand, and take it from the strong Oke, which did liberally invite them to gather his sweete and savory fruit. The cleare fountaines, and running rivers, did offer them these savorie and transparent Waters in magnificent abundance. In the clifts of rocks and hollow trees did the carefuU and rand ^ discreete bees erect their commonwealth, offering to every hand without interest, the fertile croppe of their sweetest travailes. The loftie Corke tree did dismisse, of them- selves without any other art then that of their native liberalitie, their broad and light rindes. Wherewithall houses were at first covered, being sustained by rusticall stakes, to none other end, but for to keepe backe the inclemencies of the Ayre. All then was peace, all amitie, and all concord.^ In narrative, as in description, the Eng- lishman vies with the Spaniard in dignity, grace, and fleet- ness. Hearken to him reviewing the multitudinous hosts that march beneath the banners of the Lord of the Silver Bridge, of Timonel, Prince of New Biskaye, and other chiefs xliv H . _ t.^.__.:..^^Maan^«-.^ - .^.^m^h HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE no less dread and invincible: — ^This first squadron eon- INTRO- taineth folke of many Nations, in it are those which taste DUCTION the sweet waters of famous Xante. The Mountainous men that tread the Masilicall fields. Those that doe sift the most pure and rare gold of Arabia Foelix. Those that possessed the famous and delightfiill bankes of cleare Termodonte. Those that let bloud many and sundry The Romance waies the golden Pactolus. The Numides unstedfast in ® *™®* their promise. The Persians famous for Archers. The Parthes and Medes that fight flying. The Arabs, incon- stant in their dwellings. The Scithes as cruell as white. The iEthiops of boared lips, and other infinite Nations, whose faces I know and behold, although I have forgotten their denominations. In that other army come those that taste the Christaline streames of the Olive-bearing Betis . . . Those that recreat themselves in the Elisean fields of Xerez. The rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy eares of come: Those apparelled with yron, the ancient relikes of the Gothish bloud. Those that bathe themselves in Pisuerga, renowmed for the smoothnesse of his current. Those that feed their flocks in the vast fields of the wreathing Guadiana, so celebrated for his hidden course. Those that tremble through the cold of the bushy Pirens, and the lofty Apenines. Finally, all those that Europe in itself containeth.^ Or, again, let Shelton vindicate by argument the pomp, the repute, and the benignity of arms when Vivaldo holds the calling for ^ one of the most austere * professions in the world,^ so that ^even that of the Charter- ^ house Monkes is not neere so straight^: — ^It may be as ^ straight as our profession, quoth Don Quixote, but that xlv THE FIRST PART OF THE INTRO- * it should be so necessary for the world, I am within the DUCTION < breadth of two fingers to call in doubt. For if wee would ^ speake a truth, the souldier that puts in execution his Cap- ^ taines commaund, doth no lesse then the very Captaine ^ that commaunds him. Hence I inferre, that religious men ^ doe with all peace and quietnesse seeke of heaven the good ^ of the earth ; but souldiers and we Knights doe put in ^ execution that which they demand, defending it with the ' valour of our armes, and files of our swords : not under ^ any roofe, but under the wide heavens, made as it were in < Summer a marke to the insupportable Sunne-beames and ^ in winter to the rage of withering frosts. So that wee are ^ the ministers of God on earth, and the armes wherewith His Triumph * he executeth here his justice.^ Cervantes abounds not greatly in purple patches ; but, where the Castilian original afibrds the occasion, Shelton rarely fails to seize and match it. So, with inimitable felicity of phrase and setting, with sus- tained sonority and splendour, in passages of uncommon ii^jcsty, he continues his deliverance of a classic master- pii ^^?«"«d tiie sollidity of the worke ; and without making a second tryall, ^grciawof he deputed and held it in estimation of a most excellent therenowmed Beaver. Then did he presently visit his horse, who though Gentleman he had more comers then a Spanish ReaU, and more I^n-<}uixote/ faults then Gronellas, havine nothing on him but skin i[{|^^. and bone; yet he thought that neyther Alexanders Buce- phalus, nor the Cid his horse Babieca, were in any respect equall to him. He spent foure dayes devising him a name : for (as he reasoned to himselfe) it was not fit that so famous a Knights horse, and chiefly being so good a beast, should want a knowne name ; and therefore he endevoured to give him such a one, as should both declare what sometime he had beene, before he pertayned to a Knight Errant, and also what presently he was: for it stood greatly with reason, seeing nis Lord and Master changed his estate and vocation, that he should alter likewise his denomination, and set a new one, that were famous and altisonant, as becommed the new order and exercise which he now professed : and there- fore after many other names which he framed, blotted out, rejected, added, undid, and turned againe to frame in his memory and imagination, he finally concluded to name him A horse of Rozinante, a name in his opinion, lofty, ful, and significative l^^f <>' . of what he had beene when he was a simple horse, before he g^^JJ^f^ji'* was exalted to his new dignity ; beine as he thought, the c^ed Bozin, best carriage beast of the world. The name being thus and the word E'ven to his horse, and so to his minde, he resolved to give ^*>to> signi- mselfe a name also, and in that thought he laboured ^^t^t^j^L other eight dayes; and in conclusion, called himselfe Don- ante is a hone Quixote ; whence (as is said) the Authours of this most true that Bome- History deduce, that he was undoubtedly named Quixada, time was of and not Quesada as others would have it. And remembring ca^'i^ge* that the valorous Amadis was not satisfied onely with the dry name of Amadis, but added thereunto the name of his Kingdome and Country, to render his owne more redoubted, terming himselfe Amadis de Gaula; so he, like a good 87 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER Knight would adde to his owne, that also of his Province, I and call himselfe Don-Quixote of the Mancha, wherewith it Wherein is appeared, that he very lively declared his linage and countrey, rehearsed the which he did honor, oy taking it for his surname. ^^SL^ His armour being scoured, his morrion transformed into S[^^wmed an hehnet, his horse named, and himselfe confirmed with Gentleman a new name also ; he forthwith bethought himselfe that now Don-Quizote> he wanted nothing but a Lady, on whom hee might bestow MiSuffia- ^ service and affection ; for the Knight Errant that is loveless, resembles a tree that wants leaves and fruit, or a body without a soule : and therefore he was wont to say, If I should for my sinnes, or by good hap encounter there abroad with some Giant (as Knights Errant doe ordinarily) and that I should overthrow him with one blow to the groimd, or cut him with a stroke in two halves, or finally overcome, and make him yeeld to me, would it not be very expedient to have some Lady, to whom I might present him ? And that he entring in her presence do lay himself on his knees before my sweet Lady, and say unto her with an humble and sub- missive voyce : Madam ! I am the Giant Caraculiambro, Lord of the Hand called Malindrania, whom the never-too- much-praysed Knight Don-Quixote de la Mancha hath over- come m single combat ; and hath commanded to present my selfe to your greatnesse, that it may please your Highnesse to dispose of me according unto your liking. O ! how glad was our Knight when he had made this discourse to himselfe, but chiefly when he had found out one, whom he might cal his Lady. For, as it is imagined, there dwelled in the next village unto his Mannor, a young handsome wench, with whom he was sometime in love, although as is understood, she never knew or tooke notice thereof. Shee was called Aldonca Lorenso, and her he thought fittest to intitle with the name of Lady of his thoughts, and searching a name for her that should not vary much fix)m her owne, and yet should draw and aveere somewhat to that of a Princesse or great Lady, he called her Dulcinea del Toboso (for there she was borne) a name in his conceit harmonious, strange and significative, like to all the others that he had given to his things. 28 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE CHAPTER II Of the first sally that Don -Quixote made to s^e adventures. rjlHESE preventions being made, he would dcferre the execution of bis designee no longer, beine spur'd on the more vehe- mently, by tne want which be esteemed, his delayes wrought in the world, accord- ing to the wrongs that he resolved to right, the harmes he meant to redresse, the excesses he would amend, the abuses that he would better, and the debts he would satisfie. And therefore without acquainting any living creature with his intention, he unseene of any, upon a certaine morning, somewhat before the day (being one of the wannest of luly) armed himselfe Cap a pie^ mounted on Bozinante, laced on his il-contrived Helmet, imbraced his Target, tooke his Launce, and by a posteme doore of his base-court issued out to the field, marvellous jocund and content to see with what facility he had commenced his good desires. But scarce had he sallied to the fields, when he was suddenly assaulted by a terrible thought, and such a one as did wel-nigh overthrow his former good purposes; which was, he remembred that he was not yet duVd Knight, and therefore by the lawes of Knighthood neyther could nor ought to combat with any Knight. And though he were one, yet ought he to weare white armour like a new Knight, without any device in his shield, untill he did win it by force of armes. These thoughts did make him stagger in his purposes; but his follies prevayling more then any other reason, he purposed to cause himselfe to be Knighted by the first he met, to the imitation of many others, that did the same, as he had read in the bookes which distracted him. As touch- ing white armour, he resolved with the first oportunity to 99 CHAPTER II Of the first ■ally that Don-Quixote made to seeke adventures. ''^Melodious. ♦His country the Mancha. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. secure his own so well, that they should rest whiter then Ermines : and thus he pacified his mind, and prosecuted his {'oumey, without chusing any other way then that which his lorse pleased, beleeving that therein consisted the vigor of Knightly adventures. Our flourishing adventurer travelling thus onward, did parle with himselfe in this manner : ^ Who ^ doubts in the ensuing ages, when the true History of my ^ famous actes shall come to light, but that the wiseman ^ who shall write it, will begin it, when he comes to declare * this my first sally so early in the morning, after this man- ^ ner ? Scarce had the ruddy Apollo spread over the face of * the vast and spacious earth, the golden twists of his ^ beautifull hayres, and scarce had the little enameld birds * with their naked tongues saluted with sweet and * melli- * fluous harmony, the arrivall of Rosie Aurora ; when aban- * doning her jealous husbands soft couch, shee shewes her * selfe to mortall wights through the gates and ¥nndowes of * the * Manchegall Orizon. Wlien the famous Knieht Don- * Quixote of the Mancha, abandoning the slouthfull plumes, ^ did mount upon his renowned horse Rozinante, and began to * travell through the ancient and notorious fields of Montiel,^ (as indeede he did) and following still on ¥nth his Dis- course, he said : * O ! happy the age, and fortunate the ^ time, wherein my famous feats shall be revealed, feats * worthy to be graven in brasse, carved in marble, and * delivered with most curious arte in tables, for a fiiture * instruction and memory. And thou wise enchanter, who- * soever thou beest, whom it shall conceme to be the Chroni- ^ cler of this strange History, I desire thee not to forget my * good horse Rozinante, mine etemall and inseparable com- * panion in all my joumies and courses.** And then as if hee were verily enamoured, he said, ^ O Princesse Dulcinea, Lady * of this captive heart, much wrong hast thou done me by ^ dismissing me, and reproching me with the rigorous decree * and commandement not to appeare before tny beauty : I ^ pray thee, sweete Lady, deigne to remember thee of this * poore subjected heart, that for thy love suffers so many * tortures.^ And with these words he inserted a thousand other ravings, all after the very same manner that his bookes 80 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE taueht him, imitating as neere as he could their very phrase CHAPTER ana language, and did ride therewithall so slow a pace, ^ and the Sunne did mount so swiftly, and with so great Of the first heate, as it was sufficient to melt his braines if he had had ^^^} ^ anv 1ft Don-Quixote lie travelled almost all that day, without enoountring adventures, any thing worthy the recitall, which made him to fret for anger : for he desired to encounter presently some one upon whom he might make triall of nis invmdble strength. Some authors write, that his first adventure was that of the Li^ioean straites, others, that of the Winde-mils ; but what I could only find out in this affaire, and that which I have found written in the Annals of the Mancha is, that he tra- velled all that day long, and at night both he and his horse were tyred, and marveilously prest by hunger, and looking about nim on every side, to see whether he could discover any Castle or Sheepe-fold, wherein he might retire himselfe for that night, ana remedy his wants ; he perceived an Inne, neare unto the high way wherein he travelled ; which was as welcome a sight to him, as if he had scene a starre, that did addresse him to the porch, if not to the Pallace of his redemption. Then spurring his horse, he hyed all he might towards it, and arrived much about night fall. There stood by chance at the Inne dore, two yone women adventurers liKewise, which travelled toward SiviU with certaine Car- riers, and did by chance take up their lodging in that Inne the same evening ; and for as much as our Knight Errant esteemed all which he thought, saw, or imagined, was done or did really passe in the very same forme, as he had read the like in his bookes ; forthwith as soone as he espied the Vent, he fained to himselfe that it was a Castle with foure Turrets, whereof the Pinacles were of glistring silver, without omitting the draw-bridge, deepe fosse, and other adherents belonging to the like places: And approching by little and little to the Vent, when he drew neere to it, checking Rozinante with the bridle, he rested a while to see whether any dwarfe would mount on the battlements to give warn- ing ¥nth the sound of a Trumpet, how some Knight did approach the Castle : but seeing they stayed so long, and 81 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER also that Rozinante kept a coile to goe to his stable, he ^I went to the Inne dore, and there beheld the two distracted Of the first wenches, that stood at it, whom hee presently supposed to TV?^-S** be two beautifull damzels or lovely Ladies, that did solace madeioseeke themselves before the Castle gates. And in this space it adventures, i befell by chance, that a certaine Swine-heard as he gathered together his hogges, blew the home, whereat they are wont to come together ; and instantly Don-Quixote imagined it was what he desired, to wit, some dwarfe who gave notice of his arrivall; and therefore with marvellous satisfaction of minde he approched to the Inne and Ladies ; who behold- ing one armed in that manner to draw so neere, vnth his Launce and Target, they made much hast being greatly affrighted, to get to their lodging. But Don-Quixote, Erceiving their feare by their flight, lifting up his pasted AVer, and discovering nis withered and dusty countenance, did accost them with gentle demeanour and grave words in this manner: ^Let not your Ladiships flie, nor feare any * outrage, for to the order of Knighthood which I doe pro- ^ fesse, it toucheth nor appertaineth not to wrong any body, ^ and least of all such worthy damzels as your presences * denote you to be.** The wenches lookea on him very earnestly, and did search with their eyes for the visage, which his ill-fashioned Beaver did conccnde : but when they heard themselves termed damzels, a thing so farre from their profession, they could not containe their laughter, which was so loude, as Don-Quixote waxed ashamed thereat, and therefore said to them : * Modesty is a comely ornament of *' the beautifull, and the excessive laughter that springs from ^ a light occasion, must be reputed great folly : but I do not * object this unto you to make you the more ashamed, or ^ that you should take it in ill put : for my desire is none ^ other then to doe you all the honour and service I may.** This he spake unto them in such uncouth words, as they could not understand him, which was an occasion, joyned with his owne uncomelinesse, to encrease their laughter and his wrath, which would have past the bounds of reason, if the In-keeper had not come out at the instant; being a man who by reason of his exceeding fatnesse, must needs S2 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE have beene of a very peaceable condition, who beholding CHAPTER that counterfeit figure, all armed in so imsutable armour, as II were his Bridle, Lance, Target, and Corslet, was very neere Of the first to have kept the damzels company in the pleasant showes "^y^** of his merriment: but fearing in effect the Machina and madetoswSte bulke contrived of so various furnitures, he determined to adventures, speake him fairely, and therefore began to him in this maner : If your Worship (Sir Knight) doe seeke for lodg- ^^9 you may chalke your selfe a bed (for there is none m this Lme) wherein you shall finde all other things in abund- ance. Don-Quixote noting the lowlinesse of the Constable of that Fortresse (for such the Inne and In-keeper seemed unto him) answered, Any thing. Sir * Constable, may serve ^Here the me ; for mine armei are mine ornaments, and battels mine Spanish is ease, etc. The Hoste thought he had called him a Castellano ^j^j^' or Constable, because hee esteemed him to be one of the ^^ Spanish sincere and honest men of Castile, whereas he was indeede tongue either an Andaluzian, and of the commarke of S. Lucars, no lesse a Constable thievish then Cacus, nor lesse malicious and crafty then a of*CasUe, student or Page ; and therefore he answered him thus : If ^ Castile. that be so, your bedde must be hard rockes, and your sleepe a perpetuall watching : and being such, you may boldly allight, and shall finde certainly here occasion and oportunitie to holde you waking this twelve-moneth more, for one night : and saying so, laid hand on Don-Quixotes stirrop, who did forthwith allight, though it was with great difficulty and paine (as one that heA not eaten all that day one crumme) and then he requested the Hoste to have speciall care of his horse, saying, he was one of the best pieces that ever eate bread. The In-keeper viewed and reviewed him, to whom he did not seeme halfe so good as Don-Quixote vaJued him ; and laying him up in the stable, he tumed to see what his Guest would command, who was a-disarming by both the damzels Twhich were by this time reconciled to him) who, though they had taken off his brest-plate and backe parts, yet knew they not how, nor could any wise undo his gorget, nor take off his counterfeit Beaver, which he had fastened on with greene ribbands : and by reason the knots were so intricate, it was requisite they should be cut, whereunto he £ 8S THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER would not in any wise agree; and therfore remained all ^ the night with his Helmet on, and was the strangest and Of the first pleasantest figure thereby, that one might behold. And as nllytiiat [^q ^^^^ a-disarminir (imamnine those lieht wenches that Sd^^^e holpe him,Tbr^AZf priSdpall Laies and dames of adventures, that Castle) he said unto them with a very good grace: Never was any Knight so well attended on, and served by Ladies as was Don-Quixote; when he departed from his village, damzels attended on him, and Ihincesses on his horse. O Rozinante, for (Ladies) that is the name of my horse, and Don-Quixote de la Mancha is mine owne. For although I meant at the first not to have discovered my selfe, untill the acts done in your service and benefite should manifest me, yet the necessity of accommodating to our present purpose, the old Romaunce of Sir Launcdot, hath Deene an occasion that you should know my name before the right season : but the time will come wherem your Ladiships may commaund me, and I obey, and then the valor of mine arme shall discover the desire I have to doe you service. The wenches being unaccustomed to heare so rhetoricall termes, answered never a word to him, but onely demanded, whether he would eate any thing ? Hiat I would, replied Don-Quixote, for as much as I tmnke the taking of a little meat would be very behoovefiill for me. It chanced by hap to be on Friday, and therefore there was no other meat in the Inne, then a few pieces of a fish called in Castile Aba- dexOj in Andaluzia, BacaUao^ and in some places Curadilio, and in others Truchuela^ and is but poore-Iohn. They demanded of him therefore whether he would eate thereof, giving it the name used in that place of Truchuela or little Troute, for there was no other fish in all the Inne to present unto him but such ? Why then, quoth Don-Quixote, bring it in, for if there be many little Trouts, they may serve me in stead of a ateaX one ; it being all one to m^ to be paide my money fif I were to receive any) in eight single Reals, or to be paide the same in one Reall of eight. And more- over those little Trouts are perhapi like unto Veale, which is much more delicate flesh then Beefe ; or the Kid, which is better then the Goat : but be it what it list, let it be 84 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE brought in presently ; for the labour and weight of armes CHAPTER cannot be well borne, without the well suppying of the I^ futtes. Then was there straight laid a table at the Inne Of the first oore, that he mought take the aire : and the Host brought ^y^} him a portion of eioU-watered and woree boyled poore-Iohn, ^d^J^^ and a loafe as black and hoaiy as his Hajnesse: but the adventures, onely sport was to behold him eat : for by reason his Helmet was on, and his Beaver lifted, he could put nothing into his mouth himselfe, if others did not helpe him to finde the way ; and therefore one of those Ladies served his tume in that : but it was altogether impossible to give him drinke after that manner, and would have remayned so for ever, if the In-keeper hfiul not boared a Cane, and setting the one end in his mouth, powred downe the wine at the other : all which he suffered most patiently, because he would not breake the ribbans of his Helmet. And as he sate at supper, there arrived by chance a Sow-gelder, who as soone as he came to the Inne, did sound foure or five times a whistie of Canes, the which did confirme Don-Quixote that he was in some famous Castie, where he was served with musicke, and that the poore-Iohn was Trouts, the bread of the fin^ flower, the whoores Ladies, and the In-keeper Constable of that Castie: Wherefore he accounted his resolution and departure from his owne house very well imployed. But that which did most afflict him, was, that he was not yet dubbed Knight, for as much as he was fully perswaded, that he could not lawfully enter- prise or follow any adventure, untill he received the oraer of Knight-hood. S5 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER III Wherein is recounted the pleasant manner observed in the Knighting of Don-Quixote. ND being thus tossed in minde, he did abreviat his Tavemly and limited supper ; which being finished, heecalled for his host, »ad shutting the Stable dore very fast, he laid himselK down upon his knees in it before him, saying, I will never rise from the place where I am valorous Knight, tmtill jour cortesie shall graunt unto me a boone that I meane to demand of you, the which will redound unto your renowne, and also to the profite of all humane kinde. The In-keeper seeing his guest at his feete, and hearing him speake those words, remayned confounded beholding him, not knowing what he might doe or say, and did studie and labour to nuke him arise: but all was in vaine, untill he must have promised unto him, that he would grant him any gift that ne sought at hii handes. I did never expect lesae (replied Don-Quixote) from your great magnificence, my Lord: and therdibre I say unto you, that the boone which I demaund of you, and that hath beene graunted unto me by your hberahty, is, that to morrow in the morning you wu dubbe me Knight, and this night I will watch mine armour in the Chapp3l of your Castle, and in the morning, as I have said, the rest of my desires shall be accomplished, that I may goe in due manner throughout the foure parts of the world to seeke adventures, to the benefit of the needy, as is the duety of Knight-hood and of Knights Errant, as I am, whose desires are wholly inclined and dedicated to such atchievements, He Host, who, as we noted before, was a great giber, and had before gathered 8om argumoits of the defect of wit in his guest, did wholly now perswade himselfe that bis suspicions were true, when I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE he heard hun speake in that manner: and that hee might CHAPTER have an occasion of laughter, he resolved to feed his humour in that night, and therefore answered him, that he had very Wherein is great reason in that which he desired and sought, and that Jfeco^Jited the such projects were proper and naturall to Knights of the neTobserJed' garbe and worth he seemed to be of : and that he himselfe intheKnight- ukewise in his youthfull yeares had followed that honour- ing of Don- able exercise, going through divers parts of the world to Quixote, seeke fiul ventures, without ejrther omitting the * dangers *P^rchelei. of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, the compasse of Sivill, the ♦Quicke-silver-house of Segovia, the Olive-field of Valencia, *Axogtu(fo. the Circuit of Granada, the wharfe of S. Lucor, the *Potro ^The Potron or Cowlt of Cordova, and the little Tavernes of Toledo; of Cordova is and many other places, wherein he practised the dexterity ? ^^'J^® r i^' V. J J ' !!• •!.• -Jr fountaine of his handes, doing many wrongs, somciting many wid- thereon dowes, undoing certaine maydens, and deceiving many stands a pupils, and finally making himselfe knowne and famous Pegasus: m all the Tribunals ancf Courts almost of all Spaine, f^^ ^^* and that at last he had retired himselfe to that his ^rTanimU^r Castle, where he was sustained with his owne and other of cunny- mens goods ; entertayning in it all Knights Errants, of catching whatsoever quality and condition they were, onely for the fellows, as great affection he bore towards them, and to the end they Humfrev might divide with him part of their winnings in recompence at PaulZ of his eood will: he added besides, that there was no ChappeU in his Castle, wherein he might watch his armes, for he had broken it downe to build it up anew : but not- withstanding he knew very well, that in a case of neces- sity, they might lawfully oe watched in any other place, and therefore hee might watch them that night in the base Court of the Castle ; for in the morning, and pleased God, the ceremonies requisite should be done in such sort, as he should remaine a dubbed Ejiight, in so good fashion, as in all the world he could not be bettered. He demanded of Don-Quixote whether he had any money ? Who answered that he had not a blanck, for he had never read in any History of Ejiights Errants, that any one of them ever carried any money. To this his Hoste replied, that he was deceived ; for admit that Histories made no mention thereof, 87 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER because the authours of them deemed it not necessary to ^^ expiesse a thmff so manifest, and needfiill to be carried as ^ Wherein is was money and cleane shirts : it was not therefore to be * "2^^*^« credited, Uiat they had none; and therefore he should hold ner obsenred* ^^^ ™^^ certaine and manifest, that all the Knights Errant, in the Knight- ^ith the story of whose acts so many bookes are replenished ing of Don- and heaped, had their purses well lined for that which might Quixote. befall, and did moreover carie with them a little Casket of oyntments and salves, to cure the wounds which they received ; for they had not the commodity of a Surgeon to cure them, every time that they fought abroad in the fields and desarts, if they had not by chaunce some wise Enchan- ter to their friend, who would presently succour them, bringing unto them in some clouae thorow the ayre some damzell or dwarfe, with a Violl of water of so great vertue, as tastinff one drop therof, they remained as whole of their sores ana wounds, as if they hfiul never received any. But when they had not that benefite, the Knights of times past held it for a very commendable and secure course, that tneir Squires should be provided of money and other necessary things, as linte, and oyntments for to cure themselves : and when it befell that the like Knights had no Squires to attend upon them (which hapned but very seldome) then would they themselves carie all this provision behinde them on their horses, in some slight and!^ subtiU wallets, which could scarce be perceived, as a thing of very great con- sequence. For it it were not upon such an occasion, the cariage of wallets was not very tolerable among Knights Errant. And in this respect he did advise him, seeing he might yet commaund him as one that by receiving the order of Knight-hood at his hands, should very shortly become hiB Grod-childe, that he should not travell from thence forward without money, and other the preventions he had then given unto him ; and he should perceive himselfe how behoovefuU they would prove unto him, when he least expected it. I>on-Quixote promised to accomplish all that he had counselled him to doe, with all punctuality ; and so order was forthwith iriven how he should watch his armes in a 88 ** 1 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE great yard that lay neere unto one side of the Inne : where- CHAPTER fore Don-Quixote gathering all his armes together, laid ^^ them on a Cisteme that stood neere unto a Well : and Wherein is buckline on his Target, he laid hold on his Launce and recounted the walked up and downe before the Cisteme very demurely; ^^^^^ and when he began to walke, the night likewise be^an to intheKnight- locke up the splendor of the day. The In-keeper m the ingof Don- meane season recounted to all the rest that lodged in the Quixote. Inne the folly of his ffuest, the watching of his armes, and the Knighthood whi^ he expected to receive. They all fiulmired very much at so strange a kinde of folly, and went out to behold him from a farre off, and saw that sometimes he pranced too and fro with a quiet gesture ; other times leaning upon his Launce he looked upon his armour, with- out beholding any other thing save tiis armes for a good space. The night being shut up at last wholly, but with such cleerenesse of the Moone, as it might well compare with his brightnesse that lent her her splendor, every thmg which our new Knight did, was easily perceived by all the be- holders. In tnis season one of the Carriers that lodged in the Inne, resolved to water his Mules, and for that purpose it was necessary to remoove Don-Quixotes armour that lay on the Cesteme ; who seeing him approach, said unto him with a loude voice: O thou! whosoever thou beest, bold Sjiight, that commest to touch the armour of the most valorous adventurer that ever gyrded sword, looke well what thou dost, and touch them not, if thou meanest not to leave thy life in payment of thy presumption. The Carrier meule no account of those words (but it were better he had, for it would have redounded to his benefite) but rather laying hold on the leatherings, threw the armour a prettie way off from him : which beinff perceived by Don- Quixote, he lifted up his eyes towards neaven, and address- ing his thoughts (as it seemed) to his Lady Dulcinea he said, 'Assist me, deere Lady, in this first dangerous scorn ' and adventure offered to this breast, that is inthralled to ' thee, and let not thy favour and protection faile me in ' this my first Traunce.^ And uttering these and other such 80 THE FIRST PART OF THE ["b. CHAPTER words, he let slip his Tai^t, and lifting up his Launce with ^^1 both hands, he paide the Qurrier so round a knocke there- Wherein is withall on the pate, as he overthrew him to the ground in so re^^ted the gyjjj taking, as if he had seconded it with another, he should ner obee^ed" ^^^ hsLve needed any Surgeon to cure him. This being in the Knight- ended, he gathered up his armour againe, and laying them ing of Don- where they had been oefore, he walked after up and downe Quixote. |jy them, with as much quietnesse as he did at the first. But very soone after, another Carrier without knowing what had hapned (for his companion lay yet in a trance on the ground) came also to give his Mules water, and com- ming to take away the armes, that he might free the Cesteme of encumbrances, and take water the easier : Don- Quixote saying nothing, nor imploring favor of his Mistris or any other, let slip againe his Target, and lifting his Lance, without breaking of it in pieces, made more then three on the second Carriers nodale; for he broke it in foure places. All the people of the Inne, and amongst them tne Host likewise repaired at this time to the noise : which Don-Quixote perceiving, imbracing his Target, and laying hand on his sword, he said, ' O Lady of all beauty, ' courage, and vigour of my weakned heart, it is now high * time that thou doe convert the eyes of thy greatnesse to ^ this thy Captive Knight, who doth expect so marveilous ' great an aaventure.^ Saying thus, he recovered as he thought so great courage, that if al the Carriers of the world heA assayled him, he would not goe one steppe backward. The wounded mens fellowes, seeing them so evill dight, from a farre off began to raine stones on Don- Quixote, who did defend himselfe the best he might with his Target, and durst not depart from the Cesteme, lest he should seeme to abandon his armes. The Inkeeper cryed to them to let him alone; for he had already in- formed them that he was roadde, and for such a one would scape soot-free although he had slaine them all. Don- Quixote likewise cryed out lowder, termine them all dis- loyall men and traytors, and that the Lord of the Castle was a treacherous and badde Knight, seeing he consented that Knights Errant should be so basely used ; and that if he 40 > I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE had not yet received the order of Ejiighthood, he would CHAPTER make him understand his treason, 'but of you base and m * rascally Eenell (quoth he) I make no reckoning at all : Wherein is * throw at me, approach, draw neare, and doe me all the recounted the * hurt vou may, for you shall ere long perceive tiie reward ^ ^^^^senJed" * you shall cane for this your madnesse and outrage/ Which hftheKnight- wordes he spoke with so great spirit and boldnesse, as hee ing of Don- stroke a terrible feare into all those that assault^ him : Quixote, and therefore moved both by it, and the Inkeepers per- swasions, they left off throwing stones at him, ana he per- mitted them to carie away the wounded men, and returned to the guard of his armes, with as great quietnesse and gravity, as he did at the beginning. The Inkeeper did not like very much these jests of his guest, and therefore he determined to abbreviate, and S've him the unfortunate order of Ejiighthood forthwith, ^fore some other disaster befell : and with this resolution comming unto him, he excused himselfe of the insolencies those base fellowes had used to him, without his privity or consent, but their rashnesse, as he said, remayned well chastised: He added how he had already told unto him, that there was no Chappel in his Castel, and that for what yet rested unperfected of their intention, it was not neces- sary, because the chiefe point of remayning Knighted, con<- sisted chiefly in blowes of the necke and shoulders, as he had read in the ceremoniall booke of the order, and that, that might be given in the very midst of the fieldes ; and that he nfiul already accomplished the obligation of watching his armes, which with only two houres watch might be fiilfild ; how much more after having watched foure, as he hcul done. All this Don-Quixote beleeved, and therefore answered, that he was most ready to obey him, and re- quested him to conclude with all the brevity possible : for if he saw himselfe Ejiighted, and were once againe assaulted, he meant not to leave one person alive in all the Castle, except those which the Constable should command, whom he would spare for his sake. The Constable being thus advertised, and fearefull that he would put this his deliberation in execution, brought F 41 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER out a booke presently, wherein he was wont to write down in the accounts of the straw and Barley, which he delivered Wherein is from time to time, to such Carriers as lodged in his Inne, recounted the for their beasts : and with a but of a cancUe which a boy HOTobMnred' ^^^^ ^S^^S ^ ^^ *^^d before him, accompanied by the intheKnight- ^^ damzels above mentioned, he came to I)on-Quixote, ing of Don- whom he commanded to kneele upon his knees, and reading Quixote. in his Manual (as it seemed some devout Orison) he held up his hand in the midst of the Lecture, and gave him a good blow on the necke, and after that gave him another trimme thwacke over the shoulders with his owne sword (alwayes murmuring something betweene the teeth as if he prayed) this being done, he commanded one of the Ladies to gyrd on his sword which shee did with a singular good grace and dexterity, which was much, the matter being of it selfe so ridiculous, as it wanted but little to make a man burst for laughter at every passage of the Ceremonies : but the prowesse which they had already beheld in the new Ejiight, did limit and conteun their deught at the gyrding on of his sword : the good Lady said, God make you a fortunate Knight, and eive you ffood successe in all your debates. Don-Quixote demaunded then how she was called, that he might thenceforward know to whom he was so much obliged for the feivour received ? And she answered with great buxomnes, that she was named Tolosa, and was a Botchers daughter of Toledo, that dwelt in the Bewes of Sancho Ben^a, and that she would ever honour him as her Lord. Don-Quixote replied, requesting her for his sake to call her selfe from thenceforth the LaSy Tolosa, which she promised him to performe. The other Lady buckled on his spurre, with whom he had the very like confer- ence; and asking her name, she told him shee was called Molinera, and was daughter to an honest Miller of Ante- auera: her likewise our Knight intreated to call her selfe lie Lady Molinera, proffering her new services and favours. The new and never-seene before Ceremonies being thus speedily finished, as it seemed with a gallop, Don-Quixote could not rest untill he were mounted on horse-backe, that hee might goe to seeke adventures; wherefore causing 42 I HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Bozinante to be instantly sadled, he leaped on him, and CHAPTER imbracing his Hoste, he said unto him sucn strance things, lU «mti^ng the favour bee had done him in dubbing him Whei^n is Knight, as it is impossible to hit upon the manner of recoonted tb« recounting them right The Inkeeper, that hee might SiTSwrod" be quickly rid of him, did answere his wordes with othen in tlieKniriit- no lesse rethoricall, but was in bis speech somewhat ing of Don- briefer; and without demandinjg of him any Quixote, thing for his lodging, he suffered him to depart in a fortunate houre. CHAPTER nil Of that which befell to our Knight, after he had departed from the Inne. URORA began to display her beauties about the time that Don-Quixote issued out of the Inne, so content, lively, and jocund to behold himselfe Knighted, as his very horse-gyrts were ready to burst for joy: but calling to memory the counsels that his Hoste had given him, touching the most needful! implements that he was ever to carie about him, of money and cleane shirts, he determined to retume to his house, and to pro- vide himselfe of them, and also of a Squire ; making account to intertaine a certaine labourer his neighbour, who was poore, and had children, but yet one very fit for this purpose, and Squirely function, belonging to Knighthood. With this determination he turned Rozinantc towards the way of his owne vill»^, who knowing in a manner his will, began to trot on with so good a will, as he seemed not to touch the ground. Me had not travelled farre, when he thought that he heard certaine weake and delicate cryes, like to those of one that complayned, to issue out from the 43 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER thickest of a wood that stood on the right hand. And IIII scarce had he heard them when he said, ' I render infinite Of that which < thankes to heaven for the favor it doth me, by proffering Well to our < j^g gQ goone occasions, wherein I may accomplisn the duety he Sd de- ' * ®^ ™y Profession, and gather the fruits of my good desires : parted from ^ these plaints doubtlesly be of some distressed man or the Inne. ' woman, who needeth my favor and ayde."* Then turning the raynes, he guided nozinante towards the place from whence he thought the complaints sallied; ana within a few paces, after he had entred into the thicket, he saw a Mare tyed unto an Holme Oake, and to another was tyed a young Youth all naked from the middle upward of about the age of fifteene yeares, and was he that cried so pitti- fuUy : and not without cause ; for a certaine Countriman of comely personage did whip him with a girdle, and accom- panied every blow with a reprehension and counsell, for he said : The tongue must peace, and the eyes be warie : and the boy answered, I will never doe it againe, good Master ; for the passion of God, I will never doe it againe. And I promise to have more care of your things from henceforth. But Don-Quixote viewing all that passed, said with an angry voice, * Discourteous Sjiight, it is very uncomely to ^ see thee deale thus with one that cannot defend himselfe, ^ mount therefore a horse-backe, and take thy' Launce (for ' the Farmer heA also a Launce leaning to the very same * tree, whereunto his Mare was tied) for I will make thee ^ know, that it is the use of Cowards to doe that which ^ thou dost.^ The other beholding such an Anticke to hover over him, all laden with armes, and brandishing of his Launce towards his face, made full account that hee should be slaine, and therefore he answered with very milde and submissive words, saying : Sir Knight, the boy which I chastise, is mine owne servant, and keepeth for me a ilocke of sheepe in this Commarke ; who is growne so negligent, as hee loseth one of them every other day, and because I correct him for his carelesnesse and knavery, he sayes I doe it through covetousnesse and pinching, as meaning to defraud him of his wages ; but before God and in conscience he belies me. ^ What ? The lie, in my presence rascally 44 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE * clowne ? Quoth Don-Quixote, By the Sunne that shmes CHAPTER * on us, I am about to runne thee thorow and thorow with ^^ ^ my Launce base Carle; pay him instantly without more Of that which * replying, or else by that Grod which doth mannage our ^^?H **^ ^ * sublunar affaires, I will conclude thee and annihilate thee he^^ d^' ' in a moment ; loose him forthwith.^ The Countrey-man parted from hanging downe of his head, made no replie, but loosed his the Inne. servant ; of whom Don-Quixote demaunaed how much did his Master owe unto him ? Hee said. Nine moneths hire, at seven Reals a moneth. Don-Quixote made then the account, and found that all amount^ to seventy and three Reals, and therfore commanded the Farmer to pay the money presently, if he meaned not to die for it. The fearefuU Countrey-man answered, that by the trance wherein he was then, and by the oath he had made (which was none at all, for hee swore not) that he ought not so much : for there should bee deduct^ out of the accounts three paire of shoes he had given unto him, and a Reall for twise letting him bloud, &ing sicke. All is well, quoth Don-Quixote: but let the price of the shoes and letting bloud, goe for the blowes which thou hast given him without any desert ; for if he have broken the leather of those shoes thou hast bestowed on him, thou hast likewise tome the skinne of his body ; and if the Barber tooke away his bloud being sicke, thou hast taken it out, he being in health ; so as in that respect he owes thee nothing. The damage is. Sir Knight, replied the boyes Master, that I have no money here about me. Let Andrew come with me to my house, and I will pay him his wages, one Reall upon another. I goe with him ? (quoth the boy) Evill befall me then. No Sir, I never meant it ; for as soone as ever he were alone, he woud flay me like S. Bartholomew. He will not dare to doe it, quoth Don-Quixote, for my commaund is sufficient to make him respect me ; and so that he will sweare to me to observe it by the order of Knighthood which he hath received, I will set him free, and assure thee of the pay- ment. Good Sir, quoth the youth, marke well what you say, for this man my Master is no Knight, nor did ever receive any order of Knighthood ; for he is lohn Haldudo 45 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER the rich man, a dweller of Quintanar. That makes no ^^^ matter, quoth Don-Quixote, for there may be Knights of Of that which the Haldudos: and what is more, every one is sonne of his Well to OUT workes. Hiatus true, quoth Andrew, but of what workes ^'^ '^^ can this my Master be sonne, seeing he denies me my wages, parted from Ai^d my sweate and labour ? I doe not denie thy wages, the Inne. friend Andrew, quoth his Master; doe me but the pleasure to come with me, and I sweare by all the orders of Knight- hood that are in the world, to pay thee as I have said, one Reall upon another, yea and those also perfumed. *For the ^ perfuming I thanke thee, quoth Don-Quixote, give it him ^ in Reals, and with that I will rest satisfied ; and see that ^ thou fuljfillest it as thou hast swome : if not, I sweare ^ againe to thee by the same oath, to retume and search thee, ^ and chastise thee, and I will finde thee out, though thou ' didst hide thy selfe better then a Lizarde : and if thou * desirest to note who commaunds thee this, that thou mayest * remaine more firmely obliged to accomplish it, know ^ that I am the valorous Don-Quixote of the Mancha, the * righter of wrongs, and imdoer of injuries, and so farewell : * and doe not forget what thou hast promised and swome * on paine of the paines already pronounced.'* And saying these wordes, he spurred Rozinante, and in short space was got farre off from them. The Countrey-man pursued him with his eye, and perceiving that he was past the wood and quite out of sight, he returned to his man Andrew, and said to him. Come to me, child, for I will pay thee what I owe thee, as that righter of wrongs hath Jien; me commanded. That I sweare, quoth Andrew, and you shall deale discreetely in fulfilling that good Ejiights commaundement, who I pray Grod may live a thousand yeares : for seeing he is so valorous and so just a ludge, I sweare by Rocquc, that if you pay me not, he shall retume and execute what he promised. I also doe sweare the same, quoth the Farmer, but in respect of the great affection I beare unto thee, I wil augment the debt, to increase the payment ; and catching the youth by the arme, he tied him againe to the Oakc, where he gave him so many blowes as he left him for dead. Call now, Master Andrew (quoth he) for the righter of wrongs, and 46 1] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE thou shalt see that he cannot undo this, although I beleeve CHAPTER it is not yet ended to be done. For I have yet a desire to Iin flea thee alive, as thou didst thy selfe feare. Notwithstand- Of that which ing all these threats, he untied him at last, and gave him befell to our leave to goe seeke out his ludge ; to the end he might f*^^* j*^' execute the sentence pronounced. Andrew departed some parted fi^ what discontent, swearing to search for the valorous Don- the Inne. Quixote of the Mancha, and recount unto him point for point, all that had past, and that he should pay the abuse with usury: but for all his threats he departed weeping, and his Master remained behind laughing; and in this manner the valorous Don-Quixote redressed that wrong. Who glad above measure for his successe, accounting himselfe to have given a most noble beginning to his feats of armes, did travell towards his village, with very great satisfisustion of himselfe, and said in a low tune these words ensuing : ^ Well maist thou call thy selfe happy above all ' other women of the earth, O ! above all beauties, beautifiill ' Dulcinea of Toboso, since thy good fortune was such, to ' hold subject and prostrate to thy will and desire so valiant * and renouned a Eniffht as is, and ever shall be, Don- * Quixote of the Mancna : who, as all the world knowes, ^ received the order of Sjiighthood but yesterday, and hath * destroyed to day the greatest outrage and wrong that * want of reason could forme, or cruelty commit. To day ' did he take away the whip out of that pittilesse enemies * hand, which did so cruelly scourge without occasion the * delicate infant^ In this discourse he aimed to a way which divided it selfe into foure: and presently these thwarting crosse-wayes repre- sented themselves to his imagination, which oft-tunes held Knights Errant in suspence, which way they should take ; and that hee might imitate them, he stood still a while, and after he had bethought himselfe well, he let slip the raines to Rozinante, subjecting his will to that of his horse, who pre- sently pursued his first designe, which was, to retume home unto his owne stable : and having travelled some two miles, Don-Quixote discovered a great troupe of people, who, as it was after knowne, were certaine Merchants of Toledo, that THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER rode towards Murda to buy silkes : they were sixe in number, ini and came with their ^Quitasoles or shadowes of the Sunne, Of that which foure Serving-men a horse-backe, and three Lackeyes. Well to our Scarce had Don-Quixote perceived them, when he straight S"^*d^' imagined them to be a new adventure: and because he parted from woiud imitate as much as was possible, the passages which the Inne. he read in his bookes, he represented this to himselfe, to be *A thing just such an adventure as ne purposed to atchieve. And made like a^ so with comely gesture and hardinesse, setling himselfe well imbraced ..«,.^^.„v^ the way, keepe awajT ^^ stood awayting when those Knights Errant should arrive ; the Sumie. for now hee judged and tooke them for such : and when they were so neare as they might heare and see him, he lifted up his voyce, and said, ^Let all the world stand and passe ^ no fiurther, if all the world will not confesse, that there ^ is not in all the world a more beautifull damzell then ^ the Empresse of the Mancha, the peerelesse Dulcinea of ^ Toboso.'' The Merchants stayed at these words, to behold the marvellous and ridiculous shape of him that spake them, and by his fashion and them joynd, did inconti- nently gather his folly and distraction, and notwithstanding would leisurely behold to what tended that confession which he exacted of them ; and therefore one of them who was somewhat given to gibing, and was withall very discreete, said unto him. Sir Xjiight, we doe not know that good Lady of whom you speake ; shew her therefore to us, and if she be so beautiful as you affirme, we will willingly and without any compulsion confesse the truth, which you now demaund of us. if I did shew her to you, replied Don-Quixote, what mastrie were it then for you to acknowledge a truth so notorious ? The consequence of mine affairs consists in this, that without beholding her, you doe beleeve, confesse, affirme, sweare, and defend it ; wmch if you refuse to per- forme, I challenge you all to battell, proud and unreasonable folke, and whether you come one by one (as the order of Knighthood requires) or all at once, as is the custome and dishonourable practice of men of your broode: here will I expect and awaite you all, trusting in the reason which I 48 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE have on my side. Sir Knight, replied the Merchant, I re- ; CHAPTER quest you in all these Princes names, as many as we be mi here, that to the end we may not burden our consciences. Of that which confessing a thing which we never beheld nor heard, and ^^?^lj^®ij' chiefly being so prejudidall to the Empresses and Queenes i^J^^ ^e- ' of the Eingdomes of Alcania and Estremadura, you will parted from please to shew us some portraiture of that Lady, although the Inne. it be no bigger then a graine of Wheate ; for by one thread we may ju^e of the whole dew, and we will with this favor rest secure and satisfied, and you likewise remaine content and appaide. And I doe beleeve moreover that we are already so inclined to your side, that although her picture shewed her to be bhnde of the one eye, and that Vermillion distilled from the other were brimstone, yet we would notwithstanding, to please you, say in her favour all that you listed. There drops not, infamous Eenell, quoth Don-Quixote, all inflamed with choler; there drops not, I say, from her that which thou sayest, but Amber and Civet, among bombase; and she is not olinde of an eye, or crooke- backt, but is straighter then a spindle of Guadarama : but all of you together shall pay for the great blasphemy thou hast spoken against so immense a beautie, as is that of my Mistr^se. And saying so, he abased his Launce against him that had answered, with such furie and anger, as if good fortune had not so ordayned it, that Rozinante should stumble, and fal in the midst of the Carrier, it had gone very ill with the bolde Merchant. Rozinante fell in fine, and his Master reeled over a good piece of the field : and though he attempted to arise, yet was he never able, he was so encumbred by his Launce, Target, Spurs, Helmet, and his wdghty olde armour. And in the meane while that he strived to arise and could not, he cried, Flie not, cowardly folke : abide, base people, abide ; for I lie not here through mine owne fault, but tnrough the defect of my horse. One of the Lackeyes which came in the company, and seemed to be a man of none of the best intentions, hearing the poore overthrowne Knight speak such insolent words, could not forbeare them, without returning him an answer on his ribbes : and with that intention approaching to him THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER he tooke his Launce, and after he had broken it in pieces, nn he gave Don-Quixote so many blowes with one of them, Of that which that in despite of his armour he threshed him like a sheafe ^^to<^ of wheate. His Masters cried to him, commanding him he^^A^Ae^ not to beate him so much, but that he should leave him : parted from ^^^ ^ would not serve, for the youth was anery, and the Inne. would not leave off the play untill he had avoyded the rest of his choler. And therefore running for the other pieces of the broken Launce, he broke them all on the miserable falne Knight, who for all the tempest of blowes that rained on him, did never shut his mouth, but threatned heaven *Makmdrine8. and earth, and those * Murderers ; for such they seemed to him. The Lackey tyred himselfe at last, ana the Mer- chants followed on their way, carrying with them occasion enough of talke of the poore belaboured Knight: who when he saw himselfe alone, turned againe to make tryall whether he might arise ; but if he could not doe it when he was whole and sound, how was it possible he being so brused and almost destroyed? And yet he accounted *Brumado. himselfe very happy, perswading himselfe that his disgrace was proper and incident to Knights Errant, and did attri- bute all the fault to his horse, and could in no wise get up, all his body was so * bruised and loaden with blowes. fiO I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE CHAPTER V Wherem is prosecuted the former Narration of our Knights misfortunes. [UT Beeiiw in effect that he could not ttirre himBelfe, he resolved to have recourse to his ordinate remedy, which was, to thinke on some passage of his Histories, and in the instant his folly presented to his memory that of Valdovinos, and the Marauesse of Mantua, then when Carloto had left him wounded in the mountaine. A History knowne by children, not hidden to young men, much celeorated, yea, and beleeved by many olde men; and yet for all that no more authenticaU, then are Mahomets miracles. This History as it seemed to him, was most fit for the traunce wherein bee was, and therefore he b^an with signes of great paine to tumble up and downe, and pro- nounce with a languishing breath tne same that they iatne the wounded Knignt to luive said in the wood : Wbere art Qiou I^dy deere ! thftt eriev'at Dot aX my amsTt ? Or thou doat it not know, or thou oialoyBll aiL And after this manner be did prosecute the olde song untill these verses that say : O noble Marquesse of Mantua, my camall Lord and unkle. And it befell by chance that at the vety some time there past by the place where he lay a man of his owne village, who was nis neighbor, and returned after having carried a loade of wheate to the mill: who beholding a man stretched on the ground, he came over to him, and demaunded what he was, and what was it that caused him to complaine so dolefully p Don- Quixote did verily beleeve that it was his uncle the Mar- quesse of Mantua; and so gave him no other answer, but only followed on in the repetition of his old Romaunce, 61 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER wherein he gave him account of his disgrace, and of the V love the Emperours sonne bore to his Spouse, all in the veiy Wherein is same manner that the Ballad recounts it. The labourer prosecuted remained much astonished, hearing those follies; and Ni^^nof ^^^"g off ^8 vizard, which with the Lackeys blowes was our Knights broken all to pieces, he wiped his face that was full of misfortunes, poulder ; and scarce had he done it when he knew him, to whom he said; Master Quixada, (for so he was probably called when he had his wits, before he left the state of a staide Yeoman, to become a wandring Knight) who hath used you after this manner? But he continued his Romance, answering out of it, to every question that was Eut to him. Which the good man perceiving, disarmed im the best he could, to see whether he had any wound, but he could see no bloud, or any token on him of hurt. Afterward he endevoured to raise him from the ground; which he did at last with much adoo ; and mounted him on his Asse, as a beast of easiest carriage. He gathered then together all his armes, and left not behind so much as the splinters of the Lance, and tied them all together upon Rozinante, whom he tooke by the bridle, and the Asse by his halter, and led them both in that Equipage faire and easily towards his village, being very pensative to heare the follies that Don-Quixote spoke. And Don-Quixote was no lesse Melancholy, who was so beaten and bruised, as he could very hardly hold him- selfe upon the Asse ; and ever and anon he breathed forth such grievous sighes, as he seemed to fixe them in heaven ; which mooved his neighbour to intreat them againe to declare unto him the cause of his griefe. And it seemes none other, but that the very Devill himselfe did call to his memorie. Histories accommodated to his successes. For in that instant, wholly forgetting Valdovinos, he remembred the Moore Abindaraez, then, when the Constable of Ante- quera, Rodericke Narvaez, had taken him, and carried him prisoner to his Castle. So that when his neighbour turned againe, to aske of him how hee did, and what ailed him, hee answered the very same words and speech that Captive Abencerrase said to Narvaez, just as he had read them 5S I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE in Diana of Montemayor, where the Historic is written ; CHAFFER applying it so properiy to his purpose, that the Labourer V grew ahnost mad for anger, to heare that Macfaina of follies; Wherein is by which hee collected that his neighbour was distracted, prosecuted and therefore hee hied as fast as possible he could to the Nma^rof village, that so he might free himselfe from the vexation our Knights that Don-Quixotes idle and prolixe discourse gave unto him. misfortunes. At the end whereof the Knight said, Don Rodericke of Narvaez, you shall understand that this beautifull Xarifa, of whom I spolce, is now the faire Dulcinea of Toboso, for whom I have done, I doe, and will doe such famous acts of Knighthood, as ever have beene, are, and shall be scene in all the world. To this his neighbour answered, Doe not you perceive. Sir, (sinner that I am) how I am neyther Don Kodericke de Narvaez, nor the Marquesse of Mantua, but Peter Alonso your neighbour ? nor are you Valdovinos, nor Abindaraez, but the honest Grentleman Master Quixada. I know very well who I am, quoth Don-Quixote, and also I know that I may not onely oe those whom I have named, but also all the twelve Peeres of France ; yea, and the nine Worthies, since mine acts shall surpasse all those tiiat ever they did together, or every one of tnem apart. With these, and such other Discourses, thev arrived at last at their Village about Sunne-set ; but the Labourer awayted untill it waxed somewhat darke, because folke should not view the Knight so simply mounted. And when he saw his time, he entred into the Towne, and went to Don-Quixotes house, which he found full of confusion. There was the Curate and the Barber of the Village, both of them Don-Quixotes great friends. To whom the old woman of the house said in a lamentable manner. What doe you thinke. Master Licendate Pero Perez, (for so the Curate was called) of my Masters misfortune ? These sixe dayes, neyther he nor his horse have appeared, nor the Target, Lance, or Armour: unfortunate woman that I am, I doe suspect, and I am as sure it is true, as that I shall dye; how those accursed bookes of Knighthood which he hath, and is wont to read ordinarily, have turned his judgement; for now I remember that I have heard him say oftentimes, 68 CBAITBR V Wherein is prosecuted the former Nsrrstion of our Knights misfortunes. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. (speaking to himselfe) that he would become a Knight Errant, and goe seeke adventures throughout the world Let such books bee recommended to Sathan and Barrabas, which have destroyed in this sorte the most delicate understanding of all the Mancha. His Niese affirmed the same, and dia adde, Moreover you shall understand, good Master Nicholas (for so hight the Barber) that it many times befell my unkle to continue the Lecture of those unhappy bookes of disventures two dayes and two nights together. At the end of which, throwing the booke away from him, hee would lay hand on his sword ; and would fall a slashing of the walls : and when hee were wearied, he would say that he had slayne foure Giants, as ereat as foure Towres, and the sweat that dropped downe through the labour hee tooke, hee would say was bloud that gushed out of those wounds which he had received in the conmct, and then would hee ouaffe off a great pot full of colde water, and straight hee did become whole and auiet, saying, that water was a most precious drinke, whioi the wise man Esquife, a great Inchanter or Sorcerer, and his friend had brought unto him. But I am in the fault of all this, who never advertised you both of mine Uncles raving, to the end you mieht have redrest it, ere it came to these termes, and burnt all those excommuni- cated bookes ; for hee had many that deserved the fire as much as if they were Heretic^. That doe I likewise affirme, quoth B^Lter Curate, and in sooth to morrow shall not passe over us, without making a publique processe against them, and condemne them to bee burned in the fire, that they may not minister occasion againe to such as may reade them, to doe that which I feare my good friend hath done. The labourer, and Don-Quixote stood hearing all that which was said, and then hee perfectly understood tne disease of his neighbour; and therefore he began to cry aloude: a^en the doores to Lord Valdovinus, and to the Lord arquesse of Mantua, who comes very sore wounded and hurt, and to the Lord Moore Abindaraez, whom the valorous Rodericke of Narvaez Constable of Antequera brings as his prisoner. All the housholde ranne out, hearing these 64 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE cries, and some knowing their friend; the others their CHAPTER Master and Unde, who had not yet alighted from the Asse, ^ because hee was not able, they ranne to embrace him ; but Wherein is he forbad them, saying, Stand still, and touch me not, for SJ^T^tJ I retume very sore wounded and hurt through default of {Narration of my horse : carie me to my bed, and if it be possible send our Knights for the wise Urganda, that shee may cure and looke to my misfortunes, hurts. See, in an ill houre (quoth the old woman straight- way) if my heart did not very well foreteU me on which foot my Master halted : come up in good time, for we shall know how to cure you well enouch, without sending for that Urganda you have mentionea. Accursed, say I once againe, and a hundred times accursed may those bookes of luiighthood bee which have brought you to such estate. WiUi that they bore him up to his bed, and searching for his wounds, could not finde any ; and then he said, all was but bruising, by reason of a great fall hee had with his horse Rozinante, as ne fought with tenne Giants, the most un- measurable and boldest that might be found in a great part of the earth. Hearken, quoth the Curate, we nave also Giants in the dance ; by mme honesty I will bume them all before to morrow at night. Then did they aske a thousand auestions of Don-Quixote, but he would answere to none of bem ; and onely requested them to give him some meate, and suffer him to sleepe, seeing rest was most behooveful for him. All which was aone, and the Curate informed himselfe at large of the labouring man, in what sort he had found Don-Quixote ; which he recounted to him, and also the follies hee said, both at his finding and bringing to towne ; which did kindle more earnestly t£e Licenciats desire to doe what he had resolved the next day ; which was, to call his friend the Barber M. Nicholas, with whom he came to Don-Quixotes house. 56 THE FIRST PART OF THE ["b. CHAPTER VI Of the pleasant and curious search made by the Curate and the Barber, of Don- Quixotes Library. HO slept yet soundly. The Curate sought for tne Keyes of uie Library, the onely authors of his hanne : which the Gentle- mans Niese gave unto him very willingly. All of them entred into it, and among the rest the olde woman, wherein they found more then a hundred great volumes, and those verie well bound, beside the small ones. And as soone as the old woman had seene them, shee departed very hastily out of the chamber, and efl- soones returned with as great speed, with a holy-water pot and a sprinckler in her hand, and said, Hold, M. Licenciat, and spnnckle this chamber all about, lest there should liu*ke in it some one Inchanter of the many which these bookes containe, and bewitch us in reviling of the many paines wee meane to inflict on these bookes, By banishing them out of this world. The simplicity of the goode olde woman, caused the Licentiat to laugh ; who commanded the Barber to fetch him downe the oookes from their shelves, one by one, that hee might peruse their arguments ; for it might happen some to be found, which in no sort deserved to be chastised with fire. No, replyed the Niese, no, you ought not to pardon any of them, seeing they have ail beene wendors ; it IS better vou throw them all into the base court, and there make a pile of them, and then set them a fire ; if not, they may be carried into the yard, and there make a bon-fire of them, and the smoake will offend nobody. The old woman said as much, both of them thirsted so much for the death of these innocents, but the Curate would not condiscend 66 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE thereto, untill he had first read the titles at the least of CHAPTER everie booke. VI The first that Master Nicholas put into his hands, was Of the that of Amadis of Gauk ; which the Curate perusing a pleawnt and while, This comes not to me first of aU others, without some ^^^A? mysterie : for as I have heard tolde, this is the first booke of Curate and Knighthood that ever was printed in Spaine, and all the the Barber, others have had their beginning and originall from this; ofDon- and therefore me thinkes that we must condemne him to Qv^<>^^ the fire, without all remission, as the Dogmatizer and head ^''"^• of so badde a sect. Not so, fie, quoth the Barber, for I have heard that it is the very best contrived booke of all those of that kinde, and therefore he is to be pardoned as the onely complete one of his profession. That is true, replied the Curate, and for that reason we doe give him his life for this time. Let us see that other which lies next unto him. It is, quoth the Barber, Tfie Adventures of Splandian, Amadis of Gaules lawfully begotten sonne : Yet on mine honesty, replyed the Curate, his fathers goodnesse shall nothing availe him : Take this booke, old Masters, and opening the window throw it downe into the yard, and let it lay the foundation of our heape for the fire we meane to make. She did what was commaunded, with great alacrity, and so the good Splandian fledde into the yard, to expect with all patience the fire which he was threatned to abide. For- ward, quoth the Curate. This that comes now, said the Barber, is Amadis of Greece, and as I conjecture, all those that lie on this side, are of the same linage of Amadis. Then let them go all to the yard, quoth the Curate, in exchange of burning Queene Pintiquinestra, and the sheep- heard Darinel, with his Eglogues, and the subtile and intri- cate Discourses of the Author, which are able to intangle the father that ingendred me, if he went in forme of a Knight Errant. I am of the same opinion, quoth the Barber, and I also, said the Niese. Then since it is so, quoth* the old wife, let them come, and to the yard with them all. They were rendred all up unto her, which were many in number : wherefore to save a labour of going up and downe the staires, she threw them out at the window. H 67 CHAPTER VI Of the pleasant and curious search made by the Curate and the Barber, of Don- Quixotes library. «Athiefe that used to steale cattell and pull them backewardby the tayles, that none might trace them. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. What bundle is that? quoth the Curate. This is, answered Master Nicholas, Don Olivante of Laura, The authour of that booke, quoth the Curate, composed like- wise The Garden of JlawerSy and in good sooth I can scarce resolve which of the two workes is truest, or to speake better, is lesse Ijring: onely this much I can determine; that this must goe to the yard, being a booke foolish and arrogant. This that foUowes is Florismarie of Hircania, quoth the Barber. Is Lord Florismarte there? Then replied the Curate, Then by mine honesty hee shall briefly make his arrest in the yanl, in despite of his wonderfuU birth and famous adventures ; for the drouth and harshnesse of his stile deserves no greater favour. To the yard with him, and this other (Good Masters.) With a very good will. Sir, quoth old Mumpsimus ; and straightway did exe- cute his commaundement with no small gladnesse. This is Sir PUdyr (quoth the Barber.) It is an ancient booke, replyed the Curate, wherein I finde nothing meriting pardon, let him without any replie keepe company with the rest. Forthwith it was done. Then was another book opened, and they saw the title thereof to be The Knight of the Croese. For the holy title which this booke beareth, quoth the Curate, his ignorance might be pardoned : but it is a common saying : ^ The Divell lurkes behind the Crosse ^ : wherefore let it goe to the fire. The Barber taking another booke, said. This is The Mirraur of Knighthood. I know his Worship well, quoth the Curate. There goes among those bookes I see, the Lord RaynaJd of Montalban with his friends and companions, all of them greater theeves then Cacus,* and the twelve Peeres of Fraunce, with the true Historiographer Turpin. I am in truth about to condemne them only to exile, for as much as they containe some part of the famous Poet Matthew Boyardo his invention. Out of which the Christian Poet Lodovicke Ariosto did likewise weave his worke, which if I can find among these, and that hee speakes not his ownc native tongue, I le use him with no respect, but if hee talke in his owne language, I will put him for honours sake on my head. If that be so, quoth the Barber, I have him at home in the Italian, but cannot 58 I 1] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE understand him. Neither were it good you should under- CHAPTER stand him, replied the Curate, and here we would willingly ^^ have excused the good Captaine that translated it into Of the Spanish from that labour, or bringing it into Spaine if it P^^^^ant and had pleased himselfe. For he hath deprived it of much ^^e^^H^ naturall worth in the translation ; a fault incident to all Curate and those that presume to translate Verses out of one language the Barber, into another : for thoueh they imploy all their industry and jf pon- wit therein, they can never airive to the height of that gj^ Primitive conceit, which they bring with them in their first ^^* birth. I say therefore that this Booke, and all the others that majr be found in this Library to treate of French affaires, be cast and deposited in some drie Vault, untill wee may determine with more deliberation what wee should doe with them : alwayes excepting Bernardo del Carpio^ which must be there among the rest, and another called Ronces- vcUles; for these two comming to my handes, shall be rendred up to those of the old guardian, and from hers into the fires, without any remission. All which was confirmed by the Barber, who did ratifie his sentence, holding it for good and discreete, because hee knew the Curate to bee so vertuous a man, and so great a friend of the truth, as hee would say nothing contrary to it for all the goods of the world. And then opening another booke, he saw it was Pal' merin de Oliva^ neere unto which stood another, intituled Palmerin qf England : which the Licenciat perceiving, said. Let Oliva bee presently rent in pieces, and burned in such sort, that even the very ashes thereof may not bee found : and let Palmerin qf England be preserved, as a thing rarely delectable, and let such another boxe as that which Alex- ander found among Darius spoyles, and deputed to keepe Homers works, be made for it : for, gossip, ttiis booke hath sufficient authority for two reasons; the first, because of it selfe it is very good and excellently contrived : the other, for as much as the report runnes, tnat a certaine discreete King of Portingal was the author thereof. All the adven- tures of the Castle of Miraguarda, are excellent and artifi- ciall. The discourses very cleere and courtly, observing 69 CHAPTER VI Of the pleasant and curious search made by the Curate and the Barber^ of Don- Quixotes library. THE FIRST PART OF THE ["b. evermore a decorum in him that speakes, with great pro- priety and conceit : therefore I say, Master Nicholas, if you thinke good, this and Amadis de Gaule may be preserved from the fire : and let all the rest, without further search or regard perish. In the divels name do not so, gentle gossip (replyed the Barber) for this which I hold now in my hand, is the famous Don Belianis : What he ? quoth the Curate, the second, third, and fourth part thereof have great neede of some Ruybarbe to purge his excessive choler, and we must moreover take out of him all that of the Castell of Fame, and other impertinencies of more consequence. Therefore wee give them a termmua UUramarinuSy and as they shall be corrected, so will we use mercy or justice towards them: and in the meane space, gossip, you may keepe them at your house, but permit no man to reade them. I am pleased, quoth the Barber, and being unwilling to tire himseue any more by reading of Titles, he bad the old woman to take all the great volumes, and throw them into the yard; the words were not spoken to a Mome or deafe person, but to one that had more desire to bume them, then to weave a piece of linnen, were it never so great and fine. And therefore taking eight of them together, she threw them all out of the window, and returning the second time, thinking to carie away a great many at once, one of them fell at the Barbers feete, who desirous to know the title, saw that it was The History of the famous Knight Tirante the white. GooA, God, quoth the Curate with a loud voyce, is Tircmte the white here ? Give me it, gossip, for I make account to have found in it a Treasure of delight, and a copious Mine of pastime. Here is Don-Quireleison of Montalban, a valiant Knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalban, and the Knight Fonseca, and the combat which the valiant Detriante fought with Alano, and the witty conceits of the damzell Plazerdemivida, with the love and guiles of the widdow Reposada, and of the Empresse enamoured on her Squire Ipolito. I say unto you, gossip, that this booke is for the stile, one of the best of'^the world : in it Knights do eate, and drinke, and sleepe, and die in their beds naturally, and make their testaments before their 60 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE death : with many other things, which all other bookes of CHAPTER this subject doe want ; yet notwithstanding, if I might be VI judge, the authour thereof deserved, because he purposely Of the penned and writ so many follies, to be sent to the Gallies pleasant and for all the dayes of his life. Carry it home and reade it, ^^^"^"^^ and you shall see all that I have said thereof to be true. Curate and I beleeve it very well, quoth the Barber. But what shall the Barber, we do with these little bookes that remaine? These as I of Don- take, said the Curate, are not bookes of Knighthood, but ^^'^^ of Poetry ; and openine one, he perceived it was the Diana '^^y*' of Montemayor, and beleeving that all the rest were of that stampe, he said. These deserve not to be burned with the rest, for they have not, nor can doe so much hurt as bookes of Knighthood, being all of them workes full of understanding and conceits, and doe not prejudice any other. O ffood Sir, quoth Don-Quixote his Niese, your reverence shal likewise doe well to have them also burned, lest that mine uncle, after he be cured of his Ejiightly disease, may fall by reading of these in an humour of becomming a Shep- heard, and so wander through the woods and fields, singing of Roundelayes, and playing on a Croud. And what is more dangerous then to become a Poet, which is as some say, an incurable and infectious disease ? This maiden saies true, quoth the Curate, and it will not be amisse to remoove this stumbling blocke and occasion out of our friends way : and since we begin with the Diana of Montemayor, I am of opinion that it be not burned, but onely that all that which treates of the wise Felicia, and of the inchanted water, be taken away, and also all the longer verses, and let him remaine with his proses, and the honour of being the best of that kinde. This that followes, quoth the Bcu-ber, is the Diana called the second, written by him of Salamanca, and this other is of the same name, whose author is Gil Polo. Let that of Salamanca, answer^ M. Parson, augment the number of the condemned in the yard, and that of Gil Polo be kept as charily, as if it were Apollo his own work : and go forward speedily, good gossip, for it grows late. This booke, quoth the Barber, opening of another, is The twelve bookes of iheJbrUmes qf love, written by Anthony Lofraso, 61 CHAPTER VI Of the pleasant and curious search made by the Curate and the Barber^ of Don- Quixotes library. THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. the Sardinicall Poet. By the holy Orders which I have received, quoth the Curate, since Apollo was Apollo, and the Muses, Muses, and Poets, Poets, was never written so delightfull and extravagant a worke as this ; and that in his way and vaine, it is the onely one of all the bookes that have ever issued of that kinde to view the light of the world, and he that hath not read it, may make account that he hath never read matter of delight. Give it to me, gossip, for I doe prize more the finding of it, then I would the gift of a Cassocke of the best Sattm of Florence. And so with great joy he laid it aside, and the Barber prosecuted, say- ing. These that follow be, The sheepheard of Iberia : The Nimphes ofEnares^ and The Undeceiving of Jealousies. Then there ^s no more to be done, but to deliver them up to the secular arme of the olde wife, and doe not demaund the reason, for that were never to make an end. This that comes, is The Sheepheard of FUida. That is not a Sheepheard, quoth the Curate, but a very complete Courtier : let it be reserved as a precious Jewell. This great one that followes, is, said the Barber, intituled, 7%^ treasure of divers Poems. If they had not bin so many, replied the Curate, they would have beene more esteemed. It is necessary that this booke be carded and purged of certaine base things, that lurke among his high conceits. Let him be kept, both because the Author is my very great friend, and in r^ard of other more Heroicall and loftie Workes he hath written. This is, said the Barber, 7%^ diHy booke of Lopez Maldonado. The author of tiiat worke is likewise my ffreat friend, replied the Parson, and his lines pronounced by himselfe, doe advise the hearers, and such is the sweetnesse of his voyce, when hee sings them, as it doth inchant the eare. He is somewhat prolix in his Eglogues, but that which is good, is never super- fluous : let him be kept among the choysest. But what booke is that, which lies next unto him ? The Galatea of Michel Cervantes, quoth the Barber. That Cervantes, said the Curate, is mme old acquaintance this many a yeare. And I knowe, he is more practised in misfortunes then in verses. His booke hath some good invention in it, he intends and pro- pounds somewhat, but concludes nothing : therfore we must 6S I] H ISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE expect the second part, which he hath promised ; perhaps his CHAPTER amendment may obtaine him a generall remission, which ^ until now is denied him, and whilst we expect the sight of Of the his second work, keep this part closely imprisoned in your pl®?**"** ^ lodging. I am very well content to doe so, good gos^, j^^^ !,« ^^ said the Barber, and here there come three together; Tne Curate and Auracana of Don Alonso de Erdlla, Tlie Atistnada of lohn the Barber^ RuflTo, one of the Magistrates of Cordova, and The M(m- ?f ?®^ serrato of Christopher de Virues a Valentian Poet. All ]§brary. these three bookes, quoth the Curate, are the best that are written in Heroicall verse in the Castjlian tongue, and may compare with the most famous of Italy. Reserve them as the richest pawnes that Spaine enjoyeth of Poetry. The Curate with this grew wearie to see so many bookes, and so he would have all the rest burned at all adventures. But the Barber, ere the sentence was given, had opened by chance one in- tituled The Teares of Angelica. I would have shed those teares my selfe, said the Curate, if I had wittingly caused such a booke to be burned ; for the authour thereof was one of the most fieunous Poets of the world, not onely of Spaine : and was most happy in the transla- tion of certaine fables of Ovid. 63 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER VH Of the second departure which our good Knight Don-Quixote made from his house to seeke adventures. WHILE they were thua busied, Don-Quixote beean to crie aloude, saying, Heere, heere, v^oroiu Knights, heere it is needfidl that you shew the force of your valiant armes ; for the Courtiers begin to beare away the best of the Tourney. The folke repayr- ing to this rumour and noyse, was an oMusion, that any farther speech and visitation of the bookes was omitted, and therefore it is to be suspected, that T7u Carolea and Lion of Spaine, with the actes of the Emperour Charles the fift, written by Don Luis de Avila were burned, without being ever scene or heard ; and perhaps if the Curate had seene them, they should not have past under so rigorous a sentence. When they all arrived to Don -Quixote his chamber, he was risen already out of his bedde, and continued still his out- cries, cutting and slashing on evety side, being as broadly awake, as if he never had slept. Wherefore t^ing him in their armes, they returned him by maine force into his bedde : and after he was somewhat quiet and settled, he said, turn- ing himselfe to the Curate, In good sooth, L. Archbishop Turpin, it is a great dishonour to us that are called the twelve Peeres, to permit the Enighta of the Court to beare thus away the glory of the Toumay without more adoe ; seeing that we the adventurers have gained the prize thereof the three formost dayes. Hold your peace, good gossip, quoth the Curate, for fortune may be pleased to change the successe, and what is lost to day, may be wonne agtune to morrow : Looke you to your health for the pre- 64 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE sent, for you seeme at least to be very much t3rred, if besides CHAPTER you be not sore wounded. ^^ Wounded? No, quoth Don-Quixote, but doubtlesse I Of the second am somewhat bruised : for that bastard Don Rowland hath ^^§^^ beaten me to pouder with the stocke of an Oake-tree, and ^^^ Knight all for envy, because he sees that I onely dare oppose my Don-Quixote selfe to his valour: but let me be never amine called made from his Raynold of Montealban, if he pay not deerdy for it, as house to seeke soone as I rise from this bed in despite of all his inchant- ^®^ '"^' ment. But I pray you call for my breakefast, for I know it will doe me much good, and leave the revenge of this wrong to my charge. Presently meat was brought, and after he had eaten, he fell asleepe, and thev remained astonished at his wonderfiill madnesse. That night the old woman burned all the bookes that she found in the house and yard, and some there were burned that deserved for their worthinesse to be kept up in everlasting Treasuries, if their fortunes and the lazinesse of the searchers had permitted it. And so the proverbe was verified in them. That the lust payes sometunes for Sinners. One of the remedies which the Curate and Barber prescribed for that present, to helpe their friends disease, was, that they should change his chamber, and damme up his Study, to the end that when he arose, he might not finde them : for perhaps by removing the cause, they might also take away the effects: and moreover they bad them to say, that a certaine inchanter had carried them awav Study and all; which device was presently put in practice. And within two daies after, Don-Quixote got up, and the first thing he did, was to go and visite his bookes ; and seeing he could not find the chcunber in the same place, where he had left it, he went up and downe to find it. Sometimes he came to the place where the dore stood, and felt it with his hands, and then would tume his eyes up and downe, here and there to seeke it, without speaking a word. But at last, after deliberation, he asked of the old woman the way to his bookes? Shee as one well schooled before what shee should answer, said. What Study, or what nothing is this you looke for ? There is now no more Study, nor bookes in I 65 CHAPTER VII Of the second departure which our good Knight Don-Quixote made from his house to seeke adventures. *Buscando pande TrattrigOy p. 47. THE FIRST PART OF THE [ua this house; for the very Divell himselfe carried all away with him. It was not the Divell, said his Niese, but an Inchanter that came here one night upon a cloude, the day after you departed from hence ; and aughting downe from a Serpent upon which he rode, he entred into the Studie, and what he did therein I know not ; and within a while after, he fledde out at the roofe of the house, and left all the house full of smoake : and when we accorded to see what he had done, we could nejrther see booke or Studie : onelv this much the old woman. And I doe remember very well, that the naughty olde man at his departure, said with a loud vovce, that he, for hidden enmitie, that he bore to the Lora of those bookes, had done all the harme to the house : that they might perceive when he were departed, and added that he was named the wise Muniaton. Freston, you would have said, quoth Don-Quixote. I know not, quoth the old woman, whether he hiffht Frestron or Friton, but well I wot, that his name ended with Ton. That is true, quoth Don-Quixote, and he is a very wise Inchanter, and my great adversary, and lookes on me with a sinister eye, for he knowes by his arte and science, that I shal in time fight a single combat with a Knight his very great friend, and overcome him in battel without being able to be by him assisted, and therfore he labours to doe me all the hurt he may ; and I have sent him word that he strives in vaine to divert or shun that which is by heaven already decreed. Who doubts of that ? quoth his Niese, but I pray you good uncle, say, what need nave you to thrust your selfe into these difficulties and brabbles? were it not better to rest you quietly in your owne house, then to wander thorow the the world, searching bread of ^blasted come ; without once considering how many there ffoe to seeke for wooll, that retume againe shome themselves? O Niese, quoth Don- Quixote, how ill dost thou understand the matter ? before I permit my selfe to be shome I will pill and pluck away the beards of as many as shall dare or imagine to touch but a haire onelv of mee. To these words the women would make no replie, because they saw his choler increase. Fifteene dayes hee remained quietly at home, without 66 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE giving any argument of seconding his former vanities : in CHAFTJBR which time past many pleasant encomiters betweene him ^^ and his two gossips, the Curate and Barber, upon that Of the second point which hee oefended, to wit, that the world needed ^©Ijarture nothing so much as Knights Errant, and that the erraticall ^^d ^iriit EnighUiood ought to b^ a^aine renewed therein. Master j^^Qidj^ Parson would contradict him somtimes, and other times made from his yeelde unto that he urged; for had they not observed that l^ouaetoseeke manner of proceeding, it were impossible to bring him to ■*^®'^*'"'fi8. any conformity. In this space Don-Quixote de^ with a certaine labourer his neighbour, an honest man (if the title of honesty may be given to the poore) but one of a very shallow wit ; in resolution he said so much to him, and per- swaded him so earnestly, and made him so large promises, as the poore fellow determined to goe away with nim, and serve him as his Sauire. Don-Quixote among many other things bad him to oispose himselfe willingly to depart with him, for now and then such an adventure mieht present it selfe, that in as short space as one would take up a couple of strawes, an Island might be wonn, and he be len as govemour thereof. Wiui these and such like promises Sancho Panfa (for so he was called,) left his wife and children, and agreed to be his Squire. Afterward Don- Quixote began to cast plots how to come by some mony, which he atchieved by selling one thing, pawning another, and turning all upsiae downe. At last ne got a prettie summe, and accommodating himselfe with a buckler which he had borrowed of a friend, and patching up his broken Beaver againe as wel as he could, he advertised his Squire Sancho of the day and houre wherein he meant to depart, that hee might likewise furnish himselfe with that which he thought needfull ; but above all things he charged him to provide himselfe of a Wallet; which he promised to pertorme, and said. That hee meant also to carie a verie good Asse, which he had of his owne, because he was not wont to travell much afoot. In that of the Asse Don- Quixote stood awhile pensive, calling to minde whether ever he had read, that any Knight Errant carried his Squire Assishly mounted, but be coiud not remember any authority 67 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER for it: yet notwithstanding he resolved that he might ^^ bring his beast, with intention to accommodate him more Of the second honourably when occasion were offered, by dismounting the dejiuture fij^g^ discmteous Eni^ht they met, from his horse, and ff^dKo^ht P^^S ^* *^ ^^ Squire; he also furnished himselfe with I^n-Quizote shirts, and as many other things as hee might, according made from his unto the Inkeepers advice. All which beins finished, Sancho house to seeke Pan9a, without bidding his wife or children farewell; or adventures, Don-Quixote his Niese and olde servant, they both departed one night out of the village unknowne to any person living ; and they travelled so farre that night, as they were sure m the morning not to be found, although they were pursued. Sancho Panfa rode on his beast like a Patriarke, with his Wallet and Bottle, and a marvellous longing to see him- selfe ffovemour of the Dand which his master had promised unto him. Don-Quixote tooke by chance the same very course and way that he had done in his first voyage through the field of Montiel, wherein he travelled then with lesse vexation then the first; for by reason that it was early, and the Sunne-beames stroke not directly downe, but athwart, the heat did not trouble them much. Aiid Sancho Panfa seeing the oportunity good, said to his Master, I pray you have care good Sir Knight, that you forget not that government of the Island which you have promised me, for I shall bee able to goveme it were it never so great. To which Don-Quixote replied, ^You must understand, * friend Sancho Panca, that it was a custome very much ^ used by ancient Knights Errant, to make their Squires < govemours of the Islands and ^ngdomes that they oon- ^ quered, and I am resolved that so good a custome shall « never be abolished by me, but rather I will passe and ^ exceed them therein : for they sometimes, and as I take it, ' did for the greater part expect untill their Squires waxed «The title of < aged, and after they were cloyed with service, and had a Marquease < suffered many bad dayes and worse niirhts, then did they SJn/ir • »'«»tow upon them some title of an ^le, or at least of Earle in * & ^ Marquesse of some valley or Province, of more or lesse Spaine. ^ account. 68 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE But if thou livest, and I withall, it may happen that I CHAPTER might conquer such a Eingdome within sixe dayes, that hath VII other Eingdomes adherent to it, which would £Edl out as Of the second just as it were cast in a mould for thy purpose, whom I departure would crowne presently King of one of them. And doe not ^^ i^i^ht account this to be anygreat matter, for things and chances D^Ouizote doe happen to such &iiffhts adventurers as I am, by so made from his unexpected and wonderfiHl waves and meanes, as I might house to seeke give thee very easily a great aeale more then I promised, ad^®'^*'^''®^. After that maner, said Sancho Panfa, If I were a Eine through some miracle of those which you say, then should loan Gutierez my wife become a Queene, and my children Princes. Who aoubts of that? said Don-Quixote. That doe I, replied Sancho Panfa, for I am fully perswaded, that although Grod would raine Eingdomes downe upon the earth, none of them would sit well on Mary Gutierez her head. For Sir, you must understand that sheets not worth a Dodkin for a Queene. To be a Countesse would agree with her better: and yet I pray God shee be able to discharge that calling. Commend thou the matter to Grod, quoth Don-Quixote, that he may give her that which is most convenient for her. But doe not thou abase thy minde so much, as to content thy selfe with lesse then at least to be a Vice-Roy. I will not, good Sir, quoth Sancho, especially seeing I have so worthy a Lord and Master as your selfe, who knowes how to give me all that may tume to mv benefit, and that I shall be able to discharge in good sort. 69 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER VIH Of the good successe Don-Quixote had, in the dreadful! and never imaged adventure of the Windemils, with other acddents worthy to be recorded. S thus they diacouned, they discovered some thirty or forty Windemils, that are in that field : and as soone aa Don-Quixote espied them, he said to. his Squire: Fortune doth addresse our affaires better then wee our selves could desire; for behold there, friend Sancho Fan9a, how there appeares thirty or forty monstrous Giants, with whom I meane to fight, and deprive them all of their lives ; with whose spoyles we will begin to be rich ; for this ia a good warre, and a great service unto God, to take away so bad a seede from the face of the earth. What Giants ? quoth Sancho Pan^, Those that thou seest there, quoth nis Lorde, with the long armes, and some there are of that race, whose armes are almost two leagues long. I pray you understand, quoth Sancho Fan^a, that those which appeare there, are no Gyants but Windemils : and that which seemes in them to be armes, are their Sayles, that are swinged about by the Winde, doe also make the Mill goe. It seemes well, quoth Don-Quixote, that thou art not yet acquainted with matter of adventures: they are Giants, ana if thou beest afeard, goe aside and pray, whilst I enter into cruell and unequall oattell with uiem. And saying so, he spurd his horse Rozinante, without taking heed to his Sqmre Sancbos cryes, advertising him how they were doubtlesly Windemils that he did assault, and no Giants ; but he went so fully perswaded, that they were Giants, as he neither heard his Squires out-cries, nor did 70 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE discerne what they were, although he drew very neere to CHAPTER them, but rather said as loud as he could : Flie not, ^^^ ye cowards and vile creatures, for it is onely one Knight Of the good that assaults you. With this the Winde increased, and q^?^^ P^°" the Mill Sailes began to turn about ; which Don-Quixote iJ^Se di^- espying, said. Although thou movedst more armes then the fuU and never Gyant Briareo, thou shalt stoope to me ; and after saying imagined ad- this, and commending himselfe most devoutly to his Lady ™ ^^'^ of the Dulcinea, desiring her to succour him in that trance, cover- ^^ o^|?* ing himselfe well with his buckler, and setting his Launce accidents on his rest, he spurred on Rozinante, and encountred with worthv to be the first Mill that was before him, and striking his Lance recorded, into the Sayle, the Winde swinged it about with such furie, that it broke his Launce into shivers, carrying him and his horse after it, and finally tumbled him a good way off from it, on the field in very evill plight. Sancho Pan9a repayred presently to succour him, as hat as his Asse could drive : and when he arrived, he found him not able to stir, he had gotten such a crush with Rozinante. * Good Grod ! quoth Sancho, did I not foretell unto you ^^This word that you should looke well what you did ? for they were (^ove) wil none other then Windemils, nor could any think other- j^^J^^oSw* wise, unlesse hee had also Windemils in his braines. Peace, seeing the * Sancho, auoth Don-Quixote, for matters of warre are more actions are subject then any other thins to continuall change : how presumed to much more seeing I do verily perswade my self, that the Ju^*"^^^**"' wise Freston who robbed my Studie and boolces, hath trans- othemse formed these Giants into Mils, to deprive me of the glory distracted in of the victory ? such is the enmity hee beares towards me. minde^ as was But yet in fine, all his bad arts shal but little prevaile I>on-Quixote. against the goodnesse of my sword. Grod grant it, as he may, said Sancho Panfa ; and then helpt him to arise : and presently he mounted on Rozinante, who was ^halfe shoulder- *Medio pitcht by rough encounter ; and discoursing upon that T^JJ?^ adventure, they followed on the way which guidea towards ^JJJJJI^the the passage or gate of Lapice, for there as Don-Quixote mountunes. avouched, it was not possible, but to finde many adventures, because it was a thorough-fare much freauented, and yet he affirmed that he went very much grieved because hee wanted 71 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER a Lance, and telling it to his Squire, he said, I remember VIII how I have read that a certaine Spanish Ejiight called Diego Of the good Peres of Vargas, having broken his sword in a battaile, tore successe Don- off^ great branch, or stock from an Oak-tree, and did such mSe^ead- °^*^*il^ ^^^^ i^ tiiat day, and battered so many Moores, full and never ^ he remained with the surname of Machuca, which signi- imagined ad- fies a stumpe, and as well hee, as all his progenie were ever venture of the after that day called Vargas and Machuca. I tell thee this, th th because I meane to teare another branch, such, or as good accidents ^^ least as that, from the first Oake we shall encounter, worthvtobe and I meane to atchieve such adventures therwithall, as recorded. thou wilt account thy selfe fortunate, for having merited to behold them, and be a witnesse of things almost incredible. In Grods name, quoth Sancho, I doe beleeve every word you said : but I pray you sit right in your saddle, for you ride sideling, which proceeds as I suppose of the bruising you got by your fall. Thou sayest true, quoth Don-Quixote, and if I doe not complaine of the gnefe, the reason is, because Knights Errant use not to complain of any wound, although their guts did issue out therof. If it be so (quoth Sancho) I know not what to say, but Grod knowes that I would be glad to heare you to complaine when any thing grieves you. Of my selfe I dare affinne, that I must com- plaine of the least griefe that I have, if it be not likewise meant that the Squires of Knights Errant must not com- Elaine of any harme. Don-Quixote could not refraine lughter, hearing the simplicitie of his Squire; and after shewed unto him, that he might lawfully complaine both when he pleased, and as much as he hsted, with desire, or without it, for he had never yet read any thing to the contray, in the order of Knighthood. Then Sancho said unto him, that it was dinner time. To whom he answered, that he needed no repast, but if he had will to eate, he might begin when he pleased. Sancho having obtained his licence, did accommodate himselfe on his Asse backe, the best he mieht; taking out of his wallet some belly munition, he rode after his Master, travelling and eating at once, and that with ^reat leasure, and ever anone he lifted up his bottle with such pleasure, as the best 72 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE fed Tapster of Malaga might envy his state, and whilst CHAPTER he rode multiplying of quanes in that manner, he never VIII remembred any of the promises his Master had made him, Of the good nor did he hold the fetch of adventures to be a lalxmr, but »w«5«"« Don- rather a great recreation and ease, were they never so danger- ^^e^diSid- ous. In conclusion, they past over that night under cer- full and never taine trees, from one of which Don-Quixote tore a withered Imagined ad- branch, which might serve him in some sort for a lance, venture of the and therefore he set thereon the yron of his owne, which ^^^^^^' he had reserved when it was broken. All that niffht Don- accidents Quixote slept not one winke, but thought upon his Ladie worthy to be Dulcinea that he might conforme himself to what he recorded« had read in his bookes of adventures, when knights passed over many nights without sleepe in forrests and fields, onely intertained by the memorie of their Maistresses : but Sancho spent not his time so vainely, for having his stomacke well stuffed, and that not with Succorie water, he carried smoothly away the whole night in one sleepe : and if his Master had not called him up, neyther the sunne-beames which strucke on his visage, nor tne melodic of the Birds which were many, and did cheerfully welcome the approach of the new day, could have beene able to awake him : at his arriving hee cave one assay to the bottle, which he found to bee somewnat more weake then it was the night before, whereat his heart was somewhat grieved, for he mistrusted that they tooke not a course to remedie that defect so soone as he wished : nor could Don-Quixote breake his fast, who, as we have said, meant onely to sustaine himselfe with pleasant remembrances. Then did they retume to their commenced way, towards the Port of Lapice, which they discovered about three of the clocke in the after-noone: here fsaid Don-Quixote) as soone as he kend it, may we (friend Sancho) thrust our hands up to the very elbows in that, which is called adventures. But observe well this Caveat which I shall give thee, that although thou seest me in the greatest dangers of the world, thou must not set hand to thy sword in my defence, if thou dost not see that those which assault me, be base and vile vulgar people ; for in such a case thou maist assist mee. Manry if ttiey bee K 73 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER Knights, thou maist not doe so in any wise, nor is it per- VIII mitted by the lawes of armes that thou maist helpe me, Of the good untill thou beest likewise dubd Knight thy selfe. I doe sucMsesse Don- assure you. Sir, quoth Sancho, that herein you shal be i"!i!^*S^' most punctually obeyed; and therefore chiefly, in respect folli^d^r that I am of Jne o^e nature a quiet and p^ek^ble i^, imagined ad- and a mortall enemy of thrusting my selfe into stirres or venture of the quarrels : yet is it true, that toucning the defence of mine •th^^ owne person, I wil not be altogether so observant of those accidents lawes, seeing that both Divine and Humane allow every worthy to be man to defend himselfe, from any one that would wrong recorded* him. I say no lesse, answered Don-Quixote, but in this of ayding me against any Knight, thou must set bounds to thy naturall impulses. I say that I will doe so, quoth Saincho, and I wil observe this commandement as punctu- ally, as that of keeping holy the Saboth day. Whilst thus they reasoned, tnere appeared in the way two Monkes of S. Benets order, mounted on two Dromedaries ; for the Mules whereon they rode, were but little lesse. They wore masks with Spectacles in them, to keepe away the dust from their faces, and each of them besides bore their Umbrilles; after them came a Coach and foure or five a horse-backe accompanying it, and two Lackeyes that ranne hard by it. There came therein, as it was after knowne, a certaine Biscaine Lady, which travelled towards Sivil, where her husband sojourned at the present, and was going to the Indies, with an honourable charge : the Monks rode not with her, although they travelled the same way. Scarce had Don-Quixote perceived them, when he said to his Squire, Either I san deceived, or else this will prove the most famous adventure, that ever hath beene scene. For these two great blacke bulkes which appeare there, are questionlesse Inchanters that steale or carrie away perforce some Princesse in that Coach ; and therefore I must with all my power undoe that wrong. This will be worse then the adventure of the Windemils, quoth Sancho. Doe not you see. Sir, that those are Fryers of S. Benets Order ? and the Coach can be none other, then of some travellers. Therefore listen to mine advice, and see well what you 74 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE doe, lest that the divell doe deceive you. I have said CHAPTER abeady to thee, Sancho, that thou art very ignorant in VIII matter of adventures. What I say is true, as now thou Of the good shalt see : and saying so, he spurd on his horse, and placed succease Don- himselfe just in the midst of the way, by which the FriMS SJ^Se^^jJ- came: and when they approched so neere as he supposed full and never they miffht heare him, he said with a loude voyce : ^ Divillesh imagined ad- * and wicked people, leave presently those high Princesses venture of the * which you violently carie away with you in that Coach ; ^i?^^^' * or if you will not, prepare your selves to receive suddaine ^^^ts' ^ death, as a just punishment of your bad workes.^ The worthy to he Friers held their norses, and were amazed both at the recorded, shape and words of Don-Quixote. To whom they answered. Sir Knight, we are neither devillish nor wicked, but religi- ous men of S. Benets Order, that travell about our aflBdres, and we know not whether, or no, there comes any Prin- cesses forced in this Coach. With me {aire wordfes take no effect, quoth Don-Quixote. For I know you very well, treacherous knaves; and then without expecting their replie, he set spurs to Rozinante, and laying his Lance on the thigh, charged the first Friar with such fury and race, that if tie had not suffered himselfe willingly to fall off^ his Mule, he would not onely have overthrowne him against his wil, but likewise have slaine, or at least wounded him very ill with the blow. The second religious man seeing how ill his companion was used, made no words, but setting spurs to that Castell, his Mule did flie away thorow the fifeld, as swift as the winde it selfe. Sancho Pan9a seeing the Monke overthrowne, dismounted very speedily off his Asse, and ran over to him, and would have ransackt his habites. In this arrived the Monkes two Lackeyes, and demanded of him, why he thus dispoyled the Friar ? Sancho replied, that it was his due by the law of armes, as lawfuU spoyles gained in battell by nis Lord Don-Quixote. The Lackeyes which understood not the jest, nor knew not what words of battell or spoyles meant, seeing that Don-Quixote was now out of the way, speaking with those that came in the Coach, set both at once upon Sancho, and left him not a haire in his beard but they pluckt, and did so trample 76 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER him under their feete, as they left him stretched on the ^11 ground without either breath or feeling : the Monke cut- Of the good tine off all delayes, mounted againe on horse-backe, all g^^l^^^' afihghted, having scarce any droppe of bloud left in his face in^e dread- through feare. And being once up, he spurd after his full and never fellow, who expected him a good way off, staying to see imagined ad- the successe of that assault ; and being unwilling to attend v^ture of the f}^^ ejjj q{ y^^t strange adventure, they did prosecute their wi£ other' journey, blessing and crossing themselves [as] if the Divell accideats did pursue them. worthvtobe Don-Quixote, as is rehearsed, was in this season speaking recorded. to the Lady of the Coach, to whom he said, * Your oeauty, ^ deere Laay, may dispose from henceforth of your person, ^ as best ye liketh ; for the pride of your robl)ers lies now ^ prostrated on the ground, by this mv invincible arme. * And because you may not bee troubled to know your ^ deliverer his name, know that I am called Don-Quixote de ^ la Mancha, a Knight Errant and adventurer, and Captive < to the Peerelesse and beautifull Ladie Dulcinea of Toboso : ^ and in reward of the benefite which you have received at ^ my handes, I demaund nothing else, but that you retume ^ to Toboso ; and there present your selves in my name * before my Lady, and recount unto her, what I have done * to obtaine your liberty.' To all these words which Don- Quixote said, a certaine Biscaine Squire that accompanied the Coach gave eare, who seeing that Don-Quixote suffered not the Coach to passe onward, but said that it must presently retume backe to Toboso, he drew neere to him, and lajang hold on his Launce, he said in his bad Spanish and worse Basquish ; get thee away. Knight in an ill houre, by the Gkxi that created me, if thou leave not the Coach, I will kill thee, as sure as I am a Biscaine. Don-Quixote understanding him, did answer with great staidnesse, if *Cavaiiero in thou werest a * Knight as thou art not, I would by this Spanish is jj^ve punished thy folly and presumption, caytife creature, for ^'ol^ntS- ^^^ Biscaine repHed with great furie. Not I a Gentleman ? man, as for a ^ sweare God thou liest as well as I am a Christian. If Knight thou cast away thy Lance, and draw thy sword, ^ thou *Page68. shalt see the water as soone as thou snalt carie away 76 I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE the Cat : A Biscaine by land, and a Grentleman by Sea, a CHAPTER Grentleman in despite of the Divell, and thou liest if other VIII things thou sayest. Straight thou shalt see that, said Of the good Agrages ; replied Don-Quixote, and throwing his Launce to suecesM Don the ground, he out with his sword, and tooke his Buckler, S^e^dildl and set on the Biscaine, with resolution to kill him. The f^ and never Biscaine seeing him approch in that manner, although he imagined ad- desired to alimt off his Mule, which was not to be trusted, venture of the being one of ^ose naughty ones which are wont to be hired, ^i?^^*^* yet nad he no leisure to do any other thine, then to draw ^i^eYita' out his sword : but it befell him happily to oe neere to the worthy to be Coach, out of which he snatched a cushion that served him recorded, for a shield: and presently the one made upon the other like mortall enemies. Those that were present, laboured all that they might, but in vaine, to compound -Uie matter betweene them ; for the Biscaine swore in his bad language, that if they hindred him from ending the battell, hee woidd put his Lady, and all the rest that dared to disturbe him, to the sworcL The Lady astonished and fearefull of that which shee beheld, commanded the Coach-man to goe a little out of the way, and sate aloofe, beholding the rigorous conflict. In the progresse whereof, the Biscaine gave Don-Quixote over the Target a mighty blow on one of the shoulders, where if it had not found resistance in his armour, it would doubtlesly have cleft him downe to the girdle. Don- Quixote feeling the waight of that immeasurable blow, cried with a loud voyce, saying, ^ O Dulcinea, Lady of my ' soule, the flowre of all beauty, succour this thy Knight, ^ who to set forth thy worth, finds himselfe in this dangerous ^ trance.^ The saying of these words, the sriping fast of his sword, the covering of himselfe well with nis Buckler, and the assayling of the Biscaine, was done all in one instant, resolving to venter all the suooesse of the battell on that one only blow. The Biscaine, who perceiving him come in that manner, perceived by his dougbtinesse his intention, and resolved to doe the uke; and therefore expected him very well covered with his Cushion, not being able to man- age his Mule as he wished from one part to another, who 77 HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE CHAPTER was not able to goe a steppe, it was so wearied, as a beast VIII never before used to the liice toyes. Don-Quixote, as wee Of the good hare said, came against the weary Biscaine, with his sword Si?'^ j^" lifted aloft, with a full resolution to part him in two ; and inUie dread- ^^ ^^ beholders stood with great feare suspended, to see full and never the suooesse of those monstrous blowes wherewithall they imagined ad- threatned one another. And the Lady of the Coach, witn venture of the jj^f Gentlewoman, made a thousand vowes, and offerings to wi£ c^er ' ^ ^^^ devout places of Spaine, to the end that God might accidents deliver the Squire, and themselves, out of that great danger worthy to he wherein they were. recorded. But it is to be deplored, how in this very point and tearme, the Author of this History leaves this battell depending, excusing himselfe, that he could finde no more written of the actes of Don-Quixote, then those which he hath already recounted. True it is, that the second writer of this worke would not beleeve, that so curious a History was drownd in the jawes [of] oblivion, or that the wits of the Mancha were so little curious, as not to reserve among their treasuries or records, some papers treating of this famous Eiiight: and therefore encouraged by this pre- sumption, he did not despdre to finde the end of this pleasant History ; which, heaven being propitious to him, he got at last after the manner that shall be recounted in the second Part. THE END OF THE FIBST PART ^ 78 THE SECOND BOOKE CHAPTER I Wherein is related the events of the feareful battell which the gallant Biscune fought with Don-Quixote. E left the valoroiu Biscaine, and the famous Don-Quixote in the first part, with their swords lifted up and naked in termes, to discharge one upon another two furious Cleevers, and such, as if they had allighted rightly, would cut and divide them hoth from the top to the toe, and open them like a Pomegranate. And that in so doubtfull a taking the delightfull History stopped and renudned dismembred, the author thereof leaving us no notice where we might finde the rest of the narration. Tliia grieved me not a uttle, but wholly turned the pleasure I tooke in reading the beginning thereof, into disgust, think- ing how small commodity was ofiered, to finde out so much as in mine opinion wanted of this so delectable a tale. It seemed unto me almost impossible, and contrary to all good order, that so good a Knight should want some wise man, that would undertake his wonderful! prowesses and feats of Chivalrie. A thing that none of those Knights Errand ever wanted, of whom people speake ; for each of them had one or two wise men of purpose, that did not onlv write their actes, but ^so depainted thdr very least thoughts and TO THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER toyes, were they never so hidden. And surely so good a I Knight could not be so unfortunate, as to want that where- Wherein is with Platyr and others his like abounded ; and therefore related the could not induce my selfe to beleeve, that so gallant a ^e^^i^ful Historie might remaine maimed and lame, and did rather hattell which c^t the fault upon the malice of the time, who is a con- the gallant sumer and devourer of all things, which had eyther hidden Biscaine or consumed it. Me thought on the other side, seeing that Do^iS^ tc *™®^8 ^^® bookes were found some modeme workes, such as the Undeceiving of leaJotmey and TTie nymphs and sheepheards of HenareSf Tliat also his owne History must have bin new ; and if it were not written, yet was the memory of him fresh amonff the dwellers of his owne village, and the other villages adyoyning. This imagination held me sus- pended and desirous to leame really and truely all the life and miracles of our famous Spaniard Don-Quixote of the Mancha, the light and mirrour of all Manchicall Chivalrie ; being the first who in this our age and time so full of calamities did undergoe the travels and exercise of armes errant; and undid wrongs, succourd widdowes, protected damzels that rode up and downe with their whips and Palfirayes, and with alt their virginity on their backes, from hill to hill, and dale to dale : for if it hapned not that some lewd miscreant, or some Clowne with a hatchet and long haire, or some monstrous Giant did force them, damzels there were in times past, that at the end of fourescore yeares old, all which time they never slept one day under a roofe, went as intire and pure maydens to their graves, as the very mother that bore them. Therefore I say, that as well for this, as for many other good respects, our gallant Don-Quixote is worthy of continuail and memorable prayses ; nor can the like be iustly denied to my selfe, for the labour and diligence which I used to find out the end of this Satefull Historie ; although I know very well, that if eaven. Chance, and Fortune had not assisted me, the world had bin deprived of the delight and pastime, that he may take for almost two houres together, who shall with atten- tion read it. The manner therefore of finding it, was this : Being one day walking on the Exchange of Toledo, a 80 n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE oertaine boy by chance would have sold divers old quires CHAPTER and scroules of bookes to a Squire that walked up and 1 down in that place, and I being addicted to reade such Wherein is scroules, though I found them tome in the streets, borne related tiie away by this my naturall inclination, tooke one of the quiers ^^^^J^i in my hand, and perceived it to be written in Arabicall battell whioh characters, and seeing that although I knew the letters, yet the gallant could I not read the substance, I looked about to view Biscaine^ whether I could perceive any Moore translated Spaniard, ^^Su^^^ta. thereabouts that could reade them : nor was it very difficult ®°'^^^^"* to finde there such an interpreter : for if I had seaSrched one of another better and more ancient * language, that place *To wit, a might easily affoord him. In fine my eood fortune pre- ^ew. sented one to me, to whom telline my desire, and setting the booke in his hand, he opened it, and having read a little therein, began to laueh. I demaimded of him why he laughed ? and he answered. At that marginall note which' the booke had. I bad him to expound it to me, and with that took him a little aside: and he continuing still his laughter, said. There is written here on this margine these wordes. * This Dulcinea of Toboso so many times spoken of * in this historic, had the best hand for powdring of Porkes, * of any woman in all the Mancha.^ When I heard it make mention of Dulcinea of Toboso, I rested amazed and suspended, and imagined forthwith, tiiat those quiers con- tained the Hisiorie of Don-Quixote: with this conceit I hastned him to read the beginning, which he did, and trans- lating the Arabicall into Spanish in a trice, he said that it b^an thus, Tlte Hisiorie of Dof^Quixoie o^ the ManchOj wntten by Cyde Hamete Benengeli, an Araoicall Historio- grapher. Much discretion was reqiusite to dissemble the content of mind I conceived, when I heard the title of the booke, and preventing the Squire, I bought all the boyes scroles and papers for a Rial! : and were he of discretion, or knew my desire, he might have promised himselfe easily, and idso borne away with him more then sixe Rials for his Merchandize. I dfeparted after with the Moore, to the Cloyster of the great Church, and I requested him to tume me all the Arabicall sheetes that treated of Don- L 81 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER Quixote into Spanish, without adding or taking away any I thing from them, and I would pay him what he listed MHaernn ia for hi> paines : he demaunded tifty pounds of Reasons related tha ^n^ (^ne bushels of Wheate, and promised to translate {JJ^^^Jy them speedUy, well, and faithfully. But I, to hasten the battall which matter more, lest I should lose such an unexpected and thflgkUant welcome treasure, brought him to my house, where be BiscaiiiB translated all the worke in lesse then a moneth and a halfe, nSS^dlSa. ^^^'^ *" ^^ manner that it is here recounted. ^^'^^^ There was painted in the first Quire, very naturally, the battell betwixt Don-Quixote and the Biscaine; even in the same manner that the History relateth it, with their swords lifted aloft, the one covered with his Buckler, the other with the Ciuhion: and the Biscaines Mule was de- livered so naturally, as a man might perceive it was hired ; although he stood &rther off then the shot of a Croshow : the Biacaine had a title written under his feet that said, Don Sancbo de Azpetia, for so belike hee was called : and at Rozinante his feete there was another that said, Don- Quixote. Bozinante was marvellous well pourtrated, so long and lanke, ao lanke and leane, so like one labouring with an incurable consumption, as he did shew very cleerely with what conaideiation and propriety hee had given unto him the name Rozinante. By nim stood Sanclio Fan^a, holding his Asse by the halter ; at, whose feete was another scroule, saying, Sancho Con^: and I thinke the reason thereof was, that as his picture shewed, he had a great beUy, a short stature, and thicke legges. And therefore I judge he was called Panca or Qanca ; for both these names are written of him inoifierently in the History. There were other little things in it worthy the noting, but all of them are of no great importance, nor any thing neces- sary for the true rmtion of the Historic, for none is ill if it be true. And if any objection be made against the truth of this, it can bee none other, then that the author was a Moore, and it is a knowne propriety of that nation to be lying : yet in respect that they hate us so mortally, it is to be conjectured that in this History there is rather want and concealment of our Knights wwthy Actee, then 8t n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE any superfluity; which I imagine the rather, because I CHAPTER finde in the progresse thereof many times, that when hee ^ might and ouffht to have advanced ms penne in our Knights ^^^l^J' prayses, hee does as it were of purpose passe them over ^^Jjjf ^* m silence. Which was very ill done, seeing that Historio- thefeareful graphers ought and should bee very precise, true, and battell which unpassionate, and that neither profit, or feare, rancor or the gallant affection should make them to treade awry from the truth, f^^^^'fu whose mother is History, the Emulatresse of Time, the D^4>Jilcote. depository of actions, the witnesse of things past, and adver- tiser of things to come. In this Historie I know a man may finde im that hee can desire in the most pleasing manner ; and if they want any thing to be desired, I am of opinion that it is through the fault of that ungratious knave that translated it, rather then through any defect in the subject. Finally, the second part thereof (according to the translation) began in this manner : The trenchant swords of the two valorous and inraged combatants being lifted aloft, it seemed that they threatned Heaven, the earth, and the depths. Such was their hardi- nes and courage: and the firat that discharged his blow was the Biscaine, which fell with such force and fury, as if the sword had not turned a little in the way, that onely blow were sufficient to set an end to the rigorous contention, and all other the adventures of our ^ight. But his good Fortune which reserved him for greater affaires, did wrest his adversaries sword awry in such sort, as though he stroke him on the left shoulder, yet did it no more harme, then disarme all that side, canying awa^ with it a great part of hb Beaver, with the halfe of his care ; all which tell to the ground with a dreadfull ruine, leaving him in very ill case for a good time. Good God ! who is he that can well describe at this present the fury that entred into the heart of our Manchegan, seeing him- selfe used in that manner P Let us say no more, but that it was such, that stretching himselfe againe in the stirrops, and griping his sword fast in both his handes, he discharged such a terrible blow on the Biscaine, hitting him right upon the Cushion, and by it on the head, that the strength 88 CHAPTBR I Wherein is related the events of thefearefiil bftttell which the gallant Biscaine fought with Don-Quixote. THE FIRST PART OF THE [ua and thicknesse thereof so little availed him, that as if a whole mountaine had falne upon him, the blood gushed out of his mouth, nose, and eares, all at once, and hee tottered so on his Mule, that every steppe he tooke he was ready to &11 off, as he would indeed, if he had not taken him by the necke: yet neverthelesse he lost the stirrops, and loosing his gripe of the Mule, it being like- wise inghted by that terrible blow, ranne away as fast as it coula about the fields, and within two or three winches, overthrew him to the ground. All which Don-Quixote stood beholding with great quietnesse, and as soone as he saw him fall he leapt off his horse, and ranne over to him very speedilv, and setting the point of his sword on his eyes, he bad him yeeld himselfe or else he would cut off ms head. The Biscaine was so amazed as hee could not speake a word, and it had succeeded very ill with him, considering Don-Quixotes fury, if the Ladies of the Coach, which until then had beheld tne conflict with great anguish, had not come where he was, and earnestly besought him to do them the favour to pardon their Squires life. Don- Quixote answered with a great lofldnesse and gravity : * Truely, faire Ladies, I am well appaid to graunt your * request, but it must be with this agreement and condition, ^ that this Knight shall promise me to goe to Toboso, ^ and present himselfe in my name to the Peerelesse Ladie ^ Dulcmea, to the end she may dispose of him as shee pleaseth.* The timorous and comfortlesse Lady, without considering what Don-Quixote demaunded, or asking what Dulcinea was, promised that her Squire should accom- plish all that he pleased to commaund. Why then, quoth Don-Quixote, trusting to your promise, Vie do him no more harme, although he hath well deserved it at my handes. 84 — - - -- «] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE CHAPTER II Of that which after befell unto Don-Quixote, when he had left the Ladies. SjY this Sancho Panca had gotten up, though lomeirhat aoused hy the Friars Lackeyes, and stood attentively behold- ing his Lords combate, and prayed to God with all his hart, that it would please him to give him the victory ; and that he might therein winne some Island, wherof he might make him govemour, OS he had promised. And seeing the controversie ended at lost, and that his Lord remounted upon Rozinante ; hee came to hold him the stirrop, and cast hinuelfe on his knees before him ere he got up, and taking him by the hand, he kist it, saying, I desire that it will please you good my Lorde Don-Quixote, to bestow upon me the government of that Island which in this terrible battell you have wonne ; for though it were never so great, yet doe I finde my selfe able enough to goveme it, a« well as any other wnatsoever that ever governed Island in this worla. To this demand Don-Quixote answered. Thou must note, friend Sancho, that this adventure, and others of this kind, are not adventures of Islands, but of thwartings and high- wayes, wherein nothing else is gained but a Broken pate, or the loBse of an core. Have patience a while, for adven- tures will be offered, whereby thou shalt not only be made a govemour, but also a greater man. Sancho rendred him many thankes, and kissing his hand againe, and the skirt of his Habergeon, hee did nelpe him to get up on Rozinante, and he leapt on his Asse, and followed his Lord : who, with a swift pace, without taking leave, or speaking to those of the Coach, entred into a wood that was bora at hand. Sancho followed him as fast as his beast could trotte, but 85 CHAPTER II Of that which after befell unto Don- Quixote, when he had left the Ladleg. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. Rodnante went off so swiftly, as he perceiving he was like to be left behinde, was forced to call aloud to his Master that hee would stay for him. Which Don-Quixote did by checking Rozinante with the bridle, untill his wearied Squire did arrive, who as soone as hee came, said unto him : Me thinkes (Sir) that it will not bee amisse to retire our selves to some Church ; for according as that man is ill dight with whom you fought, I certainly perswade my selfe that they will give notice of the fact to the holy brotherhood, and they will seeke to apprehend us ; which if they doe, in good faith before wee can get out of their clawes, I feare me we shall sweate for it. Peace, quoth Don- Quixote, where hast thou ever read or seene that Knight errant that hath beene brought before the ludge, though hee committed never so many homicides and sUughtere. I know nothing of Omicilles, quoth Sancho, nor have I cared in my life for any: but well I wot, that it concemes the holy Brotherhood, to deale with such as fight in the fields, and in that other I wil not intermeddle. Then be not afraid, friend, quoth Don-Quixote, for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Caldeans, how much more out of those of the brotherhood. But tell me in very good earnest whether thou didst ever see a more valorous Knight then I am, throughout the face of the earth P Didst thou ever reade in Histories, of any other that hath, or ever had more courage in assayling, more breath in persevering, more dex- terity in offending, or more arte in overthrowing, then I ? The truth is, quoth Sancho, that I have never read any History, for I can neither read nor write, but that which I dare wager, is, that I never in my life served a bolder Master then you are, and I pray God that we pay not for this boldnes, there where I have said. That which I request you, is, that you will cure your selfe, for you loose much bloud by that eare ; and here I have linte, and a little UnguerUum Album in my Wallet. All this might be ex- cused, quoth Don-Quixote, if I had remembred to make a Violl full of the Balsamum of Fierebras, for with one drop of it we mieht spare both time, and want well all those other medicines. What Viall, and what Balsamum is that ? 86 I u] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE said Sancho Panca. It is, answered Don-Quixote, a CHAPTER Balsamum whereot I have the receit in memorV) which H one possessii^, he needes not feare death, nor ought he to Of that which thinke that he may be killed by any wound : and there- ^^^ hefell fore after I have made it, and given it unto thee, thou hast q^^^^" nothing else to doe, but when thou shalt see that in any whence battell, I be eleven in twaine (as many times it happens) had left the thou shalt take faire and softly that part of my body that Ladies, is falne to the ground, and put it up againe with great subtilty on the part that rests in the saddle, before the blood congeale, having evermore great care that thou place it just and equally ; then presently after, thou shalt give me two draughts of that Balsamum, which I have said, and thou shalt see me streight become sounder then an apple. If that be true, quoth Sancho, I doe presently here renounce the ffovemement of the Island you promised, and will de- mana nothing else in recompence of my services of you, but only the receit of this precious liquor ; for I am certaine that an ounce thereof will be worth two Reals in any place, and when I have it I should need nothing else to gaine my living easily and honestly. But let me know, is it costly in making? With lesse then three Reals, quoth Don- Quixote, a man may make three gallons of it. But I meane to teach thee greater secrets then this, and do thee greater favours also. And now let me cure my selfe, for mine eare grieves me more then I would wish. Sancho then tooke out of his Wallet his lint and oyntment to cure his Master. But when Don-Quixote saw that the Vizar of his helmet was broken, he was ready to run mad, and setting his hand to his sword, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, he said, I vow to the Creator of all things, and to the foure Grospels where they are largest written, to lead such another life as the great Marquesse of Mantua did, when he swore to revenge the death of his Nephew Valdovinos, which was, not to eate on Table-cloth, nor sport with his wife, and other things, which although I doe not now remember I give them heere for expressed, until I take complete revenge on him that hath done me this outrage. Sancho hearing this, said. You must note. Sir Don-Quixote, 87 CHAPTER II Of that which after befell unto Don- Quizote, when he had left the Ladies. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. that if the Knight hath accomplished that which you ordayned, to goe and present himselfe before my Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, then hath he fully satisfied his debt, and deserves no new Dunishment, except he commit a new fault. Thou hast spolcen wel and hit the marke right, said Don-Quixote, and therefore I disanuU the oath in that of taking any new revenge on him : but I make it, and con- firme it againe, that I wil leade the life I have said, untill I take another helmet like, or as good as this perforce from some Knight. And doe not thinke, Sancho, that I make this resolution lightly, or, as they say, with the smoke of strawes; for I have an author whom I may verie well imitate herein, for the very like in every respect past about Mambrinos Helmet, which cost Sacriphante so deerly. I would have you resigne those kind of oathes to the Divel, quoth Sancho, for they wil hurt your health, and pre- judice your conscience. K not, tell me now, I beseech you, if we shal not these many dayes encounter with any that weares a helmet, what shall we doe ? Will you accomplish the oath, in despite of all the inconveniences and discom- modities that ensue thereof? to wit, to sleepe in your clothes; not to sleepe in any dwelling, and a thousand other penitendes, which the oath of the madde old man, the Marquesse of Mantua contained, which you meane to ratifie now P Doe not you consider that armed men travel! not in any of these wayes, but Carriers and Waggoners, who not onely carie no helmets, but also for the most part never heard speake of them in their lives P Thou dost de- ceive thy selfe saying so, replied Don-Quixote, for wee shall not haunt these wayes two houres, before we shall see more armed Knishts then were at the siege of Albraca, to conquer Angelica we faire. Well then, let it be so, quoth Sancho, anal pray Grod it be&ll us well ; whom I devoutly beseech that the time may come of gayning that Island which costs me so deere, and after let me dye presently, and I care not. I have already said to thee, Sancho, (quoth his Lord) that thou shouldst not trouble thy selfe in any wise about this affaire ; for when an Hand were wanting, we have then the Kingdome of Denmarke or that of Sobradisa, which will come n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE as fit for thy purpose as a rinff to thy finger, and principally CHAPTER thou art to rejoyce, because they are on the continent. But H omitting this till his owne time, see whether thou hast Of that which any thing in thy Wallet, and let us eate it, that afterward *ft«' ^^«11 we may goe search out some Castle, wherin we may lodge ^^q^^" this night, and make the Balsamum which I have tolde thee. ^]ien he' For I vow to Grod, that this eare grieves mee marvellously, had left the I have here an Onion, replyed the Squire, a peece of Cheese Indies, and a few crustes of bread, but such grosse meates are not befitting so noble a Knight as you are. How ill dost thou understand it ? answered Don-Quixote. I let thee to under- stand, Sancho, that it is an honour for Ejiights errant, not to eat once in a moneths space; and if by chaunce they should eate, to eate onely of that which is next at hand. And this thou mightest oertainely conceive, hadst thou read so many bookes as I have done. For though I past over many, yet did I never finde recorded in any, that Knights errant did ever eate, but by meere chance and adventure, or in some costly banquets that were made for them, and all the other daies they past over with hearbes and rootes : and though it is to be understood that they coidd not live with- out meate, and supplying the other needes of nature, because they were, in efiect, men as wee are : it is likewise to bee understood, that spending the greater part of their lives in Forrests and desarts, and that too without a Cook, that their most ordinary meats were but course and rusticall, such as thou dost now offer unto mee. So that, friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee which is my pleasure, nor eoe not thou about to make a new world, or to hoist Chivalrie errant off of her hinges. Pardon me, good Sir, quoth Sancho ; for by reason I can neyther reade nor write, as I have said once before, I have not falne rightly in the rules and lawes of Knighthod ; and from henceforth my Wallet shall bee well furnished with all kindes of drie miits for you, because you are a Knight ; and for my selfe, seeing I am none, I will provide fowles and other things, that are of more substance. I say not, Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, that it is a forcible law to Knights errant, not to eate any other things then such fruits, but that their most ordinary M 89 Tat-heards that unprofitable discourse, who heard him all amazed and sus- E ended with very great attention all the while. Sancho kewise held his peace, eating Acomes, and in the meane while visited very often the second wine bagge, which because it mi^ht be fresh, lay hanged upon a Corke tree. Don-Quixote nad spent more time in his speech then in his supper; at the end whereof one of the Groat-heards said. To the end that you ma^ more assuredly know. Sir Knight Errant, that we doe mtertaine you with prompt and ready will, we will likewise make you somejpastime, by hearing one of our companions sing, who is a Heard of 94 11] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE good understanding, and very amorous withall; and can CHAPTER besides reade and write, and playes so well on a Rebecke, m that there is nothing to be desired. Scarce had the Gk>at- Of that which heard ended his speech, when the sound of the B^l'^^ke p"*J^*!^^® touched his eare, and within a while after he arrived that and^rtaiiie' played on it, being a youth of some twenty years old, and Goat-heards. one of a very good grace and countenance. His fellowes demaunded if he had supped, and answering that he had ; he which did offer the curtesie, said ; Then Anthony, thou mayst do us a pleasure by singing a little, that this Gentle- man our guest may see, that we enjoy amidst these groves and woods, those that know what musicke is : we have told him alreadv thy good qualities, and therefore we desire that thou shew them, to verifie our wordes. And therefore I desire thee by thy life, that thou wilt sit and sing the Dittie which thy Uncle the Prebendary made of thy love, and was so wel liked of in our village. I am content, quoth the Youth, and without further intreaty, sitting aowne on the truncke of a lopped Oake, he tuned his Rebecke, and after a while began with a singular good grace to sing in this manner : I know^ Olalia I thou dost me adore. Thouffh yet to me^ the same thoa hast not said : Nor shewen it once^ by one poore glaunce or more, Since love is soonest by such tongues bewrayde. Yet cause I ever held thee to be wise^ It me assures^ thou bearest me good will : And he is not unfortunate that sees How his affections are not taken ill. Yet for all this, Olalia ! tis true I by observance gather to my woe : Thy minde is firunde of braase by art undew And flint thy bosome is, though it seemes snow. And yet amidst thy rigor's Winter face And other shifts thou usest to delay mee. Sometime hope peeping out, does promise grace But woe is mee^ I feare tis to betray mee. Sweetest ! once in the bidlance of thy minde Poyse with just walghts my fiuth^ which never yet Diminisht, though di^vor it did finde ; Nor can increase more, though thou favourd'st it : 95 CHAPTER III Of that which past betweene bon-Quixote^ and certaine Goat-heards. THE FIRST PART OF THE [ur If love be courteoos^ as some men say ; Bv thy humanity^ I must coUect : My hopes^ hows ever then dost use delay> Shall reape at last^ the good I doe expect. If many services be of esteeme^ Or power to render a hard heart benigne : Such things I did for thee, as make me deeme, I have the match gainde, and thou shalt be mine. For if at any time, thou hast tane heede. Thou more then once mightst view, how I was clad. To honour thee, on Mundayes with the weede. Which wome on Sundayes, got me credit had : For love and bravery still then^elves consort. Because they both shoote ever at one end : Which made me, when I did to thee resort. Still to be neat and fine I did contend. Heere I omit the daunces I have done. And Musiques I have at thy window gnven : When thou didst at Cockcrow listen uone. And seemd'st hearing my voyce, to be in heaven. I doe not eke, the prayses here recount Which of thy beau^ I so oft have said : Which though they all were true, were likewise wont To make the envious, mee for spight upbraide. When to Teresa, shee of Berrocal, I of thy worthes discourse did sometime shape : Good God ! quoth shee, you seeme an Angels thrall. And yet for IdoU, vou adore an Ape. Shee to her bugles, tnankes may give and chaines. False haires, and other shifb tlmt she doth use. To mend her beauty, with a thousand pmies And guiles ; which might loves very selfe abuse. Wroth at her words, I gave her streig^t the lie. Which did her and her cousen so offend : As me to fight, he challengd presently. And well thou knowst of our debate the end : I meane not thee, to purchase at a clap. Nor to that end, doe I thv &vour sue : Thereby thine honour eitner to intrap. Or thee perswade, to take courses undue. The Churcn hath bands, which doe so surely hold. As no silke string for strength comes to them neere : To thrust thy necke once in the yoake be bold. And see if I to foUow thee will feare. If thou wilt not, here solemnly I vow By holliest Saint, enwrapt in precious shrine. Never to leave those hils where I dwell now. If 't be not to become a Capucine. 96 1 "] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Heere the Groat-heard ended his Ditty, and although CHAPTER Don-Quixote intreated him to sing somewhat else, vet HI would not Sancho Pan^a consent to it ; who was at that Of that which time better disposed to sleepe then to hear musicke : and E®*^ betweene therefore said to his Master, You had better provide your ^^ certSn^' selfe of a place wherein to sleepe this night, then to heare Goat-heards. musicke, for the labour that these good men indure all the day long, doth not permit that they likewise spend the night in singing. I understand thee well enough, Sancho, answered Don-Quixote, nor did I thinke lesse, but that thy manifold visitations of the wine bottle, would rather desire to be recompenced with sleepe then with musicke. The wine liked us all well, quoth Sancho : I doe not denie it, replied Don-Quixote, but goe thou, and lay thee downe where thou pleasest, for it becomes much more men of my profession to watch then to sleepe. Yet notwithstanding it will not be amisse to lay somewhat againe to mine eare ; for it grieves me very much. One of the Groat-heards beholding the hurt, biad him be of good cheere, for he would apply a remedie that should cure it easily. And taking some Rosemary leaves of many that grew there- abouts, he hewd them, and after mixed a little salt among them, and applied this medicine to the eare; he bound it up well with a cloth, assuring him that hee needed to use no other medicine, as it proved after in effect. N 97 THE FIRST PART OF THE L^ CHAPTER IIII Of that which one of the Groat-heards recounted to those that were with Don-Quixote. tIBOUT this time arrived another youth, one of those that brought them provi- sion from the Village, who said ; Com- panions, doe not you know what passeth m the Village? How can we know it being absent? sales another of them. Then wit, quoth the youth, that the fttmous Sheepheard, and Student Gri- sostome died this morning, and they murmure, that he died for love of that devillish lasse Marcela, William the rich his daughter, she that goes up and downe these pUunes and hils among us, in the habite of a Fastora. Dost thou meane Marcela? quoth one of them. Even her, I say, answered the other ; and the jest is, that he hath com- maunded in his Testament, that he be buried in the fields as if he were a Moore ; and that it be at the foote of the Rocke, where the fountaine stands of the Corke tree. For that according to &me, and as they say, he himselfe affirmed, was the place wherein he viewed her first. And he hath likewise commaunded such other things to be done, as the auncienter sort of the Village doe not allow, nor thinke fit to be performed ; for they seeme to be ceremonies of the Gentiles. To all which objections his great friend Ambrosio the Student, who likewise apparrelled himselfe like a Sheep- heard, at onee with him answers, that all shall be accom- plished, without omission of any thing, as Grisostome hath ordayned, and all the Village is in an uprore about this affaire, and yet it is said that what Ambrosio and all the other Sheepheards his friends doe pretend, shall in fine be done : and to morrow morning they will come to the place I have named, to burie him with great pompe. And n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE as I suppose, it will be a thing worthy the seeing : at least- CHAPTER wise, I will not omit to go and behold it, although I were UU sure that I could not return the same day to the Village. Of that which We will all doe the same, quoth the Groatheards, and will ^^^ of the draw lots who shall tarry here to keepe all our Heards. ^^^^^^^^IJ^ Thou sayest well, Peter, quoth one of them, although that thosethat labour may be excused ; for I meane to stay behinde for you were with all ; which you must not attribute to any vertue, or little Don-Quixote, curiosity in me, but rather to the forke that prickt my foot the other day, and makes me unable to travell from hence. We doe thanke thee notwithstanding, quoth Peter, for thy good will. And Don-Quixote, who heara all their discourse, intreated Peter to tell him who that dead man was, and what the Sheepheardesse of whom they spoke. Peter made answer, that what he knew of the affaire was, that the dead person was a rich Grentleman of a certaine Village, seated among those mountaines, who had studied many yeares in Salamanca, and after returned home to his house, with the opinion to be a very wise and learned man : but principally it was reported of him, that he was skilfuU in Astronomic, and all that which passed above in heaven, in the Sunne and the Moone ; for he would tell us most punctually the clips of the Sunne and the Moone. Friend, quoth Don-Quixote, the darkening of these two greater Luminaries, is called an Eclipse, and not a Clipse : but Peter stopping not at those trifles, did prosecute his History, saying. He did also Prognosticate when the yeare would be abundant or EstiL l^ou wouldest say Sterril, S[uoth Don-Quixote. Steril or Estil, said Peter, all is one or my purpose : and I say, that by his words, his father and his other friends, that gave credite to him, became very rich. For they did all that hee counselled them, who would say unto them : sow Barley this yeare and no Wheat. In this you may sow Pease and no Barley. The next yeare will be good for Oyle. The three ensuing you shall not gather a drop. That science is called Astrologie, quoth Don-Quixote. I know not how it is called, replied Peter ; but I know well, he knew all this and much more. Finally, a few moneths after he came from Salamanca, 99 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CEEAPTBR he appeared one day apparrelled like a Sheepheard with his mi flocke, and leather coat ; having laid aside tne long habites Of that which that hee wore, being a Scholer, and jojoitly with him came one <>J'*he ^Iso a great friend of his, and fellow Student called Am- racountodto ^"^^^^^ apparrelled like a Sheepheard. I did almost forget those that ^ tell how Grisostome the deieul man, was a great maker were with of verses ; insomuch that he made the Carrols of Christmas Don-Quixote, day at ni^ht, and the playes for Corpus Christi day, which the youthes of our Village did represent, and all of them affirmed, that they were most excellent. When those of the Village saw the two Scholers so suddenly clad like Sheepheanls, they were amazed and could not ghesse the cause that mooved them to make so wonderfull a change. And about this time Grisostomes Father died, and ne remained possessed of a great deale of goods, as well move- able as immoveable and no little quantity of cattell great and smal ; and also a great summe.of money ; of all which the youn^ man remained a dissolute Lord. And truely he deserved it all ; for hee was a good fellow, and a charitable and a friend of good folke, and he had a face like a blessing. It came at last to be understood, that the cause of changing his habite was none other, then for to goe up and downe thorow these desarts after the Pastora Marcela, whom our Heard named before ; of whom the poore dead Grisos- tome was become enamoured. And I will tell you now, because it is fit you should know it, what this wanton lasse is, perhaps, and I thinke without perhaps you have not heard the like thing in all the dayes of your life, although you had lived more yeares then Sama. Say Sarra, quoth Don-Quixote, being not able to heare him any longer to change one word for another. The Sama or scabbe, quoth Peter, lives long enough too. And if vou go thus. Sir, interrupting my tale at every pace, we shall not be able to end it m a yeare. Pardon me, friend, quoth Don-Quixote, for I speake to thee by reason there was such difierenoe betweene Sama and Sarra. But thou didst answer well; for the Sama or scabbe lives longer then Sarra. And therefore prosecute thy Historic: for I will not interrupt thee any more. I say then, deere 100 n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Sir of my soule, quoth the Groat-heard, that there was in CHAPTER our Villa^ a fanner that was yet richer then Grisostomes nil Father, who was called William, to whom fortune gave in Of that which the end of his great riches a daughter called Marcela, of ?p® ®{^5i whose birth her mother died, who was the best woman that reamnSdlbo dwelled in all this circuit. Me thinkes I doe now see her those that auicke before me, with that face, which had on the one side were with lie Sunne, and on the other the Moone, and above all, shee I>on-Quixote. was a thriftie houswife, and a great friend to the poore: For which I beleeve that her soule is this very houre enjoy- ing of the Grods in the other world. For griefe of the fosse of so good a wife, her husband WiUiam likewise died, leav- ing his daughter Marcela young and rich in the custody of his Uncle, who was a Priest, and Curate of our Village. The childe grew with such beauty, as it made us remember that of her mother, which was very great. And yet not- withstanding they judged that the daughters would surpasse hers, as ind^ it did : for when shee arrived to the age of fourteene or fifteene yeares old, no man beheld her, that did not blesse God for making her so faire : and most men remained enamoured and cast-away for her love. Her Uncle kept her with very great care and closenesse: and yet neveithelesse the fame of her great beautie did spread it selfe in such sort, that as well for it as for her ereat riches, her Uncle was not onely requested by those of our Village, but also was prayed, soUicited, and importuned by all those that dwelled many leagues about, and that by the very best of them, to give her to them in marriage. But he (who is a good Christian every inch of him) although he desired to marrie her presently as soone as she was of age, yet would he not doe it without her good will; without ever respecting the gaine and profit hee might make by the possession of her goods, whilst he desired her marriage. And in good sooth this was spoken of, to the good Priest his commendation, in more then one meeting of the people of our Village. For I would have you to wit. Sir Errant, that in these little Villages they talke of all things, and make account, as I doe, that the Priest must have beene too good, who could oblige his Parishioners to speake so well of 101 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER him, and especially in the Villages. Thou hast reason, ini quoth Don-Quixote, and therefore foUow on, for the History Of that which is very pleasant ; and thou, good Peter, dost recount it with one of the a very good grace. I pray God, said Peter, that I never ^wmted^ want our Heards ; for it is that which makes to the purpose, those that ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^ Y^^ ^^^^ understand, that although her were with Uncle propounded and told to his Niese the quality of every Don-Quixote, wooer, of the many that desired her for wife, and intreated her to marrie and chuse at her pleasure; yet would shee never answer other, but that she would not marry as then, and that in respect of her over-greene yeeres, shee did not iinde her selfe able enough yet to beare thib burden of mar- riage. With these just excuses which shee seemed to give, her Uncle left of importuning of her, and did expect untill shee were farther entred into yeares, and that she might know how to chuse one that might like her. For he was wont to say, and that very well, * That Parents were not to place or liestow their children where they bore no liking.** But see here, when wee least imagined it, the coy Marcela appeared one morning to become a Pastora, and neither her Unkle nor all those of the Village which disswaded her from it, could worke any effect, but she would needes goe to the iieldes, and keepe her owne sheepe with the other yong Lasses of the towne. And she comming thus in publike, when her beauty was scene without hinderance, I cannot pos- sibly tell unto you, how many rich youthes, as well Gentle- men as Farmers, have taken on them the habit of Grisostome, and follow wooing of her up and downe those fields. One of which, as is said already,* was our dead man, of whom it is said, that leaving to love her, he had at last made her his IdolL Nor is it to be thought that because Marcela set her selfe in that liberty, and so loose a life, and of so little or no keeping, that therefore she hath given the least token or shadow of dishonesty or negligence : nay rather, such is the watchfulnesse wherewithal! shee lookes to her honour, that among so many as serve and sollicite her, not one hath E raised or can justly vaunt himselfe to have received at her ands, the least hope that may be to obtaine his desires. For although she did not flie or shunne the company and 102 11] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE conversation of Sheepheards, and doth use them courteously CHAPTER and friendlily, whensoever any one of them begin to discover im their intention, be it ever so just and holy, as is that of Of that which Matrimony, shee casts them away from her, as with a slin^. ?P®^®{^5| And with this manner of proceeding shee does more harme m ^^^^^^3^ ^^ this countrey, then if the plague had entred into it by her those that meanes : for her affability and beauty doth draw to it hearts were with of those which do serve and love her. But her disdaine Don-Quixote, and resolution doe conduct them to termes of desperation ; and so they know not what to say unto her, but to call her with a loude voyce, cruell and ungratefuU, with other titles like unto this, which doe cleerely manifest the nature of her condition. And Sir, if you staid here but a few daies, you should heare these mountaines resound with the lamenta- tions of those wretches that foUow her. There is a certaine place not farre off, wherein are about two douzens of Beech trees, and there is not any one of them in whose rinde is not ingraven Marcelas name, and over some names graven also a crowne in the same tree, as if her lover would plainly denote that Marcela beares it away, and deserves the garland of all humane beauty. Heere sighes one Sheepheard ; there another complaines, in another place are heard amorous ditties, heere in another, doleful! and despayring laments. Some one there is that passeth over all tne whole houres of the night at the foote of an Oake or a rocke ; and without foulding once his weeping eyes, swallowed and transported by his thoughts, the Sunne finds him there in the morning. And some other there is, who without giving way or truce to his sighes, doth amidst the fervor of tiie most fastidious heate of the Summer, stretcht upon the burning sand, breathe his pittifuU complaints to heaven : and of tnis, and of him, and of those, and these, the beautifull Marcela doth indifferently and quietly triumph : all we that know her, doe await to see wherein this ner loftinesse will finish, or who shall be so happy as to gaine dominion over so terrible a condition, and enjoy so Peerelesse a beauty. And because all that I have recounted is so notorious a truth, it makes me more easily beleeve that our companion hath told, that is said of the occasion of Grisostomes death : and therefore lOS THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER I doe counsel! you, Sir, that you doe not omit to be present Iin to morrow at ms buriall, which will be worthy the seeing, for Of that which Grisostomi^ hath many friends, and the place wherein he ^®^f ^, commaunded himselfe to be buried, is not halfe a league from recounted to ^^^ce* I cloe meane to be there, said Don-Quixote, and doe those that render thee many thankes for the delight thou hast given were with me, by the relation of so pleasant a History. O, quoth the Don-Quixote. Goat-heard, I doe not yet know the halfe of the adventures succeeded to Marcelas lovers, but peradventure we may meete some Sheepheard on the way to morrow that will tell them unto us. And for the ^present, you will doe well to ffoe take your rest under some roofe, for the ayre might hurt your wound, although the medicine be such that I have applied to it, that any contrary accidents needes not much to be feared. Sancho Panca being wholly out of patience with the Goat-heards long discourse, did sollicite for nis part his Master so effectually, as he brought him at last into Peters Cabin to take his rest for that night ; whereinto after he had entred, he bestowed the remnant of the night in re- membrances of his Lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Marcelas lovers. Sancho Panfa did lay himselfe downe betweene Rozinante and his Asse, and slept it out, not like a dis-favoured lover, but like a man stamped and bruised with tramplings. 104 "] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE CHAPTER V Wherein is finished the History of the Pastora Marcela, with other accidents. UT scarce bad the day begun to discover it selfe by the Orientail windowes, when five of the sixe Goat-beards arising, went to awake Don-Quixote, and demanded of him whether he yet intended to goe to GfiisostomeB bunall, and that they would accompany him. Don -Quixote that desired nothing more, got up and commaunded Sancho to saddle and empannell in a trice; which he did with great expedition, and with the like they all presently began their journey. And they had not yet gone a quarter of a league, when at the crossing of a path- way they saw sixe Sheepheards comming towards them, apparrelled with black skins, and crowned with Garlands of Cypresse and bitter Emda campana. Every one of them caned in his hand a thick truncneon of Elme. There came likewise with them two Gentlemen a horse-backe, very well furnished for the way, with other three Lackeyes that attended on them. And as soone as they encountred, they saluted one another courteously, and demanded whither they travelled ; and knowing that they all went towards the place of the buriall, they began their journey together. One of the horee-men speaking to his companion, said, I thinke (M. Viraldo) we snail account the time well imployed that we shall stay to see this so famous an intertainment ; for it cannot chuse but be famous, according to the wonder- full things these Sheepheards have recounted unto us, as welt of the dead Sheepheard, as also of the murthering Pastora. It seemes so to me likewise, quoth Vivaldo. And I say I would not onely stay one day, but a whole weeke, rather then misse to benold it. Don-Quixote O 106 Wherein is finished the Hittory^ the Foatoi* with other eccident*. r THE FIRST PART OF THE [u-. CHAPTER demanded of them what they had heard of Marcela and V ChriBostome? The traveller answered. That they had encountred that morning with those Sheepheards, and that by reason they had seene them aftparrelled in that raoum- full attire, they demanded of them the occasion thereof, and one of them rehearsed it, recounting the strangenesse and beauty of a certaine Pastora called Marcela ; and the amorous pursuits of her by many, with the death of that Chrisostome, to whose bunall they rode. F^ally, he tolde all that againe to him, that Peter had told the night before: This discourse thus ended, another b^an, and was, that he who was called Vivaldo, demaunded of Ikm-Quixote the occasion that moved him to travell thus armed thorough so peaceable a countrey? To whom Don-Quixote answered. Hie profession of my exercise doth not license, or permit me to doe other : good dayes, cockering and ease were in- vented for soft Courtiers; but travell, unrest, and armes were on^ invented and made for those which the world termes lights Errant, of which number I my selfe (although unworthy) am one, and the least of all. Scarce had they heard him say this, when they all held him to bee wood. And to finde out the truth better, Vivaldo did aske him againe, what meant the word Knights Errant P ' Have * not you read then, quoth Don-Quixote, the Histories and * Annals of England, wherein are treated the famous actes * of King Arthur, whom we continually call in our Castilian * Romance, King Artus p of whom it is an aundent and * common tradition in the Kingdome of Great Brittaine that * hee never died, but that he was turned by art of inchant- * ment into a Crow, and that in processe of time bee shall * retume againe to raigne, and recover his Scepter and ' Kingdome. For which reason, it cannot bee proved that * ever since that time untill this, any Englishman hath killed ' a Crow. In this good Kings time was first instituted the ' fomous order of Knighthood of the Knights of the Bound ' Table, and the love that is there recounted, did in every ' respect passe as it is laid downe betweene Sir Launcelot ' du Lake, and Queene Genever, the honourable Ladie 106 n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Quintaniona being a dealer, and privie therto. Whence CHAPTER sprung that so famous a Dittie, and so celebrated here in V Spaine, of, **" Never was Knight of Ladies so well served, as Wherein is Launcelot, when that he in Britanie arrived,'* etc. With finished the that progresse so sweet and delightful! of his amorous and ^^^^tton valiant actes : and from that time forward the order of Marcek Knight went fix>m hand to hand, dilating and spreading it with other selfe through many and sundry parts of the worla : and in it accidents, were famous and renouned for their feats of armes, the valiant Amadis of Gaule, with all his progenie untill the fift generation : and the valorous Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never-duely praysed Tirante the White, together with Sir Bevis of Hampton, Sir Guy of Warwicke, Sir Eglemore, with divers others of that nation and age. And almost in our dayes we saw, and communed, and heard of the invincible, and valiant Knight Don Belianis of Greece. This then, good Sirs, is to be a Knieht Errant, and that which I have said, is the order of Chivalry : wherein, as I have already said, I (although a sinner) have made profession, and the same doe I professe, that those Knights professed, whom I have above mentioned; and therefore I travell thorough these solitudes and desarts, seeking adventures, with fiul resolution to offer mine owne arme and person to the most dangerous that fortune shall present, in the aide of weake and needy persons.^ By these reasons of Don-Quixotes the travellers perfectly perceived that he was none of the wisest, and knew the icinde of folly wherewithall he was crossed, whereat those remained wonderfully admired, that by the relation of the others came to understand it : and Vivaldo who was very discreete, and likewise of a pleasant disposition, to the end they might passe over the rest of the way without heavi- nesse, unto tne rocke of the buriall, which the Sheepheards said was neere at hand, hee resolved to give him further occasion to passe onward with his follies, and therefore said unto him: Me thinkes. Sir Knight, that you have profest one of the most austere professions in the world : And I doe constantly hold, that even that of the Charter- house Monkes is not neere so straight. *' It may bee as 107 CHAPTER V Wherein is finished the History of the Pastora Marcela, with other accidents. THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. straight as our profession, quoth Don-Quixote, but that it should be so necessary for the world, I am within the breadth of two fingers to call it in doubt. For if wee would speake a truth, the souldier that puts in execution his Captaines commaund, doth no lesse then the very Captaine that commaundb him. Hence I inferre, that reUgious men doe with all peace and quietnesse seeke of heaven the good of the earth : but souldiers and we Knights doe put in execution that which they demand, defending it with the valour of our armes, and files of our swords : not under any roofe, but under the wide heavens, made as it were in Summer a marke to the insupportable Sunne-beames, and in Winter to the rage of withering frosts. So that wee are the ministers of Grod on earth, and the armes wherewith he executeth here his justice. And as the affaires of warre and things thereunto pertayning, cannot bee put in execution, without sweate, labour and travell ; it followes, that those which professe warfare, take questionlesse greater paine, then those which in quiet peace and rest doe pray unto Grod, that he will favour, and assist those that neede it. I meane not therefore to affirme, nor doth it once passe through my thought, that the state of a Knight Errant is as perfect as triat of a retyred religious man, but onely would inferre through that which I my selfe suffer, that it is doubtlesly more laborious, more battered, hungry, thirsty, miserable, tome and lowsie. For the Knights Errant of times past did, without al doubt, suffer much woe and miserie in the dis- course of their life. And if some of them ascended at last to Empires, won by the force of their armes, in faith it cost them a great part of their sweate and bloud : and if those which mounted to so high a degree, had wanted those inchanters and wisemen that assisted them, they would have remained much defrauded of their desires, and greatly deceived of their hopes."^ I am of the same opinion, replied the Traveller : but one thing among many others hath seemed to me very ill in Ejiights Errant, which is, when they perceive themselves in any occasion to begin any great and oangerous adventure : in which appeares manifest 108 11] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE perill of losing their lives, they never in the instant of CHAPTER attempting it, remember to commend themselves to God, as ^ every Christian is bound to doe in like dangers, but rather Wherein is doe it to their Ladies with so great desire and devotion as if 5?.|^®^ ^® they were their Grod ; a thing which in mine opinion smelles ^^ p^ton of gentility. 'Sir, quoth Don-Quixote, they can doe no Marcela, ' lesse in any wise, and the Knight Errant which did any with other other, would digresse much fix)m his duety. For now it is wcidents. a received use and custome of Errant Chivalry, that the Knight adventurous, who attempting of any great feate of armes shall have his Lady in place, do mildely and amorously tume his eyes towards her, as it were by them demaunding that she doe favour and protect him in that ambiguous traunce which he undertakes ; and moreover, if none doe heare him, hee is bound to say certaine words betweene his teeth, by which he shall with all his heart commend him- selfe to her : and of this we have innumerable examples in Histories. Nor is it therefore to be understood, tnat they doe omit to commend themselves to God, for they have time and leisure enough to doe it, in the progresse of the worke.^ For all that, replied the traveller, there remaines in me yet one scruple, which is, that oftentimes, as I have read, some speech begins betweene two Ejiights Errant, and from one word to another their choler begins to be inflamed, and they to tume their horses, and to take up a good piece of the field, and without any more adoe to runne as fast as ever they can drive to incounter againe; and in the midst of their race, doe commend themselves to their dames, and that which commonly ensues of this incountring is, that one of them fals downe throwne over the crouper of his horse, past thorow and thorow by his enemies Launce, and it befals the other, that if hee had not caught fast of his horse mane, he had likewise falne. And here I cannot perceive, how hee that is slaJne had any leisure to commend himselfe unto God in the discourse of this so accelerate and hasty a worke. Me thinkes it were better that those words which he spent in his race on his Lady, were bestowed as they ought, and as every Christian is bound to bestow them. And the rather, 109 CHAPTER V Wherein is finished the History of thePaston Marcels, with other accidents. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. because I conjecture, that all Knights Errant have not Ladies to whom they may commend themselves ; for all of them are not amorous. ^ That cannot be, answered Don-Quixote, I say it cannot ^ be that there ^s any Knight Errant without a liady ; for it ^ is as proper and essentiall to such to be enamored, as to ^ heaven to have starres : and I dare warrant that no His- ' tory hath yet bin seene, wherein is found a Knight Errant ^ without loves : for by the very reason that hee were found ^ without them, he would be convinced to be no legitimate ^ Knight, but a bastard, and that he entred into the For- ' tresse of Chivalrie, not by the gate, but by leaping over ^ the Staccado like a robber and a thiefe.'* Yet notwithstanding, replied the other, I have read (if I doe not forget my selfe) tnat Don Galaor, brother to the valorous Amadis ae Gaule, had never any certaine Mistresse, to whom he might commend himselfe ; and yet for all that, he was nothing lesse accounted of, and was a most valiant and famous !&iight. To that objection our Don-Quixote answered, one Swallow makes not a Summer. How much more that I know, that the Knight whom you alledge, was secretly verv much enamoured : besides that, that his in- clination of lovinff all Ladies well, which he thought were fiure, was a natursul inclination, which he could not goveme so well. But it is in conclusion sufSciently verified, that yet he had one Lady whom he crowned Queene of his will, to whom he did also commend himselfe very often and secretly, for he did not a little glory to be so secret in his loves. Then Sir, if it be of the essence of all Knights Errant to be in love, quoth the traveller, then may it likewise be pre- sumed that you are also enamoured, seeing that is annext to the profession ? And if you doe not prize your selfe to be as secret as Don Gralaor, I doe intreate you as earnestly as I may, in all this companies name and mine owne, that it will please you to tell us the name, countrey, quality and beauty of your Ladie ; for I am sure shee would account her sel/e happy, to thinke that all the world doth know shee is beloved and served by so worthy a Knight as is your self. Here "] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Don-Quixote breathing forth a deepe sigh, said, ^ I cl^lnot CHAPTER affirme whether my sweet enemy delight or no, that the V world know how much she is beloved, or that I serve Wherein is her. Onely I dare avouch (answering to that which you fijushed the so courteously demaunded) that her name is Dulcinea, her Se pStoni countrey Toboso, a Village of Mancha : her calling must Marcela be at least of a Princesse, seeing she is my Queene and with other Lady, her beauty soveraigne; for in her are verified and accidents, give glorious lustre to all those impossible and Chimericall attributes of beauty, that Poets give to their Maystresses : that her haires are golde, her forehead the Elisian fields, her browes the Arkes of heaven, her eyes Sunnes, her cheekes Roses, her lips currall, her teeth Pearles, her necke Alabaster, her bosome Marble, Ivorie her hands, and her whitenesse Snow, and the parts which modesty conceales from humane sight, such as I thinke and understand, that the discreete consideration may prize, but never be able to equalize them. Her linage, progeny, and pedegree wee desire to know likewise, quoth Vivaldo. To which Don- Quixote answered. She is not of the ancient Romane Curcios, Cayos, or Scipios, nor of the modeme Colomnas or Ursinos, nor of the Moncadas or Requesenes of Cata- luna, and much lesse of the Rebelias and Villanovas of Valencia, Palafoxes, Nu^as, Rocabertis, Corelias, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes and Gurreas of Aragon, Cerdas, Mannquez, Mendo9as, and Guzmanes of Castile, Lancasters, Palias and Meneses of Portugal; but she is of those of Toboso of the Mancha; a linage, which though it be modeme, is such as may give a generous beginning to the most Noble families of ensuing ages. Ana let none contradict me in this, if it be not with those conditions that Cerbino put at the foote of Orlandos armour, to wit : Let none from hence presume these armes at all to move^ But he that with Orlando dares his force to prove. Although my linage be of the Cachopines of Laredo, replied the traveller, yet dare I not to compare it with that of Toboso in the Mancha, although to speake sincerely, I never heard any mention of that linage you say, untill now. Ill THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER What, quoth Don-Quixote, is it possible that you never V heard of it till now ? Wherein is All the company travelled, giving marvellous attention to foiished the the reasons of those two ; and even the very Groatheards and ^ePastora Sheepeheards began to perceive the great want of judge- Marcela, ment that was m Don-Quixote: onely Sancho Pan9a did with other verily beleeve, that all his Masters words were most true, as accidents. one that knew what he was, from the very time of his birth. But that wherein his beleefe staggered somewhat, was of the beautifull Dulcinea of Totoso ; for he had never heard speake in his life before of such a name, or Princesse, although he had dwelled so many yeares hard by Toboso. And as they travelled in these discourses, they beheld disoending betwixt the dift of two loftie mountaines, to the number of twenty Sheepheards, all apparelled in skinnes of blacke wooll, and crowned with garUuids ; which as they perceived afterward, were all of Ewe and Cipresse ; sixe of them carried a Beare, covered with many sorts of flowers and boughes. Which one of the Groatheards espying, hee said, those that come there, are they which bring Grisostoms body, and the foot of that mountaine is the place where he hath commaunded them to burie him. These words were occasion to make them haste to arrive in time ; which they did just about the instant that the others had laid downe the corpes on the ground : and foure of them with sharpe pickaxes, did digge the grave at the side of a hard rocke. The one and the others saluted themselves very courteously : and then Don-Quixote, and such as came with him, beganne to behold the Beare, wherein they saw laid a dead body all covered with flowers, and apparrelled like a Sheepheard, of some thirtie years old ; and his dead countenance shewed that he was very beautifull, and an able-bodied man. He had placed round about him in the Beare certaine bookes, and many papers, some open and some shut, and all together, as well those that beheld this, as they which made the grave, and all the others that were present kept a marvellous silence, untill one of them which had carried the dead man, said to another, See well, Ambrosio, whether 118 n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE this bee the place that Grisostome said, seeing that thou CHAPTER wouldest have all so punctually observed, which hee com- V manded in his Testament ? This is it, answered Ambrosio : Wherein is for many times my unfortunate friend recounted to me finished the in it the History of his mishaps : even there he told me Uj^^tora that he had scene that cruell enemy of mankinde first ; and Marcela, there it was, wher he first broke his affection too, as honest with other as they were amorous : and there was the last time, wherein Accidents. Marcela did end to resolve, and beran to disdaine him, in such sort as she set end to the Tragedie of his miserable life. And here in memory of so many misfortunes, he commaunded himselfe to be committed to the bowels of etemall oblivion : and converting himselfe to Don-Quixote, and to the other travellers he said : This body. Sirs, which you do now behold with pitifull eyes, was the treasury of a soule, wherein heaven had hourded up an infinite part of his treasures. This is the body of Grisostome, wno was peerelesse in wit, without fellow for courtesie, rare for comelinesse, a Phsenix for friendship, magnificent without measure, grave without presumption, pleasant without offence ; and finally the first m all tnat which is good, and second to none in all unfortunate mischances. £fe loved well, and was hated ; he adored and was disdained ; hee prayed to one no lesse savage then a beast; he importuned a heart as hard as Marble; he pursued the winde, he cried to desarts, he served ingratitude, and hee obtayned for reward the spoyles of death m the midst of the Cariere of his life : to which a Sheepheardesse hath given end, whom he laboured to eter- nize, to the end shee might ever live in the memories of men : as those papers which you see there might very well prove, had he not commanded mee to sacrifice them to the nre, as soone as his body was rendred to the earth. If you did so, quoth Vivaldo, you would use greater rigour and crueltie towards them then their very Lord, nor is it discreete or iustly done, that his will bee accom- Slished, who commands any thing repugnant to reason* For should Augustus Csesar himselfe have gained the repu- tation of wiseoome, if he had permitted that to bee put in execution, which the divine Mantuan had by his will P 118 CHAPTER V Wherein is finished the History of the Pastora Mftrcela^ with other accidents. THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. ordeined. So that. Seignior Ambrosio, now that you commit your friends body to the earth, do not therefore commit his labour to obkvion : for though hee ordeined it as one injured, yet are not you to accomplish it, as one void of discretion : but rather cause, by giving life to these Papers, that the crueltie of Marcela may live eternally, that it may serve as a document to those that shall breathe in insuing i^es, how they may avoid and shunne the like downefals : K>r both my selfe and all those that come here in my companie, doe already know the Historic of your enamoured and despairing friend, the occasion of his death, and what he commaunded eare hee deceased. Out of which lamentable relation may be collected, how great hath beene the crueltie of Marcela, the love of Grisostome, the faith of your affection, and the conclusion which those make, which doe rashly runne through that way, which indis- creete love doeth present to their view. Wee understood yesternight of Gnsostomes death, and that he should be entred in this place, and therefore wee omitted our intended joumyes, both for curiositie and pitie, and resolved to come and behold with our eyes that, the relation whereof did so much grieve us in the hearing ; and therefore we desire thee (discreete Ambrosio)both in reward of this our compassion, and also of the desire which springs in our brests, to remedie this disaster if it were possible ; but chiefly I for my part request thee, that omitting to bume these Papers, tnou wilt licence mee to take away some of them. And saying so, without expecting the Shepheards answere, hee stretched out his hano, and tooke some of them that were next to him. Which Ambrosio perceiving, said, I will consent. Sir, for courtesies sake, that you remaine Lord of those which you have ceased upon, but to imagine that I would omit to bume these that rest, were a very vaine thought. Vivaldo, who did long to see what the papers contained which he had gotten, did unfould presently one of them, which had this title, A DiUy qf dispaire. Ambrosio overheard him, and said : That is the last paper which this unfortunate Sheepheard wrote, and because. Sir, that you may see the 114 % II] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE termes to which his mis-haps conducted him, I pray you CHAPTER to read it, but in such manner as you may be heurd; ^ for you shall have leisure enough to doe it whilst the Wherein is grave is a digging. I will doe it with all my heart, ^!i^®* ^^ replied Vivaldo: and all those that were present, theP^toim having the like desire to heare it, they gathered Maroelay about him, and he reading it with a cleere with other voyce, pronounced it thus : scddents. CHAPTER VI Wherein are rehearsed the dispayring Verses of the dead Sheepheard, with other unexpected accidents. The Canzone of Chryeosiome. 1 SiNOi craell thou (I publish) dost desire^ From tongue to tonfue^ and th' one to th' other pole. The efficacy of thy ngor sharpe I 'le hell constrain t' assist my soules desire. And in my brest infuse a tune of dole, Wheron my voice, as it is wont may harpe. And labour as I wish, at once to carpe. And tell my sorrowes and thy murdiing deedes : The dreadfull voyce and accent shall agree. And wiUi them meete for greater torture bee, Lumpes of my wretched bowels, which still bleedes. Then listen, and lend once attentive eare. Not well consorted tunes, but howling t' heare. That from my bitter bosoms depth takes flight: And by constrayned raving borne away, Issues forth for mine ease and thy despight. 2 The lions roarinff and the dreadfull howles Of ravening Wolfe ; and hissing terrible Of squamy Serpent : and the fearefull bleate Of some sad monster : of foretelling fbules. The Pies crackling, and rumor horrible Of the contending winde. as it doth beate 116 CflAPTBR VI Wherein reheanedthe di8pe3niiig Verses of the dead Sheep- heard, wilA other on- - expected aoddents. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. The Sea : and imidacahle bellowing, yet Of vanamsht Bull : and of the Turtle sole The feeling mourning, and the dolefull song Of th' envious Owle, with the dvre plaints among. Of all th' infemall Squadron fuU or dole, Sallie with my lamenting soule around. All mixed wiu so strange unusuall sound. As all the senses may confounded bee. For my fierce torments a new way exact. Wherein I may account my miserie. 3 The dolefull ^echoes of so great confusion. Shall not resound o're father Tagus sands. Nor touch the Olive-watring Betis eares. Of my dyre pangs I le onely make effusion 'Mongst those steepe rocks, and hollow bottom lands. With mortified tongue, but living teares. Sometimes in hidden dales where nought appeares. Or in unhaunted playnes free frt>m accesse : Or where the Sunne could ne're intrude a beame. Amidst the venomous crue of beasts uncleane. Whose wants with bountie, the hee plaines redresse. For though among those vast and desart downes The hollow Eccho indistinctly sounds Thy matchlesse rigor, and my cruell paine. Yet bv the priviledge of my niggard mtes. It will their force throughout xne world prodaime. 4 A disdaine kils ; and patience runs a-ground. By a suspicion eyther fiEdse or true : But jealousie with greater ri^ur sleese, A prolixe absence doth our life confound. Against feare of oblivion to insue, Firme hope of best successe, gives little ease. Inevitable death lurkes in all these. But I (O unseene miracle) doe still live lealous, absent, disdain'd, and certaine too Of the suspicions that my life undoo, Drown'd in oblivion which my fire revives. And amongst all those paines I never scope Got, to behold the shadow once of hope : Nor thus despaired, would I it allow. But cause I may more aggravate my moanes. To live ever without it, here I vow. 5 Can hope and fieare at once in one consLst ? Or is it reason that it should be so ? Seing the cause more certayne is of feare. If before me dyre lealousie exist. Shall I deflect mine eves ? since it will show It selfe by a thousand wounds in my soule there. 116 1 n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Or who will not the gates nnto despaire CHAPTER Wide open set, after that he hath spide VI Murdring disdaine ? and noted each suspicion. Wherein are To seeming truths transfbrmde. O sowre oonyenion ! ~»i,MMmi ♦i.a Whilst Ventie by fiOshood is bdide ? diswmSff IVrant of Loves state, fierce lealousie, Venes^^e With craell chaines these hands together tie, ^^^ Sheeo- With stubbome cords couple them, rough disdains. heard imL But, woe is mee, with bloudy victory, other un- Your memory is by my sufferance slaine. eznected* 6 I die in fine, and cause I le not expect acri^^ote. In death or life for the least good suoceve, mxiumjM. 1 obstinate will rest in Fantasie. And say he doth well, that does affiect, And eke the soule most libertie possesse. That is most thrall to loves old lyrannie. And will affirme mine ever enemie. In her fidre shrine^ a fajrrer soule containes : And her oblivion nrom my fault to sprint. And to excuse her wrongs will witnesse bring. That love by her in peace his state maintaines. And with a hard knot and this strange opinion, I will accelerate the wretched summon. To which guided I am by her scomes rife. And offer to the ayre body and soule. Without hope or reward of future life. 7 Thou that bv multipljring wrongs dost show. The reason tordng me t' use violence Unto this loathsome life, growne to me hatefuU, Since now by signes notorious thou mayst know From my hearts deepest wound ; how willingly sense Doth sacrifice me to thy scomes ungratefulL If my deserts have seem'd to thee so bootefull. As tny faire eyes cleere heaven should be orecast. And clouded at my death : yet doe not so. For I 'le no recompence take for the woe. By which, of mv soules spoyles possest thou wast ; But rather laughinf^ at my funerals sad. Shew how mine end begins to make thee glad. But tis a foUy to advise thee this : For I know in my deaths acceleration Consists thy glone, and thy chiefest blisse. 8 Let Tantalus firom the profoundest deepes. Come, for it is high time now, with his thirst : And Sisifus with his oppressing stone. Let Ticius bring his Raven that never sleepes. And Ldon make no stay with wheele accurst. Nor the three Sisters ever labouring on. 117 CHAPTER VI Wherein are reheanedthe diflpayriii^ Verses of the dead Sheep- heard^ witn other un- expected accidents. THE FIRST PART OF THE ["b. And let them all at once their mortall moane. Translate into my brest^ and lovely sounds (If it may be a debt due to dispaire) And chaunt sad obsequies with dolefull ayre. Over a corse unworthy of the ground^ And the threefius'd inramall porter grimme. With thousand Monsters, and ChymsBras dimme. Hellish the dolorous descant out amaine : For greater Pompe then this I thinks not fit That any dying lOver should obtains. 9 Despaynng Cimsone, doe not thou complaine. When thou my sad sodetie shalt refiraine : But ratiier since the cause whence thou didst spring. By my misfortune growes more fortunate. Even in the grave, thou must shunne sorrowing. Grisostomes Canzone liked wonderfully all the hearers, although the reader thereof affirmed, that it was not con- formaUe to the relation that hee had receyved of Marcelas vertue and care of her selfe. For in it Grisostome did complayne of jealousies, suspicions and absence, being all of them things that did prejudice Marcelas good fame. To this objection Ambrosio answered (as one that knew very well the most hidden secrets of his friend) you must under- stand, Sir, to the end you may beter satisfie your owne doubt, that when the unfortunate Sheepheard wrote that Canzone, hee was absent from Marcela ; from whose jpre- sence he had wittingly withdrawn himselfe, to see if he could de£Eu;e some paxt of his excessive passions, procured by absence. And as every thing doth vexe an absent Lover, and every feare afflict him; so was Grisostome likewise tormentea by imagined jealousies, and feared suspicions, as much as if they were reall and true. And with this remaynes the truth in her perfection and point of Marcelas vertue, who excepting that she is crueU, and somewhat arrogant, and very disdainefull, very envy it selfe neyther ought nor can attaynt her of the least defect. You have reason (quoth Vivaldo,) and so desiring to read another paper, he was interrupted by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly offered it selfe to their view : Which was, that on the top of the rocke wherein they made the grave, appeared the Sneepheardesse Marcela, so fayre, 118 ^ ?. u] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE that her beautie surpassed farre the fame that was spread CHAPTER thereof; such as haa not beheld her before, did looke on ^ her then with admiration and silence: and those which Wherein are were wont to view her, remained no lesse suspended then rehearsed the the others, which never had seene her. But scarce had Vera^nJie Ambrosio eyed her, when with an irefull and disdayning dead Sheep- mind he spake these words : Com^st thou by chance, O heard, with fierce Basiliske of these mountaines, to see whether the ^^^^ '^^- wounds of this wretch will yet bleed at thy presence ? Or ^^^^^ dost thou come to insult and vaunt in the Tragicall feats of thy steme nature ? Or to behold from that height, like another merdles Nero, the fire of inflamed Rome? Or arrogantly to trample this infortunate Carkasse, as the ingratefuU daughter did her father Tarquines? Tell us uickly, why thou commest ? or what thou dost most desire ? or seeing I know that Grisostomes thoughts never dis- obeyed thee in life, I will likewise cause that all those his friends shall serve and reverence thee. 'I come not here, good Ambrosio, to any of those ends thou sayest, quoth Marcela, but onely to tume for mine honour, and give the world to understand how little reason have all those which make me the authour eyther of their owne paines, or of Grisostomes death ; and therefore I desire all you that bee here present, to lend attention unto me ; for I meane not to spend much time or words, to per- swade to the discreet, so manifest a truth. Heaven, as you say, hath made me beautifull, and that so much that my feature moves you to love, almost whether you will or no. And for the affection you shew unto me, you say, I and you afSrme that I ought to love you agame : I know by the naturall instinct that love hath bestowed on me, that each faire thine is amiable : but I cannot conceive, why for the reason of being beloved, the partie that is so beloved for her beautie, should be bound to love her lover, although he be foule. And seeing that foule things are worthie of hate, it is a bad argument to say, I love thee because faire ; therefore thou must afiect mee, although uncomely. But set the case that the beauties occurre equall on both sides, it followes not therefore that their desires should runne 119 CHAPTER VI Wherein are rehearsed the dispayring Verses of the dead Sheep- heard^ with other un- expected accidents. THE FIRST PART OF THE ["b. one way. For all beauties doe not enamour, for some doe onely aelight the sight, and subject not the will; for if all beauties did enamour and subject together, mens wik would ever runne confused and straying, without beeing able to make any election; for the beautifuU subjects being infinite, the desires must also perforce be infinite : and as I have heard, true love brookes no division, and must needs be voluntary, and not inforced. Which being so, as I presume it is, why would you have me subject my will forcibly, without any other obligation then that, that you say you love me? If not, tell me, if heaven had made me foule, as it hath made me beautifull, could I justly complaine of you because you affected mee not ? How much more, seeing you ought to consider, that I did not chuse the beautie I have: for such as it is, heaven bestowed it gratis, without my demaunding or electing it. And even as the Viper deserves no blame for the poyson shee caries, although therewithall shee kill, seeing it was bestowed on her by nature, so doe I as little merit to be reprehended because beautifull; for beautie in an honest woman, is like fire a farre off, or a sharp edged sword ; for neyther that bumes, nor this cuttes any but such as come neere them. Honour and vertues are the ornaments of the soule, without which, the fairest body is not to be esteemed such. And if that honesty be one of the vertues that adometh and beautifies most the bodie and soule, why should shee that is beloved because faire, adventure the losse thereof, to answer his intention, which onely for his pleasures sake labours that she may lose it witn all his force and industry? I was borne free, and because I might live freely, I made election of the solitude of the fields. The trees of these mountaines are my companions, the deare water of these streames my mirrours. With the trees and waters I communicate my thoughts and beauty : I am a parted fire, and a sword laid aloo&. Those whom I have enamoured with my sight, I have undeceyved with my wordes. And if desires be sustained by hopes, I never having given any to Grisostome or to any other, it may well be said that he was rather slaine by his owne obsti- 120 n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE nacie, then by my cruelty : and if I be charged that his CHAPTER thoughts were honest, and that I was therefore obliged to ^^ answere unto them, I say, that when in that yeiy place Wherein are where you make lus Sepulchre, he first broke his mind rohearsedthe unto mee: I told him that mine intention was to live y^^^^^e in perpetuall solitude, and that onely the earth should dead Sheep- gather the fruits of my solitarinesse, and the spoyles of heard^ with my beautie ; and if hee would after this my resolution ^^^^ ^' persist obstinately without all hope, and saile against ^^^^ the wind, what wonder is it that he should bee drowned in the midst of the gulfe of his rashnesse ? If I had inter- tained him, then were I false : if I had pleased him, then should I doe against my better purposes and projects. He strived, being perswaaed to the contrary : he oispaired e^re he was hated. See then if it bee reason that I beare the blame of his torment ? Let him complaine who hath beene deceived ; let him dispaire, to whom his promised hopes have failed ; let him confesse it, whom I snail ever call ; let him vaunt, whom I shall admit* But let him not call me cruell or an homicide, whom I never promised, deceived, called or admitted. Heaven hath not yet or- dained that I should love by destiny, and to thinke that I would doe it by election may be excused. And let this generall caveat serve every one of those which sollicite me for his particular benefite: and let it be known, that if any shall hereafter die for my love, that hee dies not jealous or unfortunate : for whosoever loves not any, breedes not in reason jealousie in any, nor should any re- solutions to any be accounted disdaymngs. He that oodles me a savage, and Basiliske, let him shunne me as a hurt- full and prejudiciall thing: he that calls me ungratefull, let him not serve me : he that^s strange, let him not know me : he that^s cruell, let him not follow me : for this savage, this Basiliske, this ingrate, this cruell and strange one, will neither seeke, serve, know, or pursue any of them. For if Grisostomes impatience and nead-lonff desire slew him, why should mine nonest proceeding ana care be in- culped therewithall ? if I preserve mine integritie in the society of these trees, why would any desire me to lose it, Q 181 CHAPTER VI Wherein are reheanedthe dispayring Verses of the dead Sheep- heard^ witn other un- expected accidents. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. * seeing eveiy one covets to have the like himselfe, to con- ' verse the better among men ? I have, as you all know, * riches enough of mine owne, and therefore doe not covet ' other mens. I have a firee condition, and I doe not please ' to subject me. Neyther doe I love or hate any. I do ' not deceive this man, or sollicite that other ; nor doe I Mest with one, and passe the time with another. The * honest conversation of the Pastoras of these Villages, and ^ the care of my Goats doe intertaine me. My desires are * limited by these mountaines, and if they doe issue from ' hence, it is to contemplate the beauty of Heaven, steps ' wherewithal the soule travels towards her first dwelling.'* And endine here, without desiring to heare any answer, she turned ner back, and entred into the thickest part of the wood, that was there at hand, leaving all those that were present, marvellously admired at her beautie and dis- cretion. Some of the Sheepheards present, that were wounded by the powerfull beames of her beautifull eyes, made proffer to pursue her, without reaping any profite out of her manifest resolution made there in their hearing ; which Don-Quixote noting, and thinking that the use of this Chivalry did jump fitly with that occasion, by succouring distressed damzels ; lajring hand on the pommell of his sword, he said in loud and intelli^ble words : ' Let no person of whatsoever state * or condition he be, presume to follow the faire Maroela, ^ under paine of falling into my furious indignation. She ^ hath snewne by cleere and sufficient reasons, the little or * no fault she had in Grisostomes death, and how far she ^ lives from meaning to condiscend to the desires of any * of her lovers ; for which respect it is just, that in stead * of beinff pursued and persecuted, she be honoured and * esteemed by all the good men of the world ; for she shewes * in it, that it is onebr she alone, that lives therein with * honest intention.^ Now whether it was through Don- Quixotes menaces, or whether because Ambrosio requested them to conclude with the obligation they ought to their ffood friend ; none of the Sheepheards moved or departed from thence, untill the grave being made, and Grisostomes 122 n] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE papers burned, they laid the body into it, with many teares CHAPTER of the beholders. They shut the Sepulchre with a great ^^ stone, untill a monument were wrought, which Ambrosio Wherein are said he went to have made, with an Epitaph to this sense : ^i?®^^^* Heere of a loving Swaine Y^'^v ^ ^* The Proien Carkasse Uea : J^^i.^tSC Who was a Heard likewise, *»2?^> ^*^ And died through disdaine. ®!l^^" Sterne rigour hath him slaine, expectea Of a «?y, faire, in«ate, accidents. By whom love do1& dilate Her Tjrrannie amaine. They presently strowed on the grave many flowers and bou^hes, and every one condoling a while with his friend Ambrosio, did afterward bid him farewell and departed. The like did Vivaldo and his companion : and Don-Quixote bidding his hoste and the travellers adieu, they requested him to come with them to Sivill, because it was a place so fit for the finding of adventures, as in every streete and comer of it, are offered more then in any other place what- soever. Don-Quixote rendred them thankes for tneir advice, and the good will they seemed to have to eratifie him, and said, he neyther ought, nor would goe to Sivul, untill hee had freed all tiiose mountaines of theeves and robbers, whereof as fame ranne, they were fulL The travellers perceiving his good intention, would not importune him more, but biddmg him againe farewell, they departed, and followed on their journey : In which they wanted not matter of dis- course, as well of the History of Marcela and Grisostome, as of the follies of Don-Quixote ; who determined to goe in the search of the Fastora Marcela, and offer unto her all that he was able to doe in her service. But it be- fell him not as he thought, as shall be rehearsed in the discourse of this true Historie, giving end heere to the second Fart 1S8 THE THIRD BOOKE y^ CHAPTER I Wherein is rehearsed the unfortunate adventure hapned to Don-Quixote, by encountring with certune Yanguesian Carriers. HE wise Cid Homete Venengeli recounteth, that aa aoone as Don-Quixote had taken leave of the Goatlieards his hostes the night before, and of all those that were present at the buriall of the Sheepheard GnBostome, he and his Squire did pre- sentlv enter into the same wood, into H-hich they had seene the beautifull Sheepheardesse Marcela enter before. And having travelled in it about the space of two houres, without findine of her, they arrived in fine to a pleasant meadow, inri(£ed with abundance of flourishing grasse, neere unto which runnes a deliffhtfull and refreshing streame, which did invite, yea con- straine them thereby to passe over the heat of the day, which did then beginne to enter with great fervour and vehemencie. Don-Quixote and Sancho alighted, and leaving the Asae and Rozinante to the spaciousnesse of these plaines, to feed on the plenty of grasse that was there, they ransackt their Wallet, where without any ceremony the Master and man did eate, with good accord and fellowship, what they found therein. Sancho had neglected to tie Rozinante sure, that be knew him to be so sober and little wanton, as all the 134 HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Mares of the Stood of Cordova could not make him to CHAPTER thinke the least sinister thought. But fortune did ordaine, ^ or rather the Divell who sleepes not at all houres, that a Wherein is troupe of Gralidan Mares belonirinir to oertaine Yaniruesian rehearsed the Can$ers, did feede up and dowiTe ii the same valley f which l^f^** Carriers are wont with their beasts to passe over the heats hapned to in places situated neere unto grasse and water. And that Don-Quixote^ wherein Don-Quixote hapned to be, was very fit for their ^7 encoun- purpose. It therefore befell, that Rozinante tooke a cer- ^^rtwne taine desire to sollace himselfe with the Ladie Mares, and Yanguesian therefore as soone as he had smelt them, abandoning his Curnen. naturall pace and custome, without taking leave of his Master, he began a little swift trot, and went to com- municate his necessities to them. But they, who as it seemed, had more desire to feed, then to sollace them, enter- tained him with their heeles and teeth in such sort, as they broke all his girts, and left him in his naked haire, having overthrowne the Saddle. But that which surely grieved him most was, that the Carriers perceiving the violence that was offered by him to their Mares, repaired presently to their succours, with clubs and trunchions, ana did so be- labour him, as they fairely laid him along. Now in this season Don-Quixote and Smcho (which beheld the bombast- ing of Rozinante) approached breathlesse, and Don-Quixote said to Sancho ; for as much as I can perceive, friend Sancho, these men are no Knights, but base rascally people of vile Quality: I say it, because thou mayest helpe me to take due revenge, lor the outrage which they have done before our faces to Rozinante. What a Divell, quoth Sancho, what revenge should we take, if these be more then twentie, and we but two, and peradventure but one and a halfe P I am worth a hundred, replied Don-Quixote: and without making any longer discourse, hee set hand to his sword, and flew upon the Yanguesians : and Sancho Panfa, mooved by his Lords example, did the like, when with the first blow Don- Quixote piercing a buffe coate that one of them wore, wounded nim grievously in the showlder. The Yanguesians seeing themselves so rudely handled by two men onely, they being so many, ran to the stakes and trunchions of their 125 THE FIRST PART OF THE ["b. CHAPTER carriage^ and hemming in their adversaries in the midst ^ of them, they laid on them with admirable speede and Wherein is vehemende. True it is, that at the second peale they '^'^"^ J^® strucke Sancho downe to the ground, and the like hapned adventure ^ Don-Quixote, his dexterity and courage being notninff hapned to availeable in that traunce : and his fate so ordayning, he feU Don-Quixote^ just at his coursers feet, who had not yet gotten up: by b^encoun- which we may ponder the fury wherewithall trunchions ^l^j^^ batter, being placed in wrathfuU and rusticall fists. The Yanguesian Carriers perceiving the evill they had committed, truss- Camera, ing up tneir loading with all possible speede, followed on their way, leaving TOth the Adventurers in a bad fashion, and a worse talent. The first that came to himselfe, was Sancho Pan9a, who seeing his Lord neere unto him, said with a weake and pitiful! voyce. Sir Don-Quixote ! O Sir Don-Quixote ! What wouldest thou have, brother Sancho P replied the Knight with the like efieminate and dolefull tune. I would, quoth Sancho, have of your worship, a draught or two of the liquor of Feoblas, if you have any of it at hand, perhaps it is good to cure broken bones, as well as it helpes wounds. What would we want, unhappy that I am, replied Don-Quixote, if I had it here P But I sweare unto tnee, Sancho Fanfa, by the faith of a Knight Errant, that before two daies passe (if fortune dispose not otherwise) I will have it in my power, or it shall hardly escape my hands. I pray you, quoth Sancho, within how many dayes, thinke you, shall we be able to stir our feet P I can say of my selfe, quoth the crushed Knight, that I can- not set a certaine terme to the dayes of our recovery, but I am in the fault of all, for I should not have drawne my sword against men that are not Knights, as well as I am, and therefore I beleeve that the God of battels hath permitted, that this punishment should be given unto mee, in paine of transgressing the lawes of £iighthood. Wherefore, brother Sancho, it is requisite that thou beest advertised of that which I shall say unto thee now, for it importeth both our goods very much, and is, that when thou beholdest, that the like rascally kenell doe us any wrong, doe not wait till I set hand to my sword against in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE them; for I will not doe it in any sort. But draw thou CHAPTER thine, and chastise them at thy pleasure: and if any Knights I shall come to their assistance and succour, I shall know Wherein is then how to defend thee, and offend them with all my rehearsed the force ; for thou hast by this perceived by a thousand signes ^^^^^ and experiences, how rarre the valor of tnis mine invincible iiapned to arme extendeth it selfe, (so arrogant remained the poore Don-Quixote^ Knight, through the victory he had ffotten of the hardy ^Y, encoun- Biscaine.) But this advice of his Lor^ seemed not so good ^'l^jT**^ to Sancho Panfa, as that hee would omit to answer unto Yanfuesian him, saying. Sir, I am a peaceable, quiet, and sober man. Garners, and can dissemble any injurie, for I have wife and children to maintaine and bring up : wherefore let this likewise be an advise to you (seeing it cannot be a commandement) that I will not set hand to my sword in any wise, be it against Qowne or Knight: and that from this time forwarfl do pardon before God all the wrongs that they have done, or shall doe unto me, whether they were, be, or shall be done by high or low person, rich or poore, Grentleman or Churle, without excepting any state or condition. Which being heard by his Lora, hee said : I could wish to have breath enough, that I might answer thee with a little more ease, or that the griefe which I feele in this ribbe, were asswaged ever so little, that I might, Fanfa, make thee understand the errour wherein thou art. Come here, poore foole, if the eale of Fortune hitherto so contrarie, doe tume in our ntvour, swelling the sayles of our desire, in such sort as we may securely and without any hinderance, arrive at the Haven of any of those Bands, which I have promised unto thee, what would become of thee, if I conquering it, did make thee Lord thereof, seeing thou wouldest disable thy selfe in respect thou art not a Knight, nor desirest to hie one, nor wouldst have valour or will to revenge thine injuries, or to defend thy Lordships P For thou must understand, that in the Kinedomes and Provinces newly conquered, the minds of the inhabitants are never so thorowly appeased or wedded to the affection of their new Lord, that it is not to be feared, that they will worke some noveltie to alter things againe, and tume, as men say, afresh to trie fortune. 1«7 CHAITRR I rmhtHunmd th« uiiftMtuiuite iuiventur« hnpnod to by Mticoun- triiifc with MrUiiiM Yiui|ruaMiiui durrTinri. ^s^Mbqflu. «OMrcAft, THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. And it if therefore requisite that the new posseasour have undentanding to goveme, and valour to offend and defend himselfe, in any adventure whatsoever. In this last that hath befallen us, quoth Sancho, I would I had had that understanding and valour of which you speake ; but I vow unto you, by the fiaith of a poore man, that I am now fitter for pUisters then discourses. I pray you trie whether you can arise, and wee will helpe Rozinante, although he deserves it not, for he was the prindpall cause of all these troubles ; I would never have beleeved the like before of Rozinante, whom I ever held to bee as chaste and peaceable a person as my sclfe. In fine, they say well, that one must have a hmg time to come to the knowledge of bodies ; and that thers nothing in this life secure. Who durst affirme, that after those mightie blowes which you gave to that un- fortunate Knight Errant, would succeed so in poste, and as it were in your pursuite this so furious a tempest of staves, that hath discharged it selfe on our shoulders? Thine, Sancho, replied Don-Quixote, are perhaps accustomed to beare the like showres, but mine nursed faietweene * Cottons and Hollands, it is most evident that they must feele the griefc of this dimace. And were it not that I imagine, (but why doe I say I imagine ?) I know certainly that all these incommodities are annext to the exercise of armes, I would here die for very wrath and displeasure. To this the Squire answered, Sir, seeing these disgraces are of the ^essence of Knighthood, I pray you whether they succeed very often, or whether they have certaine times limited wherein they befall. For mee thinkes that within tvro adventures more, we shall wholly remaine disinabled for the third, if the Gods in mercy doe not succour us. Know, friend Sancho, replied Don4^xote, that the Ufe of Knights £nrant« is subject to a thousand dangers and misfortunes ; and it is abo as well in the next d^ree and power« to make them Kiojps and Emperours^ as eiqperienoe hath showne in sundry Knights* of whose Histories I have intire notice* And I could recount unto thee now, (did the paine 1 suflfer permit me) of some of them which have mounted to thoae high degnras which I have said^ ondv by in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE the valour of their arme. And the very same men fomid them CHAPTER both before and after in divers miseries and calamities. ^ For the valorous Amadis of Gaule saw himselfe in the Wherein is power of his mortall enemy Arcalaus the inchanter, of '*^®^!!^^* whom the opinion runnes infallible, that he gave unto adventure him beinff his prisoner, more then two hundred stripes hapned to with his norse bridle, after he had tied him to a piUer Don-Quixote> in his base-court. And there is moreover a secret Authour ^ encowtt- of no little credite, who sayes, that the Cavalier del Febo, ^^j^^ being taken in a ginne like unto a snatch that slipt under Yanfuesian his feet, in a certaine Castell, after the fall found nimselfe Gamers, in a deepe dungeon under the earth bound hands and feete ; and there they gave unto him a glister of snow water and sand, which brought him almost to the end of his life ; and were it not that hee was succoured in that great distresse, by a wise man his very great friend, it had gone iU with the poore Kniffht. So that I may very well passe among so • many worthy persons: for the dangers ana disgraces they sufircd were greater then those which we doe now indure. For, Sancho, I would have thee to understand, that these wounds which are given to one, with those instruments that are in ones hand by chance, doe not disgrace a man ; and it is written in the lawes of single combat in expresse termes, that if the Shoe-maker strike another witn the Last which he hath in his hand, although it be certainly of wood, yet cannot it be said, that he who was stricken, had the Bastanado. I say this, to the end thou maist not thinke, although we remaine bruised in this last conflict, that therefore we be disgraced ; for the armes which those men bore, and wherewithall they belaboured us, were none other then their packe staves, and as farre as I can remem- ber, never a one of them had a tucke, sword, or dagger. They gave mee no leisure, answered Sancho, to looke to them so neerely, for scarce had I laid hand on niy Trun- chant, when they blist my shoulders with their Rnes, in such sort as they wholly deprived me of my sight, and the force of my feete together, striking mee downe on the place where I yet lie straught, and where the paine of the disgrace received by our Cudgelling, doth not so much pinch me, R 1S9 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER as the griefe of the blowes, which shall remaine as deepdy I imprinted in my memorie, as they doe in my backe. Wherein is For all this thou shalt imderstancl, brother Pan^a, re- rehearsed the plied Don-Quixote, that there is no remembrance, which adveSure*^ time will not end, nor griefe which death will not con- hapned to sume. What greater misfortune, quoth Sancho, can there Don-Quixote^ be then that, which onely expecteth time and death to end hy encoan- and consume it P If this our disgrace were of that kind, ^l^^^^ which might bee cured by a pajrre or two of playsters, it Yanguesian ^o\jld not be so evill ; but I begin to perceive, that all the Ciurners. salves of an Hospitall will not suffice to bring them to any good termes. Leave off, Sancho, and gather strength out of weakenesse, said Don-Quixote, for so will I likewise doe, and let us see how doth Rozinante; for me thinks that the lest part of this mishap hath not falne to his lot. You ought not to marvell at that, quoth Sancho, seeing he is likewise a Knight Errant ; that whereat I wonder, is that mine Asse remaines there without payment, where wee are come away without ribbes. Fortune leaves alwaies one doore open in disasters, quoth Don-Quixote, whereby to remedie them. I say it, because that little beast may supply Rozinantes want, by carying of me from hence unto some Castell, wherein I may be cured of my wounds. Nor doe I hold this kinde of riding dishonourable; for I re- member to have read, that the good old Silenus tutor of the merry Grod of laughter, when he entred into the Citie of the hundred gates, rode very fairely mounted on a goodly Asse. It is like, quoth Sancho, that he rode as you say upon an Asse ; but there is great difference betwixt riding, and being cast athwart upon one like a Sacke of rubbish. To this Don-Quixote answered, the wounds that are received in battell, doe rather give honour, then deprive men of it. Wherefore friend Panfa, doe not reply any more unto me, but as I have said, arise as well as thou canst, and lay me as thou pleasest upon thy beast ; and let us depart from hence, before the nignt overtake us in these desarts. Yet I have heard ^ou say, quoth Pan9a, that it was an ordinary custome of Emghts £iTant to sleepe in Downes and desarts, the most of the yeare, and that so to doe, they hold for very good hap. 180 I ni] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE That is, said Don -Quixote, when they have none other CHAPTER shift, or when they are in love ; and this is so true, as there I hath beene a Enieht that hath dwelt on a rocke exposed Wherein is to the Sunne, and the shadow, and other annoyances of ^e^wsed the heaven for the space of two years, without his Ladies ^e^^** knowledge, and Amadis was one of that kinde, when call- hapned to ing himselfe Beltinebros, he dwelt in the Poore Rocke ; Don-Quixote, nor doe I know punctually eight yeares or eight moneths, ^7 encoun- for I doe not remember the History well ; let it suffice ^^^*^ that there he dwelt doing of penance, for some disgust Yanguesian which I know not, that his Ladie Oriana did him. But Comers, leaving that apart, Sancho, dispatch and away before some other disgrace happen like that of Rozinante to the Asse. Even there lurkes the Divell, quoth Sancho, and so breath- ing thirty sobs, and threescore sighes, and a hundred and twenty discontents and execrations against him, that had brought him there, he arose, remayning bended in the midst of the way, like unto a Turkish bow, without being able to addresse himselfe : and notwithstanding all this difficulty, he harnessed his Asse (who had beene also somewhat dis- tracted, by the overmuch liberty of that day) and after he hoysted up Rozinante, who were he indued with a tongue to complain, would certainly have borne his Lord and Sancho companie. In the end Sancho laid Don- Quixote on the Asse, and tied Rozinante unto him, and leading the Asse by the halter, travelled that way which he deemed might conduct him soonest towards the high- way. And fortune which guided his affidres from good to better, after he had travelled a little league, discovered it unto him, neere unto which he saw an Inne, which in despite of him, and for Don-Quixotes pleasure must needes be a Castle. Sancho contended that it was an Inne, and his Lord that it was not; and their contro- versie indured so long, as they had leisure before they could decide it, to arrive at Uie lodging ; into which Sancho, without farther verifying of the dis- pute, entred with all his loading. 181 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER II Of that which hapned unto the ingenuous fijiight, within the Inne, which he supposed to be a Castle; HE Inne-keeper seeing Doo-Quixote laid overthwart upon the Ane, demaunded of SEtncho, what disease he had P Sancho answered, that it was nothing but a fal downe from a rock, and that his ribs were thereto somewhat bruised. This Inkeeper had a wife, not of the con- dition that those of that Trade are wont to be, for she was of a charitable nature, and would grieve at the calamities of her neighbours, and did therefore pre- sently occurre to cure Don-Quixote, causing her daughter, a very comely yong mayden, to assist her to cure her guest. There likewise served in the Inne an Asturian Wench, who was broad-faced, flat-pated, saddle-nosed, blinde of one eye, and the other almost out ; true it is, that the comelinesse of her bodie supplied all the other defects. She was not seven palmes long from her feete unto her head, and her shoulders which did somewhat burden her, made her looke oftner to the ^vund then she would willingly. This 1 beautifull piece did assist the youi^ m^den, and both of them made a veir bad bedde for Bon-Quixote in an old wide chamber, which gave manifest tokens of it selfe, that it had sometimes served many yeares onlv to keepe chopt straw for horses ; in which was also lodged a Carrier, whose bedde was made a little way off" from Don-Quixotes, which, though it was made of Canvasse, and coverings of his Mules, was much better then the Knights, that onely contained foure boords roughly plained, placed on two unequall tressels ; A flockebed, which in the thinnesse 133 ni] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE seemed rather a Quilt; full of pellets, and had not they CHAPTER showen that they were wooll, through certaine breaches H made by antiquity on the Ticke, a man would by the Of that which hardnesse rather take them to be stones : a paire of sheets Wpod unto made of the skinnes of Targets, and a coverlet whose KniS^^^^"* threeds, if a man would number, he should not lose one within the onely of the account. In this ungratious bed did Don- Inne^ which Quixote lie : and presently the hostesse and her daughter he suppoaed annoint him all over, and Maritomes (for so the Asturian ^°^^ Castle. Wench was called) did holde the candle. The Hostesse at the playstring of him, perceiving him to be so bruised in sundry places, she said unto him, that those signes rather seemed to proceed of blowes then of a fall. They were not blowes, replied Sancho, but the rocke had many sharpe ends and knobs on it, whereof every one left behinde it a token ; and I desire you, good Masters, quoth he, to leave some flaxe behind, and there shall not want one that needeth the use of them ; for I assure you, my backe doth likewise ake. If that be so, quoth the Hostesse, it is likely that thou didst also falL I did not fall, quoth Sancno Panfa, but with the suddaine afiPnght that I tooke at my Masters fall, my bo^y doth so grieve me, as mee thinkes, I have beene handsomely belaboured. It may wel happen as thou saiest, quoth the Hostlers daughter: for it hath befalne me sundry times to dreame, that I fell down from some high Tower, and could never come to the ground : and when I awaked, I did find my selfe so troubled and broken, as if I had verily falne. There is the point. Masters, auoth Sancho Panfa, that I without dreaming at all, but oeing more awake then I am at this houre, found my selfe to have very few lesse tokens and markes then my Lord Don-Quixote hath. How is this Gentleman called ? quoth Maritomes the Asturian. Don- Quixote of the Mancha, replied Sancho Panfa, and he is a Knight Errant, and one of the best and strongest that have beene seene in the world these many ages. What is that, a Knight Errant? auoth the Wench. Art thou so yong in the world, that thou knowest it not P answered Sancho Panca. Know then, sister mine, that a Knight Errant is 188 THE FIRST PART OF THE ["». CHAPTER a thing, which in two words you see well cudgelled, and 11 after becomes an Empeiour. To daj he is the most un- Of tliat wbich fortunate creature of the world, and the most needy ; and ^ned unto f^ morrow he will hare two or three crowns of Kngdomes Kn^^°°^"^ to bestow upon his Squire. If it bee so, quoth the Hostesses wiihin the ^hy then hast not thou gotten at least an Earledome, seeing Inne, which thou art this good Knight his Squire ? It is yet too soone, he toppoted replied Sancho, for it is but a mcmeth sithence we began tobe.C-Ue. fi^ t^ ^^ adventure.; and we have iK,t yet encountred any worthy of the name. And sometimes it befals, that searching for one thing, we encounter another. Thie it is, that if my Lord Don-Quixote recover of this wound or fall, and that I be not chained by it, I would not make an exchange of my hopes for the best title of Spaine. Don-Quixote did very attentirely listen unto all these dis- courses, and sitting up in his bedde as well as bee could, taking his Hostesse by the hand, hee said unto her, * Bdeere me, beautifull Lady, that you may count your selfe fortu- nate ; for having harboured my person in this your Castle, which is such, that if I doe not praise it, it is because men say, that proper praise stinkes, but my Squire will informe you what I am : onely this I will say my selfe, that I will keepe eternally written in my memory the service that you have done unto me, to he gratefull unto you for it whilst I live. And I would it might please tne highest heavens, that love held mee not so inthralled and subject to his lawes as he doth, and to the eyes of that ingrate- full faire, whose name I secretly mutter, then should those of this beautifull damzell presently signiorize my liberty.^ The Hostesse, her daughter, and the good Maritomes remained confounded, hearing the speech of our Knight Errant, which they understood as well as if hee had spoken Greeke unto them, but yet they conceived that they were words of complements and love, and as people unuised to heare the like language, they beheld and admired him, and he seemed unto them a man of the other world, and so re- turning him thankes, with Tavemly phrase for his large offers, they departed. And the Astunan Maritomes cured Sancho, who needed her helpe no lesse then his Master. 184 Ill] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE The Carrier and she had agreed to passe the nisht CHAPTER together, and she had ^ven unto him her word, t£at II when the guests were quiet and her Master sleeping, she Of that which would come unto him, and satisfie his desire, as much as Wped unto he pleased. And it is said of this good wench, that she KniS^^^^'^ never passed the like promise, but that she performed it, within the although it were given in the midst of a wood, and without Inne^ which any witnesse ; for shee presumed to be of gentle bloud, and ^e supposed yet shee held it to be no disgrace to serve in an Inne, for ^ *^ * Castle, shee was wont to affirme, that disgraces and misfortunes bi*ought her to that state. The hard, narrow, niggard and counterfait bedde, whereon Don-Quixote lay, was the first of the foure, and next unto it was his Sauires, that onely contained a matte and a coverlet, and rather seemed to be of shome Canvasse, then WooU. After these two beddes follow^ that of the Carrier, made as wee have said, of the pannels and furniture of two of his best Mules, although they were twelve all in number, faire, fat, and goodly beasts ; for hee was one of the richest Carriers of Arevalo, as the Author of this history afRrmeth, who maketh particular mention of him, because he knew him very well : * and besides, some men say, that hee was some- *Here the what a kinne unto him. Omitting that Cid Mahamat Author taxeth Benengeli was a very exact Historiographer, and most ^nj^^fy curious in all things, as mar be gathered very well, seeing ^ y^^ ^* that those which are related, being so minute and trivial!, scended of a he would not over-slip them in silence. Moorish race. By which those grave Historiographers may take ex- ample, which recount unto us matters so short and suc- cinctly, as they doe scarce arrive to our knowledge, leaving the most substantial! part of the workes drowned in the Inkehome, either through negligence, malice, or ignorance. Many good fortunes betide the Authour of TManU de Ricamonte^ and him that wrote the booke wherein are rehearsed the acts of the Counte Tomillas. Lord, with what precisenesse doe they describe every circumstance? To conclude, I say, that after the Carrier had visited his Mules, and given unto them their second ration, he stretched himselfe in his coverlets, and expected the com- 186 CHAPTER II Of that which hapned unto the ingenuous Knight^ within the Inne^ which he supposed to be a Castle. *Di8parates. *Biaitnas. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. ming of the most exquisite Maritomes. Sancho was also bj tiiis plaistered and laid downe in his bed, and though he desired to sleepe, yet would not the griefe of his ribbes permit him. And Don-Quixote with the paine of his sides, lay with both his eyes open like a hare.' All the Inne was drowned in silence, and there was no other light in it, then that of a lainpe, which hung lightmg in the midst of the entry. This marvailous quietnesse, and the thoughts which alwaies represented to our Knight the memory of the successes, which at every pace are recounted in bookes of Knighthood (the principall Authors of his mis- hap) called to his imagination one of the strangest follies that easily may be conjectured, which was, he imagined that he arrivea to a famous Castle (for as we have said, all the Innes wherein he lodged, seemed unto him to be such) and that the Inne-keepers daughter was the Lord of the Castels, who overcome by his comlinesse and valour, was enamoured of him, and had promised, that shee would come to solace with him for a good space, after her Father and Mother had gone to bedde. And holding all this quimera and fiction, which he himselfe had built in his braine, for most firme and certaine, he began to be vexed in minde, and to thinke on the dangerous trance, wherein his honesty was like to fall, and did firmely pur- pose in heart, not to commit any disloyaltie against his Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, although very Queene Grenever with her Lady Queintanonia, should come to soUicite him. Whilst thus nee lay thinking of these * follies, the houre approched (that was unlucky for him) wherein the Asturian wench should come, who entred into the Chamber in search of her Carrier, in her smocke, barefooted, and her haire trust up in a coife of fustian, with soft and wary steps. But she was scarce come to the dore, when Don-Quixote felt her, and arising and sitting up in his bedde in despite of his *plaisters, and with great griefe of his ribbes, he stretched forth his armes to receive his beautifuU Damzell the Asturian, who crouching, and silently went groping with her hands, to finde out her sweetheart, and in- countred with Don-Quixotes armes, who presently seized 1S6 in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE veiy strongly upon one of her wrests, and drawing her CHAPTER towards him (shee darine not to speake a word) he caused ^^ her to sit upon his beddes side, and presently groped her Of that which smocke, and although it was of *the strongest Canvasse, ^^?^ ^"^^ hee thought it was most subtile and fine Holland. Shee KnS^^^^ wore on her wrests certaine bracelets of glasse, which he within the esteemed to be precious Orientall pearles. Her haire, which Inney which was almost as rough as a horse-taile, he held to be wires of J|f^^??|!^ the glistringst gold of Arabia, whose brightnesse did ob- ^ ^ -u^ scure that of the Sunne. And her breath, which certainely ^^^V^^*^^^ smelled like to stale salt fish, reserved from over-night, seemed unto him a most redolent, aromaticall and sweet smell, and finally he painted her in his phantasie of the same very forme and manner ; as hee had i^ad in his bookes of Knighthood, of a certaine Frincesse which came to visit a Knight who was grievously wounded, being overcome by his love, embellished with all the ornaments that here we have recounted : and the blindnesse of this poore Gallant was such, as neither the touching, savour, or other things that accompanied the good Damzell, could undeceive him, bein^ such as were able to make any other, save a Carrier, vomit up his bowels, but rather he made full account, that he held the Groddesse of love betweene his armes, and hold- ing her still very fast, hee beganne to court her with a low and amorous voice in this manner : ^ I could wish to finde * my selfe in termes, most high and beautifuU Lady, to * be able to recompence so great a favour, as that which * with the presence of your matchlesse feature you have * shewen unto me : but fortune (who is never weary of * persecuting the good) hath pleased to lay me in this * bedde, therein I fie so broken and brused, that although *' I were desirous to satisfie your will, yet is it impossible ; * specially seeing to thy impossibility may bee added a *' greater, to wit, the promisea faith which I have given to ^ the unmatchable Dulcinea of Toboso, the onely Xiady of ' my most hidden thoughts : for did not this let mee, doe *' not hold me to be so senselesse and madde a Knieht, * as to overslip so fortunate an occasion as this, which ^ your bounty bath offered to me.^ S 137 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER Maritornes remained sweating, through anxiety to see her ^^ selfe held so fast by Don-Quixote, and without either under- Of that which standing, or giving attention to his words, shee laboured all hapned unto ^y^^^ gj^^ could, to free her selfe from him without speak- Knh^ ing a word. The Carrier, whose badde intention kept him within the still waking, did feare his Lady from the time that shee first Inne, which entred into the roome, and aid attentively give eare to all to i^^?wt Don-Quixotes discourses, and jealous that Asturian should ^ breake promise with him for any other, he drew nearer unto Don-Quixotes bedde, and stoode quiet, to see where- unto those words which he could not understand, tended. But viewing that the wench strived to depart, and Don- Quixote laboured to with-hold her, the jest seeming evill unto him, he up with his arme, and discharged so terrible a blow on the inamoured Knights jawes, as he bathed all his mouth in bloud, and not content here withall, he mounted upon the Knight, and did tread on his ribbes, and passed tnem all over with more then a trot. The bedde which was *Endebie, somewhat *weake, and not very firme of foundation, being unable to suffer the addition of the Carrier, fell downe to the ground, with so great a noise, as it waked the Inne-keeper; who presently suspecting, that it was one of Maritornes conflicts, because shee answered him not, having called her lowdly, he forthwith arose, and lighting of a lampe, he went towards the place where he heard the noise. The wench perceiving that her Master came, and that hee was extreme chollericke, did all ashamed and troubled runne into Sancho Pan9a''s bedde, who slept all this while very soimdly, and there crouched, and made her selfe as little as an egge. Her Master entered crying, whore, where art thoup I dare warrant that these are some of thy doings. By this Sancho awaked, and feeling that bulke lying almost wholly upon him, hee thought it was the night Mare, and beganne to lay with his fists here and there aoout him very swiftly, and among others wraught Maritornes I know not how many blows; who grieved for the paine shee indured there, casting all honesty aside, gave Sancho the exchange of his blowes so trimly, as she made him to awake in despite of his sluggishnesse. And 138 Ill] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE finding himselfe to bee so abused of an uncouth person, CHAPTER whom he could not behold, he arose and caught hold of II Maritomes as well as he could, and they both began the Of that which best fight and pleasantest skirmish of the world. hapned unto The Carrier perceiving by the light which the Inne-keeper KnS^"*^^^* brought in witn him, the lamenUible state of his Mistris, witHn the abandoning Don-Quixote, he instantly repaired to give her Inne^ which the succor that was requisite; which likewise the Inne- he supposed keeper did, but with an other meaning, for hee approched ^^^^ Castle, with intention to punish the wench, beleeving that snee was infallibly the cause of all that harmony. And so as men say, the Cat to the Rat, the Rat to the Cord, the Cord to the Post ; so the Carrier strucke Sancho, Sancho the wench, shee returned him againe his liberality with interest, and the Innekeeper laide lode upon his maide also. And all of them did mince it with such expedition, as there was no leasure at all allowed to any one of them for breath- ing. And the best of all was, that the Innekeepers lampe went out, and then finding themselves in darkenesse, they belaboured one another so without compassion, and at once, as wheresoever the blow fell, it brusea the place pitti- fully. There lodged by chance that night in the Inne one of the Squadron of these, which are called of the old '*'holy ^*The holy brotherhood of Toledo, hee likewise hearing the wonderfiill brotherhood, noise of the fight, he laid hand on his rodde of office, and ^^^^^ the tinne-boxe of his titles, and entred into the chamber ^^ ^ certaine without light, saying. Stand still to the officer of Justice, number of and to the holy brotherhood. And saying so, the first men, whose whom he met, was the poore battered Don-Quixote, who ^^J^flLffl? lav overthrowne in his bed, stretched, with his face upward whway fitmi without any feeling, and taking hold of his beard, he cryed Rohberg. out incessantly, Helpe the Justice. But seeing that he whom hee held fast, Dowed neither hand or foote, hee pre- sently thought that hee was dead, and that those battaillants that fought so eagerly in the roome, had slaine him ; where- fore hee lifted his voice and cryed out lowdly, saying. Shut the Inne dore, and see that none escape, for here they have kild a man. This word astonished all the combatants so 189 CHAPTER II OfUiitiriiich hsfiiied unto the ingeuuoui Knight, within the Inne, which he BuppoBcd to be a Castle. THE FIRST PART OF THE [""• much, as every one left the battaile in the very tenDe§( wherein this voice had overtaken them. The Inqekeeper retired himselie to his chamber, the Carrier to his coverlets, the wench to her couch, and onely the unfortunate Don- Quixote and Sancho, were not able to move themielves from the place wherein they lay. The officer of the holy brotherhood, in this space letting slip poore Don-Quixotes beard, went out for light, to searcti and apprehend the delinquents; hut hee could not iinde any, for the Inne- keeper had purposely quendied the lampe, as hee retyred to his bed : wherefore the officer was constrained to re- paire to the chimney, where, with great difficulty, after he had spent a long while doing of it, he at last lighted a candle. CHAPTER III Wherein are rehearsed the innumerable misfor- tunes, which Don-Quixote and his good Squire Sancho suffered in the Inne, which he to his harme thought to be a Castle. Y this time Don-Quixote was come to him- selfe againe out of his trance, and with the like lamentable note, as that where- withall hee had called his Squire the day before, when he was over-throwne in the Vale of the Packe-staves, he called to him, saying. Friend Sancho, art thou a sleepe ? sleepest thou, friend Sancho P What, I a sleepe ? I renounce my selfe, quoth Sancho, fidl of griefe and despite, if I thinke not all tne DiveU in hell have beene visiting of mee here this night Thou maist certainely beleeve it, replyed Don-Quixote, for either I know very 140 in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE little, or else this Castle is inchanted. For I let thee to CHAPTER wit, but thou must first sweare to keepe secret that which m I meane to tell thee now, untill fikfter my death. So ^Vherein are I sweare, quoth Sancho. I say it, quoth Don-Quixote, fe^ea"ed the because I cannot abide to take away any bodies honour. mSfortunwT Why, Quoth Sancho againe, I sweare that I will conceale which Don-' it untill after your Worships daies, and I pray God that I Quixote and may discover it to morrow. Have I wrought thee such ^^ ^^^ harme, Sancho, repUed the Knight, as thou wouldest desire g^J^ to see mee end so soone P It is not for that, Sir, quoth the Inne^ Sancho, but because I cannot abide to keepe things long, which he to lest they should rotte in my custody. * Let it be for his harme what thou pleasest, said Don-Quixote, for I doe trust u^^^^^^^ greater matters then that to thy love and curtesie. And that I may rehearse it unto thee briefly, know that a little while since, the Lord of this Castels Daughter came imto me, who is the most faire and beautiful! Damzell, that can bee found in a great part of the earth. What could I say unto thee of the ornaments of her person P what of her excellent wit ? what of other secret things, which, that I may preserve the faith due unto my Lady Dulcinea of Tol)oso, I passe over in silence P I will only tell thee, that heaven, envious of the inestim- able good that fortune had put in my hands ; or perhaps (and that is most probable) this Castell, as I have said, is inchanted, just at the time when wee were in most sweet and amorous speech, I being not able to see or know from whence it came, there arrived a hand joyned to the arme of some mighty Giant, and gave mee such a blow on the jawes, as they remaine all bathed in bloud, and did after so thumpe and bruse mee, as I feele my selfe worse now, then yesterday when the Carriers, throwh Rozinantes madnesse, did use us as thou knowest. By which I conjecture that the treasure of this Damzels beauty, is kept by some inchanted Moore, and is not reserved for me.** Nor for mee, quoth Sancho, for I have beene bumbasted by more then foure hundred Moores, which have hammered me in such sort, as the bruising of the Packe-staves, was gilded bread and spice-cakes in com- 141 CHAPTER III Wherein are rehearsed the innumerable misfortunes^ which Don- Quixote and his good Squire Sancho Buffered in the Inne^ which he to hisharme thought to be a Castle. THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. parison of it : but, Sir, I pray you tell me, how can you call this a good and rare adventure, seeing we remaine so pittifuUy used after it ? and yet your harmes may be accounted lesse, in respect you have held, as you said, that incomparable beauty oetweene your armes : but I, what have I had other then the greatest blowes that I shall ever have in my life P Unfortunate that I am, and the Mother which bare mee, that neither am an Errant Knight, nor ever meanes to be any, and yet the greatest part of our mishaps stil fals to my lot. It seemes that thou wast likewise beaten, replyed Don-Quixote. Evill befall my linage, quoth Sancho, have not I told you I was ? Be not grieved friend, replied the Knight, for I wiU now com- pound the precious Balsamum, which will cure us in the twinkling of an eye. The officer having by this time lighted his lampe, entred into the roome to see him, whom he accounted to be dead : and as soone as Sancho saw him ; seeing him to come in, in his shirt, his head lapt up in a kerchiefe, the Lampe in his hand, having withall a very evil-favoured countenance, hee demanded of his Lord : Sir, is this by chance the inchanted Moore, that turnes anew to torment us, for somewhat that is yet unpunished P He cannot bee the Moore, answered Don-Quixote, for Nigromancers suffer not themselves to bee scene by any. If they suffer not themselves to be seene, quoth Sancho, they suffer themselves at least to bee felt : if not, let my shoulders beare witnesse. So might mine also, said Don-Quixote, but notwithstanding this is no sufficient argument to prove him whom wee see to bee the inchanted Moore. As thus they discoursed, the officer arrived, and finding them to commune in so peaceable and quiet manner, he rested admired. Yet Don -Quixote lay with his face upward as he had left him, and was not able to stirre himselfe, hee was so beaten and be- plaistered. The officer approching demaunded of him, Well, how dost thou, good fellow ? I would speake more mannerly, quoth Don-Quixote, if I were but such a one as thou art : is it the custome of this Countrey, you bottle- head, to talke after so rude a manner to Knights Errant P 142 \ ni] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE The other impatient, to see one of so vile presence, use CHAPTER him with that badde language, could not indure it, but ^^^ lifting up the lampe, oile and all, gave Don -Quixote Wherein are such a blow on the pate with it, as he broke his head in fehea^ed the . 1 *^ji • n»ji t_i_«j innumerable one or two places, and leavmg ail m darkenesse behmde misfortunes him, departed presently out of the chamber. Without which Don-' doubt (quoth Sfl^cho seeing this accident) Sir, that was the Quixote and inchanted Moore, and I thinke he keepeth the treasure ^"'?^^ , for others, and reserveth only for us fists, and lampe- gu^^^gd in^ blowes. It is as thou saiest, quoth Don-Quixote, and the Inne, therefore wee are not to make account of these inchant- which he to ments, or be wroth and angry at them : for in respect ^^ h^me that they are invisible and fantasticall, wee shall not nnde ilg^^fjag^ him on whom we may take revenge, though wee labour ever so much to doe it. Arise therefore, Sancho, if thou beest able, and call to the Constable of this Fortresse, and procure me some oile, wine, salt, and vineger, that I make the wholsome Balsamum: for verily I beleeve that I doe neede it very much at this time, the bloud runneth so fast out of the ^ound which the spirit gave mee even now. Sancho then got up with griefe enough of his bones, and went without hght towards the Innekeepers, and incountred on the way the officer of the holy brother- hood, who stood hearkning what did become of his enemy ; to whom hee said ; Sir, whosoever thou beest, I desire thee do us the favor and benefit to give me a little Rosemary, Oile, Wine, and Salt, to cure one of the best Knights Errant that is in the earth, who lieth now in that bed sorely wounded by the hands of an inchanted Moore that is in this Inne. When the officer heard him speake in that manner, hee held him to bee out of his wits ; and because the dawning beganne, he opened the Inne dore, and told unto the Host, that which Sancho demanded. The Inne- keeper presently provided all that hee wanted, and Sancho carried it to his Master, who held his head betweene both his hands, and complained much of the griefe that the blow of his head caused^ which did him no other hurt then to raise up two blisters somewhat great, and that which hee supposed to bee bloud, was onely the humour, which the 148 THE FIRST PART OF THE L^ CHAPTER anxiety and labour of minde he past in this last darke HI adventure, had made him to sweate. Wherein are In resolution Don-Quixote tooke his simples, of which rehearsed the hg made a compound, mixing them all together, and then mSfKw ^oihng of them a good while, untill they came (as hee which Don-' thought) to their perfection, hee asked for a violl wherein Quixote and he might lay this precious liquor: but the Inne being his ^ood unable to afford him any such, hee resolved at last to put ^J^^^^ it into ♦a tmne oilepot, which the Host did make freely the Inne P^® ^^ 5 ^^^ forthwith he said over the pot eighty Pater- which he to nosters, and as many Aves, Salves, and Creedes, ana accom- his harme panied every word with a Crosse, in forme of benediction, hft^'^f^^Ltf^ at all which ceremonies Sancho, the Innekeeper, and the a e. Officer of the holy brother-hood were present, for the Carrier Hoja de lata, ^g^t very soberly to dresse and make ready his Mules. The liquor l)eing made, hee himselfe would presently make experience of the vertue of that precious Balsamum, as he did imagine it to bee, and so did drinke a good draught of the overplus that could not enter into his pot, being a quart or thereabouts; and scarce had he done it, when he began to vomit so extremely, as hee left nothing uncast up in his stomacke, and through the paine and agita- tion caused by his vomits, hee fell into a very aboundant and great sweate, and therefore commanded himselfe to bee well covered, and left alone to take his ease. Which was done forthwith, and hee slept three houres : and then awak- ing, found himselfe so wonderfully eased, and free from all brusing and paine, as hee doubted not but that hee was thorowly whole ; and therefore did verily perswade himselfe, that hee had hapned on the right manner of compound- ing the Balsamum of Fierebras: and that having that medicine, hee might boldly from thenceforth undertake any mines, battailes, conflicts, or adventures, how dangerous soever. Sancho Pan9a, who likewise attributed the suddaine cure of his Master to miracle, requested, that it would please him to give him leave to sippe up the remainder of the Balsamum, which rested in the kettle, and was no small quantity ; which Don-Quixote granted : and hee lifting it up between both hands, did with a good faith, and better 144 ni] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE talent, quaffe it off all, being little lesse then his Master CHAPTER had drunke. The successe then of the History is, that H^ poore Sancho's stomacke, was not so delicate as his Lords, Wherein are wherefore before hee could cast, hee was tormented with so feheareed tiie many cruell pangues, loathings, sweats, and dismayes, as he ^^fbrti^es^ did verily perswade himselfe, that his last houre was come : which Don-' and perceiving himselfe to bee so afflicted and troubled, hee Quixote and cursed the Balsamum, and on the Theefe which had given it ^ ?^^ to him. Don-Quixote seeing of him in that pitifull taking, ^^^g^j ^ ^ said, I beleeve, Sancho, all this evill befalleth thee, because the Inne^ thou art not dub^d Knight : for I perswade my selfe, that this which he to liquor cannot helpe any one that is not Ii your Worship ^ harme knew that, quoth Sancho, (eviU befall mee and all my linage) S^^astie. why did you therefore consent that I should tast it P in this time the drench had made his operation, and the Eoore Squire did so swift and vehemently oischarge himself^ y both channels, as neither his mat, or canvasse covering could serve after to any use. Hee swet, and swet againe with such excessive swoonings, as not only himselfe, but likewise all the beholders, did verily deeme, that his life was ending. This storme and mishappe endured about some two howres, after which, he remained not cured as his Master, but so weary and indisposed, as hee was not able to stand. But Don -Quixote, who as we have said, felt himselfe eased and cured, would presently depart to seeke adventures, it seeming unto him, that all the time which hee aboade there, was no other then a depriving, both of the world and need- full people, of his favour and assistance : and more through the security and confidence that he had in his Balsamum. And carried thus away by this desire, hee himselfe saddled his Horse Rozinante, and did empannell his Squires beast, whom he likewise holpe to apparell himselfe, and to mount upon his Asse. And presently getting a Horse-backe, hee roade over to a comer ot the Inne, and laid hand on a laveline that was there, to make it serve him in stead of a Launce. All the people that were in the Inne, stood beholding of him, which were above twentie in number. The Innekeepers Daughter did also looke upon him, and hee did never withdraw his eye from her, and would ever and T 146 CHAPTER III Wherein are rehearsed the innumerable misfortunes, which Don- Quixote and his ffood Squire Sancho Buffered in the Inne^ which he to his harme thought to beaCastle. THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. anon breathe foorth so dolefull a sigh, as if he had plucked it out from the bottome of his heart, which all the beholders tooke to proceed from the griefe of his ribbes, but specially such as had seene him playstered the night before. And being both mounted thus a Horse-backe, hee called the Inne- keeper, and said unto him with a grave and stayed voyce, Many and great are the favours, Sir Constable, whicn I have received in this your Castell, and doe remayne most obliged, to gratifie you for them all the dayes oi my life. And if I may pay or recompence them by revenging of you upon any prowde Miscreant, that hath done you any wrongs, know, that it is mine Office to helpe the weake, to revenge the wronged, and to chastise Traytours. Call therefore to memory, and if you finde any thing of this kinde to com- mend to my correction, you neede not but once to say it, for I doe promise unto you by the Order of Knighthood, which I have received, to satisfie and appay you according unto your owne desire.' The Innckeeper answered him againe with like gravity and stayednesse, saying. Sir Knight, I shall not neeoe your assistance when any wrong is done to me, for I know very well my selfe, how to take the revenge that I shall thinke good when the injuric is offered. That only which I require, is that you defray the charges whereat you have beene here in the Inne this night, as well for the Straw and Barley given to your two horses, as also for bothyour beddes. This then is an Inne P quoth Don-Quixote. That it is, and an honour- able one too, replyed the Inne-keeper. Then have I hitherto lived in an errour, quoth Don-Quixote: for in very good sooth I tooke it till now to be a Castell, and that no meane one neyther. But since that it is no Castell but an Inne, that which you may doe for the present time, is to forgive me those expences, for I cannot aoe ought against the cus- tomes of Knights Errants ; of all whicn I most certainely know (without ever having read untill this present, any thing to the contrarie) that they never paiae for their lod^ng, or other thmg, in any Inne wheresoever they lay. For by all Law and right, any good entertainement that is given unto them, is their due, in recompence of the insup- 146 > in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Sortable travels they indure, seeking of adventures both CHAPTER ay and night, in Summer and Winter, a foote and a horse- ^^^ backe, with tiiirst and hunger, in heate and cold, being Wherein are subject to all the distemperatures of Heaven, and all the [^J*"*^^*® discommodities of the eisuth. All that conoemes mee miBfortunea nothing, replied the Inne-keeper : pay unto me my due, which Don-' and leave ttiese tales and Knighthoods apart, for I care for Quixote and nothing else, but how I may come by mine owne. Thou art ^ ?^^*sLii h a mad and a bad Host, auoth Don-Quixote : and saying so g^fH^^ i^^ ^ he spurd Rozinante, ana flourishing with his laveun, hee the Inne^ issued out of the Inne, in despight of them all, and without which he to looking behind him to see once whether his Squire followed, ^}^ liarme heroaaeagoodwayofffiomit. ^"."Siul The Inkeeper seeing hee departed without satisfying him, came to Sancho Panfa, to get his money of him : who answered, that since his Lord would not pay, he would likewise give nothing: for being, as hee was. Squire to a Knight Errand, the very same rule and reason tiiat exempted his Master from payments in Innes and Tavemes, ought also to serve and be understood as well of him. The Inkeeper grew wroth at these words and threatned him, that if he aid not pay him speedily, hee would recover it in manner that would grieve him. Sancho replied, swearing by the order of Knighthood which his Lord had received, that he would not pay one denier, thoudi it cost him his life ; for the good and auncient customes of Knights Errants, should never through his default bee infringed, nor should their Squires which were yet to come into the world ever complaine on him, or upbraide him for transgressing or breaking so just a dutie. But his bad fortune ordained, that there were at the veiy time in the same Inne fowre Clothien of Segovia, and three Point-makers of the Stewes of Cordova, and two neighbours of the Market of Sivill, all pleasant folke, well- minded, malicious, and playsome, all which pricked and in a manner moved all at one time and by the very same spirit, came neere to Sancho, and pulling him downe off his Asse, one of them ranne in for the Inkeepers Coverlet, and casting him into it, they looked up, and seeing the House was some- what too low for their int^ded businesse, they determined to 147 CHAPTER III Wherein are rehemedthe innamerable misfortunes^ which Don- Quixote and his good Squire Sancho suffered in the Inne, which he to his harme thought to he a Castle. *Oauan. THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. me into the base Court, which was over-head onely limitted by heaven : and then Sancho being laide in the midst of the Blanket, they began to tosse him aloft, and sport themselves with him, in the manner they were wont to use Dogges at Shrovetide. The out-cries of the miserable betossed Squire were so many and so lowde, as they arrived at last to his Lords hearing, who standing awhile to listen attentively what it was, believed that some new adventure did approach, untill hee perceived at last that he, which cried, was his Squire: wherefore turning the Raignes, hee made towards the Inne with a loathsome galloppe, and finding it shut, he rode all about it, to see whether hee might enter into it. But scarce was he arrived at the walles of the base Court which were not very hie, when he perceived the foule play that was used towards his Squire ; for hee saw him descend and ascend into the ayre againe with such grace and agilitie, that did his choUer permit, I certainely perswade my selfe he would have burst for laughter. He assayed to mount the wall from his Horse, but he was so bruised and broken, as he could not doe as much as alight from his backe. Where- fore from his backe he used such reprochfuU and vile lan- Eiage to those which tossed Sancho, as it is impossible to y them downc in writing. And notwithstanding all his scomefuU speech, yet did not they cease from their laughter and laboiu*, nor the flying Sancho, from his complaints, now and then medled with threats, now and then with intreaties ; but availed very little, nor could prevaile, untill they were constrained by wearinesse to give him over. Then did they bring him his Asse againe, and helping him up upon it, they lapt him in his * mantle. And the compassionate Maritomes beholding him so a£9icted and ore laboured, thought it needfuU to helpe him to a draught of water, and so brought it him from the well, because the water thereof was coolest Sancho tooke the pot and laying it to his lips, he abstained from drinking by his Lords jperswasion, wno cryed to him aloud, saying, Sonne Sancho, drinke not water, drinke it not, Sonne, for it will kill thee. Behold, I have here with me the most holy Balsamum (and shewed him the oile pot of the drenches he had compounded) for with only 148 in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE two drops that thou drinkest, thou shalt without all doubt CHAPTER remaine whole and soimd. At those words Sancho looking ^^^ behinde him, answered his Master with a lowder voice, Have Wherein are you forgotten perhaps so soone, how that I am no Knight ? [^^^^^^ or doe you desire, that I vomit the remnant of the poore misfortunes bowels that remaine in mee since yesternight P Keepe your which Don- liquor for your selfe in the Divels name, and permit me to Quixote and live in peace ; and the conclusion of this speech, and his \^ ?^ , V . .'^ , J . 1 J II . • ^ J. I. J. /» j« SquireSancho beginning to dnnke, was done all m one instant : but finding suffered in at the firet draught that it was water, he would not tast it the Inne^ any more, but requested Maritomes that shee would give which he to him some wine, wnich shee did streight with a very good ^ ^^^^ will, and likewise paied for it, out of her owne purse ; for in be^ia?!agtle. effect it is written of her, that though shee toUowed that trade, yet had shee some shadowes and lineaments in her of Christianity. As soone as Sancho had drunken, he visited his Asse ribs with his heeles twise or thrise ; and the Inne being opened, he issued out of it, very glad that he had payed nothing, and gotten his desire, although it were to the cost of his ordinary sureties, to wit, his shoulders. Yet did the Innekeeper remaine possest of his wallets, as a pay- ment for that he ought him ; but Sancho was so distracted when he departed, as he never missed them. After he departed, the Inne-keeper thought to have shut up the Inne doore againe, but the Gentlemen tossers would not permit, being such folke, that if Don-Quixote were verily one of the Knights of the round Table, yet would not they esteeme him two chips. 149 THE FIRST PART OF THE ["b. CHAPTER nil Wherein are rehearsed the discourses passed betweene Sancho Fan9a, and his Lord Don-Quixote, with other adventures worthy the recital! ANCHO arrived to his Master all wanne and dismayed, in so mudi as he was scarce ai^le ta spur on his beast. When Don- Quixote beheld him in that case, hee said to him, Now doe 1 wholly perswade my selfe, iiriend Sancho, that that Castle or lime, ii doubtlesly inchanted. For those which made pastime with thee in so cruell it, what else could they be but spirits, or people of another world? which I doe the rather beleeve, because I saw, that whilest I stoode at the barrier of the yard, behold- ine the acts of thy sadde Traeedy ; I was not in any wise able either to mount it, or alight from Rozinante : for as I say, I thinke they held me then inchanted. For I tow to thee by mine honour, that if I could have either mounted or alighted, I would have taken such Tenceance on those lewde and treacherous Caitifs, as they should remember the jest for ever, though I had therefore adventured to tran»- gresse the laws of Knighthood. Which as I have ofttimei said unto thee permitteth not any Knight to lay hands on one that is not Knighted, if it bee not in defence of his proper life and person, and that in case of great and urgent necessity. So would I also have revenged my selfe, quou Sancho, if I might, were they Knights or no Knights, but I could not: and yet I do infallibly believe, that those which tooke their pleasure with me, were neither ghosts, nor inchanted men as you say, but men of flesh and liones as we are, and all of them, as I heard them cald whilest they tossed mee, had 160 ' '^ in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE proper names, for one was tearmed Peter Martinez, and CHAPTER another Tenorio Hernandez, and I heard also the Inne- ^^^^ keeper called lohn Palameque the deafe : so that for your Wherein are inability of not leaping over the barriers of the yardf, or 'chearsedthe alighting off your horse, was only inchauntments in you. passed Whereby I do clearely collect this much, that these adven- betweene tures which we goe in search of, will bring us at last to so SanchoPan9ft, many disventures, as wee shall not be able to know which is ?{)f ^ ?^?^ our right foote. And that which wee might doe best accord- ^ith^OT ' ing to my little understanding, were to retume us againe adventures to our village, now that it is reaping time, and looke to worthy the our goods, omitting to leape thus as they say, out of the '©citafl. frying pan into the fire. How little doest thou know, Sancho, replyed Don-Quixote, what appertaineth to Chivalry ! Peace, and have patience, for a day will come, wherein thou shalt see with thme owne eyes, how honourable it is to follow this exercise. If not, tell me, what greater content may there be in this world, or what pleasure can equall that of winning a battaile, and of triumphmg over ones enemy P none without doubt. I thinke it be so, quoth Sancho, although I doe not know it ; only this I luiow, that since we became Knights errant, or that you are one (for there is no reason why I should count my selfc in so honourable a number) wee never overcame any battaile, if it was not that of the Biscaine, and you came even out of the very same with halfe your eare ana beaver lesse. And ever after that time, we have had nothing but cudgels, and more cudgels, blowes, and more blowes : I carrying with me besides of overplus, the tossing in the blanket, and that, by reason it was done to me by inchanted persons, I cannot be revenged) and by consequence shall not know that true gust and delight, tliat is taken by vanquishing mine enemies, wherof you spake even now. That is it which grieves me, as it should thee also, Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote : but I will procure hereafter to get a sword, made with such art, that whosoever shaU weare it, no kinde of inchantment shall hurt him. And perhaps fortune will present mee the very same which belonged to Amadis, when he called himselie the Knight of the burning sword, which was one of the ISl THE FIRST PART OF THE Tub. CHAPTER best, that ever Knight had in this world : for besides the mi yertue that I told, it did also cut like a Razer, and no Wherein are armour, were it ever so strong or inchanted, could stand 5^^]J^^® before it I am so fortunate, quoth Sancho, that when pagg^ this befell, and that you found such a sword, it would only betweene serve and be beneficiall, and stand in stead such as are SanchoPan^a, dubbed Knights, as doth your Balsamum, whilest the poore n^joi^aUi ^^'^ *^ cramd full with sorrowes. Feare not that, wi^ other ' Siuicho, quoth Don-Quixote, for fortune will deale with thee adventures more liberally then so. worthy the In these discourses Don-Quixote and his Squire roade, recitaO. when Don-Quixote perceiving a great and thicke dust to arise in the way, wherein he travailed, turning to Sancho said. This is (Sancho) the day, wherein shall be manifest the good which Fortune hath reserved for me. This is the day, wherein the force of mine arme must be shewen as much as in any other whatsoever, and in it will I doe such feats, as shall for ever remainc recorded in the bookes of fame; doest thou see, Sancho, the dust which ariseth there? Know that it is caused by a mighty army, and sundry and innumerable Nations, which come marching there. If that oe so, quoth Sancho, then must there be two armies, for on this other side is raised as great a dust. Don-Quixote turned backe to behold it, and seeing it was so indeed, he was marvailous glad, thinking that they were doubtlesly two armies, which came to fight one with another, in the midst of that spacious plaine. For he had his fautasie ever replenished with these battailes, inchantments, successes, ravings, loves, and challenges, which are rehearsed in bookes of Knighthood: and all that ever hee spoke, thought, or did, was addrest and applyed to the like things : and the dust which hee had scene was raised by two great flocks of Sheepe, that came through the same held by two different waies, and could not be discerned by reason of the dust, untill they were very neare. Don-Quixote did affirme that they were two armies, with so very good earnest as Sancho beleeved it, and demanded of him. Sir, what then shall we two doe ? What should we doe (quoth Don-Quixote) but assist the needfull and weaker side ? For thou shalt know, 15S "I] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE Sancho, that he who comes towards us, is the great Em- CHAPTER perour Alifamfaron, Lord of the great Island of Trapobana. ^^ The other who marcheth at our backe, is his enemy the Wherein are King of the Garamantes, Pentapoline of the naked arme, ^?^®*"^ ^^ so called, because he still entereth in battayle, with his right passed arme naked. I pray you, good Sir, quoth Sancho, to tell betweene me why these two Princes hate one another so much ? Sancho Pan9a, They are enemies, replyed Don-Quixote, because that this J?^ ^ }^^ Alifamfaron is a furious Pagan, and is enamoured of Penta- wi^ o^!er polins Daughter, who is a very beautifull and gracious adventures Princesse, and moreover a Christian. And her Father worthy the refuseth to give her to the Paean King, untill first he wcitaU, abandon Mahomets false sect, and l)ecome one of his reli- gion. By my beard, quoth Sancho, Pentapolin hath reason, and I will helpe him all that I may. By doing so, quoth Don -Quixote, thou performest thy duty ; for it is not requisite that one be a Knight, to the end hee may enter into such battailes. I doe apprehend that my selfe, quoth Sancho, very well : but where snail we leave this Asse in the meane time, that we may be sure to finde him againe after the conflict, for I thinke it is not the custome to enter into battell, mounted on such a beast ? ^ It is true, quoth Don- * Quixote, that which thou maist do is, to leave him ^ to his adventures, and care not whether he be lost or * found, for we shall have so many horses, after comming ^ out of this battaile victors, that very Rozinante him- * selfe, is in danger to be changed for another. But be * attentive, for I meane to describe unto thee the principall * Knights of both the armies. And to the end thou maiest ' the better see and note all things, let us retire our selves ^ there to that little hillocke, from whence both the Armies * may easily be descryed.^ They did so, and standing on the toppe of a hill, from whence they might have scene both the flocks, which Don-Quixote called an army very well, if the cloudes of dust had not hindred it and blinded their sight, yet not- withstanding our Knight seeing in conceit that which really hee did not see at all, began to say with a lowde voice : 'That Knight which thou seest there with the yellow U 168 CHAPTER nil Wherein are rehearsed the discourses passed Detweene SanchoPanfa, and his Lord Don-Quixote, with other adventures worth V the redtaU. ^Oaio. *Alfiiruu THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. armour, who beares in his shield a Lyon crownd, crouch- ing at a Damzels feet, is the valorous Laurcalco, Lord of the Silver Bridge: the other, whose armes are powdred with flowers of gold, and Beares in an Azure field, three Crownes of silver, is the dreaded Micocolembo, great Duke of Quirocia : the other limmed like a Giant, that standeth at his right hand, is the undaunted Brandabarbaran of Boliche, Lord of the three Arabias, and comes armed with a Serpents skinne, bearing for his shield as is reported one of the gates of the Temple, which Samson at his death overthrew, to be revenged of his enemies. But tume thine eyes to this other side, and thou shalt see first of all, and in the front of this other army, the ever victor and never vanquished Timonel of Carcaiona, Prince of new Biskaye, who comes armed, with armes parted into Blew, Greene, White, and Yellow quarters, and beares in his shield in a field of Tawney, * a Cat of gold, with a letter that sales Miau, which is the beginning of his Ladies name, which is, as the report runnes, the peerelesse Miaulina, Daughter to Duke Alfeniauen of Algarve. The other that burdens and oppresseth the backe of that mighty * Courser, whose armour is as white as snow, and also his shield without any devise, is a new Elnight of France, called Pierres Papin, Lord of the Barony of Utrique. The other that oeats his horse sides with his armed heeles, and beares the armes of pure Azure, is the mighty Duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo ot the Wood : Who beares for his device, a * Harrow, with a Motto that saies, ^^ So trailes my Fortune.^ ^ And thus he proceeded forward, naming many Knights of the one and the other squadron, even as he had imagined them, and attributed to each one, his armes, his colours, imprese, and Mottoes, suddainly borne away by the imagination of his wonderfull distrac- tion. And without stammering he proceeded, sayin^r, < This ^ first squadron containeth folke of many Nations, m it are ^ those which taste the sweet waters of famous Xante. The * Mountainous men that tread the Masilicall fields. Those ^ that doe sift the most pure and rare gold of Arabia Foelix. ' Those that possessed the famous and delightfiill bankes 154 ^ nij HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE ^ of cleare Tennodonte. Those that let bloud many and CHAPTER ^ sundry waies the golden Pactolus. The Numides unsted- ^^ * fast in their promise. The Persians famous for Archers. Wherein are < The Partha and Medes that firfit flying. The Arabs, 5?i^^*^* ^ inconstant in their dwellings. The tithes as cruell as passed ^ white. The ^thiops of boared lips, and other infinite betweene ^ Nations, whose faces I know and behold, although I have SanchoPanfa, * forgotten their denominations. In that other army come ^^ jnj^^^ ^ those that taste the Christaline streames of the OUve- wi^ otto * * bearing Betis, those that dippe and polish their faces with adventures ^ the liquor of the ever-rich and golden Tagus. Those that ^^^7 the * possesse the profitable fluent of divine Grenile. Those that '•citaU. ^ trample the Tartesian fields so abundant in pasture. Those ^ that recreat themselves in the Elisean fields of Xerez. The * rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy eares of come : ^ Those apparelled with jrron, the ancient relikes of the ^ Gothish bloud. Those that bathe themselves in Pisuerga, ^ renowmed for the smoothnesse of his current. Those that ^ feed their flocks in the vast fields of the wreathing ^ Guadiana, so celebrated for his hidden course. Those that ^ tremble tlurough the cold of the bushy Pirens, and the ^ * loftv Apenines. Finally, all those that Europe in it selfe *0r white * containetn." crested. Good God, how many Provinces repeated he at that time, and how many Nations did he name, giving to every one of them, with marvailous celerity and briefiiesse, their proper attributes, being swallowed up and ingulfed in those things which he had read in his lying bookes! Sancho Pan^a, stood suspended at his speech, and spoke not a word, but only would now and then tume his head to see, whether he could marke those Knights and Giants, which his Lord had named ; and by reason he could not discover any, he said, Sir, I give to the Div^U any man, Giant, or Knight, of all those you said that appeareth : at least I cannot disceme them. Perhaps all is but mchantment, like that of the ghosts of yesternight. How? saiest thou so? quoth Don-Quixote. Doest not thou heare the horses neigh, the trumpets sound, and the noyse of the drummes? I heare nothing else, said Sancho, but the great bleating of many Sheepe. And 155 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. tf.'IIAKIICK m it wiui indeede, for br this time« the two flocks did ^'^^ a|;|/n^rtj Uiem very Deare. The feare that thou conoeivest, Wi4<.ji')«i iM«f Sttfj<:h<>, «juoth Don -Quixote, maketh thee that thou canst ^.•|u«i.4/< li.ir „4-jlJii.r h<'ar<; nor see aright, for one of the effects of feare is *^".!l!i*^' *"" tioijlih' the senses, and make things appeare otherwise |;!jl**.**'L ••'*'• /fHy Hm. lliiiiitlri'lHilt. Sanclio cryed to him as lowd as he could, say- p'HmH ih^, Mi'liiriii*, goiKi Sir Don-Quixote, for I vow unto God, Ihal ull IhiiHc* which you go to charge, are but Sheepe and Miilliiiu. Ki^liirius 1 say, alas that ever I was borne, what luml lu'a&o in I hi« P h>tikis for there is neither Giant, nor Knight, 11(11 i 'iiU, nor Arnii'H, nor Shields, parted, nor whole, nor pure Aibiiitik, iiiir ilivolliNh. What is it you doe, wretch that I iMM f l\n nil thin Don-Quixote did not retume, but rather iiiili>, MvliiH ^'ith a lowde voice: On, on, Ejiights, all you lliiil hi'i\r ami nmrch under the banners of the valorous |*.;iii|iriiMii l\*ii(anolin of the naked Arme, follow mee, all of yiiii, iiihl \MMi nIihII sec how easily I will revenge him on his niriiiy AlilAinriiron of Trapobana : and saying so, hee entred iut«» the* iiiidiloHt of the flocke of Sheepe, and began to l^iuiKv l.lu'in with such courage and fury, as if hee did in go4t(i fiirnc'Nt (Micounter his mortall enemies. 'I'hc SheiMw-heards that came with the flocke, cryed to him to leave on: but seeing their words tooke no effect, they unloosed their slings, and beganne to salute his pate with stones as great as ones fist. But Don-Quixote made no account of tlieir stones, and did fling up and downe among the Sheepe, saying, Where art thou, prowde Alifamfaron, jk where art tiiou? come to mee, for I am but one Knight ^^ alone, who desires to proove my forces with thee man to I man, and deprive thee of thy life, in paine of the wrong 1 thou doi>st to tlie valiant Pentapolin the Garamiante. At J that instant a stone gave him such a blow on one of his ■ sides, as did bury two of his ribbes in his body. Hee M beholding himsclfe so ill dight, did presently beleeve that hee M 166 in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE was either slaine or sorely wounded ; and remembring him- CHAPTER selfe of his liquor, hee tooke out his oyle pot, and set it to H^' his mouth to drinke, but ere he could take as much as hee Wherein are thought was requisite to cure his hurts, there commeth ^«^«a"«i the another Almond which strucke him so full uppon the hand ^^^^ and oyle-pot, as broke it into peeces, and carryed away with betweene it besides three or foure of his cheeke teeth, and did more- SanchoPknfa, over bruise very sorely two of his finirers. Such was the ??^ his Lord first and the second blow, as the poore Knight was con- JfthlS**' strained to fall downe ofi^ his horse. And the Sheep-heards adventures arriving, did verily beleeve they had slaine him ; and there- worthy the fore gathering tneir flocke together with all speede, and recitalL carrymg away their dead Muttons, which were more then seven, they went away without verifying the matter any further. Sancho remained all this while on the height, beholding his Masters follies, pulling the haires of his beard for very despite, and cursed the houre and moment wherein he first knew him ; but seeing him overthrowne to the earth, and the Sheep-heards fled away, hee came downe to him, and found him in very badde taking, yet had he not quite lost the use of his senses, to whom he said : Did not I bid you, Sir Knight, retume, and told you that you went not to invade an army of men, but a flocke of sheepe? That theefe the wise man who is mine adversary, quoth Don- Quixote, can counterfait, and make men to seeme such, or vanish away as he pleaseth : for, Sancho, thou oughtest to know, that it is a very easie thing for those kinde of men, to make us seeme what they please : and this Maligne that persecuteth mee, envying the rfory which hee saw I was like to acquire in this battaile, hath converted the enemies squad- rons into Sheepe ; and if thou wilt not beleeve me, Sancho, yet doe one thing for my sake, that thou maiest remove thine errour, and perceive the truth which I afiirme : get up on thine Asse, ana follow them faire and softly aloofe, and thou shalt see, that as soone as they are parted any distance from hence, they will tume to their first forme, and leaving to be sheepe, will become men, as right and straight as I painted them to thee at the first : but goe not now ; for I 167 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER have neede of thy helpe and assistance : draw neerer to me nn and see, how many cheeke teeth and others I want, for mee Wherein are thinkes there is not one left in my mouth. With that, rehearsed the Sancho approched so neere, that he laid almost his eyes on ^ourses |^jg ji^si^rg mouth: and it was just at the time that the I^Ureene Balsamum had now wrought his effect in Don-Quixote his Sancho Pan^a, stomacke : and at the very season that Sancho went about and his Lord to looke into his mouth, he disgorged all that he had in his ^hth"^^^ stomacke, with as great violence as it had beene shot out of adventure * Musket, just in his compassive Squires beard. O holy worthv the Mother Mary, quoth Sancho, what is this that hath befalne recitall. me ? the poore man is mortally wounded, without doubt, for he vomiteth up bloud at his mouth. But looking a little neerer to it, hee perceived by the colour and smell, that it was not bloud, but the Balsamum of his Masters oile-bottle ; whereat he instantly tooke such a loathing, that his stomacke likewise turned, and hee vomited out his very bowels almost, all in his Masters face. And so they both remained like Pearles. Soone after, Sancho ranne to his Asse to take some- what to cleare himselfe, and to cure his Lord out of his wallet, ^Having left which when he found ^wanting, he was ready to runne out it behind him of his wits : there hee beganne a new to curse himselfe, and whOT^he"^*' made a firme resolution in minde, that he would leave his ranne away Master, and tume to his Countrey againe, although he were and paid sure both to loose his wages, and the hope of the Government nothing for of the promised Island. his lodging. B^ ^\jig^ Don-Quixote arose, and setting his left hand to his mouth, that the rest of his teeth might not fall out, he caught hold on the raignes of Rozinantes bridle with the other, who had never stird from his Master : (such was his loyalty and good nature) he went towards his Squire, that leaned, upon his Asse, with his hand under his cheeke, like one pensative and malecontent. And Don-Quixote seeing of him in that guise, with such signes of sadnesse, said unto him. Enow, Sancho, that one man is not more then another, if he doe not more then another. All those stormes that fall on us, are arguments that the time will waxe calme very soone, and that things will have better successe hereafter, for it is not possible that either good or ill be durable. ni] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE And hence wee may collect, that our misfortunes having CHAPTER lasted so long, our fortune and weale must bee likewise neare. ^^^^ And therefore thou ou^htest not thus to afflict thy selfe Wherein are for the disgraces that befall mee, seeing no part of them y^ca^ed the fall to thy lot. How not? quoth Sancho, was he whom p^|^"^ they tossed yesterday in the coverlet by fortune, any other betweene mans sonne then my Fathers? and the wallet that I want SanchoPanfa, to day, with all my provision, was it any others then mine !?^^ f^^ owne ? What, doest thou want thy wallet, Sancho ? quoth ^^ q^"^*^' Don-Quixote. I, that I doe, quoth he. In that manner adventures replyed Don-Quixote, wee have nothine left us to eate worthy the to day. That would be so, quoth Sancho, if we could not recitalL finde among these fields the hearbs whidi I have heard you say you know, wherewithall such unlucky Knights Errant as you, are wont to supply like needs. For all that, quoth Don -Quixote, I would rather have now a Suarter of a loafe, or a cake and two pilchers heads, then U the hearbs that Dioscorides describeth, although they came glozed by Doctor Laguna himselfe. But yet for all that, get upon the beast, Sancho the good, and follow me, for Grod, who is the provider for all creatures, will not faile us : And principally seeing we doe a worke so greatly to his service as we doe, seeing he doth not abandon the little flies of the aire, nor Uie wormelings of the earth, nor the spawn- lings of the water. And he is so mercifuU, that he maketh his Sunne shine on the good and the eviU, and raines on sinners and just men. You were much fitter, quoth Sancho, to be a Preacher, then for a Knight Errant. Knights Errant knew, and ought to know somewhat of all things, quoth Don-Quixote. For there hath beene a Knight Errant in times past, who would make a Sermon or discourse in the midst of a campe riall, with as good grace, as if he were graduated in the University of Paris: by which we may gather that the Lance never dulled the Pen, nor the Pen the Lance. Well then, quoth Sancho, let it be as you have said, and let us depieurt hence, and procure to finde a lodging for this night, where, I pray God, may be no cover- lets, and tossers, nor Spirits, nor inchanted Moores, for if there be, lie bestow the flocke and the hooke on the DevilL 159 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER Demand that of God, Sonne Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, m^ and lead me where thou pleasest, for I will leave the election Wherein are of our lodging to thy choice for this time : yet I pray thee rehearsed the give mee thy hand, and feele how many cheeke-teeth or ^^^"^ others I want in this right side of the upper jaw, for there I betweene ^^^'^ most paine. Sancho put in his fingers, and whilest he SanchoPan9a, felt him, demanded. How many cheeke-teeth were you accus- rS? jct ^^ tomed to have on this side ? Foure, quoth he, oesides the ^Si^OT* *^' hindermost ; all of them very whole and sound. See well adventures what you say. Sir, quoth Sancho. I say, foure, quoth Don- worthv the Quixote, if they were not five, for I never in my life drew or rediaiL lost any tooth, nor hath any fallen or beene worme-eaten, or mard by any rhume. Well then, quoth Sancho, you have in this nether part but two cheeke teeth and a halie, and in the upper, neither a halfe, nor any, for all there is as plaine as the palme of my hand. Unfortunate I (quoth Don- Quixote, hearing the sorrowfuU newes that his Squire told unto him) for I had rather lose one of mine armes, so it were not that of my sword. For Sancho, thou must wit, ^ that a mouth without cheeke teeth, is like a Mill without a milstone "* ; and a tooth is much more to bee esteemed then a Diamond. But wee which professe the rigorous Lawes of Armes, are subject to all these disasters : wherefore mount, gentle friend, and give the way, for I will follow thee what pace thou pleasest. Sancho obeyed, and roade the way where hee thought hee might finde lodging, without leav- ing the high way, which was there very much beaten. And going thus by little and little (for Don-Quixote his paine of his jawes did not suffer him rest, or make over- much hast), Sancho, to entertaine him and divert his thought, by saying some things, beganne to aboord him in the forme we meane to rehearse in the Chapter ensuing. 160 »] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE! CHAPTER V Of the discreet discourses passed betweene Sancho, and Ms Lord ; with the adventure succeed- ing of a dead body: and other notable occurrences. |E THINKS, good Sir, that all the mis- hap§ that bdfell lu these dayes past, are without any doubt in punishment of the sinne you committed against the order of Knighthood, by not pmbrmine the Oath you swore, not to eate bread on table clothes, nor to sport with the Queene, with all the rest which insueth, and you vowed to accomplish, untill you had wonne the Helmet of Malandrino, or I know not how the Moore is called, for I have foivotten his name. Thou saiest right, Sancho, quoth Don-Qiuxote : but to tell the truth in deede, I did wnolly forget it : and thou maiest likewise thinke certainly, that because thou didst not remember it to mee in time, that of the coverlet was inflicted as a punishment on thee. But I will make amends, for we have also manners of reconciliation for all things in the order of Knighthood. Why, did I by chance iweare any thing P quoth Sancho. It little imports^ q uoth Don-Quixote, that thou hast not swome : let it suffice uiat I know thou art not very deare from the fault of an accessary. And therefore at all adventures it will not bee ill, to provide a remedy. If it be so, quoth Sancbo, beware you doe not forget this ogaine, as you did that of the Oath, for if you should, perhaps those spirits will take againe a fonaie to solace themselves with mee, and pemdventure with you your selfe, if they see you obstinate. Being in these and other such discourses, the night over^ tooke them in the way, before they could discover any lodging, and that which wu wont of all, tbey were almost i 161 THE FIRST PART OF THE [lib. CHAPTER famisht with hunger, for by the losse of their wallets, they ^ lost at once both their provision and warder-house. And to Of the accomplish wholly this disgrace, there succeeded a certaine ^"^'^^t^iiwi *d^®^^^*re, which certainely hapned as wee lay it downe, betw^iw'"*^^ without any addition in the world, and was this : the night Sancho^ and ^ did shut up with some darkenesse, yet notwithstanding tiiey his Lord ; ' travailed on still, Sancho beleeving that since that was the iiith the high ^ay, there must be within a league or two in all reason suc^Mdimr some Inne. Travelling therefore as I have said, in a darke of a dead night, the Squire being hungry, and the Master having a body : and good stomacke, they saw comming towards them in the very other notable way they travelled, a great multitude of lights, resembling occurrences, nothing so well as wandering starres. Simcho beholding them, was strucke into a wonderfull amazement, and his Lord was not much better. The one drew his A^e-halter, the other held his horse, and both of them stoode still, beholding attentively what that might be, and they perceived that the lights drew still nearer unto them; and the more they approched, they appeared the greater ; at the sight Sancho dia tremble like one infected by the savour of Quicksilver: and Don-Quixotes haire did stand up like bristles, who animating himselfe a little, said, Sancho, this must be ques- tionlesse a great and most dangerous adventure, wherein it is requisite that I shew all my valour and stren^h. Unfor- tunate I, ^uoth Sancho, if by chance this adventure were of ghosts, as it seemeth to me tKat it is, where will there bee ribs to suffer it? Bee they never so great Ghosts, said Don- Quixote, I will not consent that they touch one haire of thy Krment : For if they jested with thee the other time, it was cause I could not leape over the walles of the yard : but now wee are in plaine field, where I may brandish my sword as I please. And if they inchant and benumme you as they did tne other time, quoth Sancho, what will it then availe us to bee in open field or no ? For aU that, replyed Don- Quixoto, I pray thee, Sancho, be of good courage, for ex- perience shall show thee how great my valour is. I will and please Grod, quoth Sancho : and so departing somewhat out of the way, they be^anne againe to view earnestly what that of the travelling bghts might be; and after a very little 162 in] HISTORIE OF DON QUIXOTE space, they espied many white thines, whose dreadful! visions CHAPTER Old in that very instant abate Sancho Panca his courage, and ^ now bemnne to chatter with his teeth, like one that had Of the the cold of a Quartane : and when they did distinctly per- ^"^^'^^^ . ceive what it was, then did his beating and chattering of betweeiuT" teeth increase, for they discovered about some twenty all Sancho^ and covered with white a horse-backe, with Tapers lighted in their his Lord ; hands, after which followed a litter covered over with blacke, ^^^ ^ and then insued other sixe a horse-backe, attired in mourn- gu^i^^dk« ing, and likewise their Mules, even to the very ground ; for of a dead they perceived that they were not horses, by the quietnesse body : and of their pace. The white folke rode murmuring some- other notaUe what among themselves with a low and compassive voice. ^>^<''"™°*^ Which strange vision, at such an houre, and m places not inhabited, was verv sufficient to strike feare into Sancho^s heart, and even in his Masters, if it had beene any other then Don-Quixote : but Sancho tumbled here and there, being quite overthrowne with terrour. The contrary hapned to his Lord, to whom in that same houre his imagination repre- sented unto him most lively, the adventure wherein he was, to bee such a one as hee ortimes had read in his bookes of Chivalry. For it is figured unto him, that the litter was a beere, wherein was carryed some grievously wounded or dead Knight, whose revenge was only reserved for him. And without makinff any other discourse, he set his Launce in the Rest, seated himselfe surely in his saddle, and put himselfe in the middest of the way, by which the white folke must forcibly passe, with g^;eat spirit and courwe. And when he saw them draw neare, he said with a lowde voice. Stand, Sir Knight, whosoever you be, and render mee account what you are? j&om whence you come? where you goe? and what that is which you carry in that beere ? for according as you shew, either you have done to others, or others to you some injury. And it is convenient and needfull that I know it, either to chastise you for the ill you have committed, or else to revenge you of the wrong which you have suffred. We are in hast, quoth one of the white men, and the Inne is farre off, and therefore cannot expect to give so full relation as you request : and with that, spurring his Mule, passed forward. 168 THE FIRST PART OF THE [ub. CHAPTER Don-Quixote, highly diadayning at the answere, tooke by the V bridle and held him, saying. Stay, prowde Knight, and. bee Of the better mannered another time, and give mee account of that ^**c'*«V^*^ which I demanded : if not, I defie you all to mortall battaile. betw^iw'***^ The Mule whereon the white-man rode, was somewhat Sancho, and fearefull and skittish, and being taken thus rudely by the hii Lord ; Bridle, shee tooke such a fright, that rising up on her hmder mth the legges, shee unhorsed her Rider. One of the Lackeyes that ~^2u^ came with them, seeing him fallen, beganne to revile Don- JJ^dead Quixote, who being by this thorowly enraged, without any body : and more adoe, putting his Launce in the Rest, runne upon one other notable of the Mourners, and threw him to the ground very sore