THE    TUDOR 
TRANSLATIONS 

KDITRl)    BY 

\V.  E.   HEN  LEV 


THE    HISTORY    OF 

DON  QUIXOTE 

OF    THE    MANCHA 

TRANSLATED      FROM     THE     SPANISH 
OF     MIGUEL      Di:     CERVANTES     BY 

THOMAS    SHELTON 

ANNIS    1612,    1620  S 

With  Introductions  by 
JAMES  FITZMAURICE-K^LLY 


v o  j .  r  M  K     in 


LONDON 

Published   by    DAVID   NUTT 

IN      THE      STRAND 

1896 


w? 


1/3 


Edinburgh :  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 


TO 
GILBERT      PARKER 

THIS     (;ilKETI\t; 
FROM     THE     BEYOND 


INTRODUCTION 

TO   THE    SECOND    PART 


HE  publication  of  Don  QuLrotc  gave 
Cervantes  rank  among  the  foremost 
European  figures.  From  the  outset  he 
was  accepted  as  a  cosmopolitan.  While 
Shakespeare  was  still  unknown  without 
London  and  Stratford,  while  Lope  de 
Vegans  fame  was  yet  Peninsular,  the  new 

masterpiece  was  printing  in  Italy  and  in  the  Low  Countries.  Cervantes  in 
And  the  author  took  frank  pleasure  in  his  popularity.  By 
the  mouth  of  that  credible  witness,  Sanson  Carrasco — 'a 
4  notable  Wag-halter,  leane-faced,  but  of  a  good  understand- 
'  ing ' — he  vaunts  his  vogue.  4  Upon  my  knowledge,"1  quoth 
the  Salamantine  graduate,  'at  this  day,  there  bee  printed 
'  above  twelve  thousand  copies  of  your  History :  if  not,  let 
'  Portugal,  Barcelona,  and  Valencia  speak,  where  they  have 

•  beene  printed,  and   the  report  goes,  that  they  are  now 
'  printing  at  Antwerp,  and  I  have  a  kinde  of  ghesse,  that 
'  there  is  no  Nation  or  Language  where  they  will  not  bee 
'  translated."     Nor  do  the  numbers  alleged  in  the  Sixteenth 
Chapter   lose   in   Shelton's   ungrudging   hands :  —  'I   have 

•  merited  to  be  in  the  Presse,  in  all  or  most  nations  of  the 

ix 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  '  world:  thirty  thousand  volumes  of  my  History  have  been 
DUCTION  «  printed,  and  thirty  thousand  millions  more  are  like  to  bee  if 
4  Heaven  permit.'  Since  but  a  month  is  supposed  to  pass 
between  the  close  "of  the  First  Part  and  the  opening  of  the 
Second,  the  literal  commentator  labours  greatly  to  account 
for  the  distribution  of  twelve — not  to  say  thirty — thousand 
copies  in  so  brief  a  time.  And,  at  first  blush,  it  seems 
that  Cervantes  must  certainly  err  in  detail.  Assuredly  no 
edition  of  his  book  appeared  at  Antwerp  in  the  writer's  life- 
time :  but  read  Brussels  for  Antwerp — a  confusion  not  in- 
conceivable, as  far  away  as  Madrid  is — and  the  boast  is 
justified.  A  Barcelona  reprint  of  1605  were  a  rarity  in- 
deed ;  yet  time  may  vindicate  this  first  announcement. 
Gayangos  and  Vedia,  the  Spanish  translators  of  Ticknor,1 
had  rumour  of  a  copy  dated  1605 — printed  at  Barcelona  or 
Pamplona — in  the  library  of  a  Hague  collector.  If  the  bruit 
be  true,  Cervantes  approves  his  exactitude.  Yet  with  all 
his  self-glory  he  returned  not  hastily  to  his  theme.  '  Though 
'  in  shew  a  Father,  yet  in  truth  but  a  step-father  to  Don 
'  Quixote ' :  thus  he  proclaims  himself  when  the  piece  opens, 
and  so  in  effect  he  remains  till  the  drop  falls.  '  Forse  altro 
cantera  con  miglior  plettro ' — in  such  phrase,  borrowed  from 
Orlando,  does  he  challenge  rivalry;  and,  by  his  dalliance, 
Ambitions  he  tempts  fate.  He  was  enamoured  of  other  emprises ;  Don 
Quixote  was  to  be  the  stepping-stone  to  success  in  every 
kind  :  the  pastoral,  the  short  story,  '  scene  individable  or 
poem  unlimited/  The  Prince  of  Courtesy  and  the  Flower 
of  Esquires  must  wait. 

1  Historia  de  la  literatura  espaftola  (Madrid,  1851-56),  iv.  p.  410. 
X 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

j  INTRO 

DUCTION 
So  far  as  concerns  authentic,  published  work,  Cervantes 

remains  silent  for  eight  whole  years,  save  for  the  punctual 
harvest  of  sonnets.  Yet  one  cannot  suppose  him  idle,  and  Achievements 
his  name  arrives  by  side-winds.  The  christening  of  the 
future  Philip  the  Fourth  and  the  mission  of  Lord  Notting- 
ham— better  known  as  Howard  of  Effing-ham,  Lord  High 
Admiral  against  the  Invincible  Armada — are  celebrated  in 
an  anonymous  pamphlet  published  at  Valladolid  in  1605 
under  the  style  of  Rclttcinn  dc  lt>  xuccdulo  en  la  Cludad  dc 
Valladolid.  Himself  a  singer  of  these  glories,  Gongora  pens 
a  brilliant  and  venomous  sonnet,  gibbeting  Cervantes  as  the 
writer  of  this  trifle;  and  other  testimony  upholds  the  ascrip- 
tion. A  Braver  matter  is  the  arrest  of  our  author  in  the 
summer  of  this  year  on  suspicion  of  being  concerned  in  the 
doing  to  death  of  one  Gaspar  de  E/peleta.  The  legend  that  Experiences 
makes  of  E/peleta  the  lover  of  Cervantes'  bastard  daughter, 
Isabel  de  Saavedra,  is  the  theme  of  more  than  one  play  and 
of  more  than  one  story;1  and  the  incidents  are  so  dramatic 
that  it  irks  one  to  find  Cervantes  released  on  bail  without 
more  said  or  done.  Hereto  succeeds  a  rumour  of  his  ruffling 

1  There  is  no  foundation  for  the  statement  that  Cervantes,  'upon  his 
return  from  Algiers,  in  1580,  assumed  the  additional  surname  of  Saavedra.' 
The  Dedication  to  the  Galatea  (1585)  is  signed  Miguel  de  Cervantes ;  the 
Saavedra  is  first  found  in  business  documents  during  his  stay  in  Seville. 
Equally  baseless  is  the  assertion  that  his  daughter  was  'his  constant  com- 
panion till  his  death.'  Cervantes  died  in  1616.  The  Marque's  de  Molfns, 
in  La  Scpultura  de  Miguel  de  Cervantes  (Madrid,  1870),  brings  evidence 
to  show  that  Isabel  became  a  Trinitarian  nun  in  1613  under  the  name  of 
SoT  Antonia  de  San  Jose" ;  her  mother,  Sor  Mariana  de  San  Jose,  apparently 
joined  at  the  same  time.  Fe"lix  Lope  de  Vega  Carpio's  natural  daughter, 
Sor  Marcela  de  San  Felix,  entered  the  order  in  1621. 

xi 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  it  in  gaming-houses,  his  doxy  (married)  beside  him  ;  and  the 
DUCTION  Memorias  de  Valladolid1  reveal  him  in  the  act.  To  the  years 
1605-8  must  be  assigned  such  exploits  as  the  sonnets  A  un 
Ermitano,  to  the  Conde  de  Saldana,  A  un  Valenton  metido  a 
pordiosero,  this  last  being  published  (without  the  writer's 
name)  in  the  Poesias  varias  de  grandes  Ingenios,  by  Josef 
Ascriptions  Alfay,  at  Zaragoza,  as  late  as  1654.  Doubtful  pieces  abound  : 
as  the  Third  Part  of  the  Relation  de  lo  que  pasa  en  la  Carcel 
de  Sevilla,  a  continuation  of  a  spirited  sketch  of  prison-life 
conceived  by  Cristobal  de  Chaves  twenty  years  before  the 
publication  of  Don  Quixote.  To  this  should  be  added  the 
Carta  a  Don  Diego  de  Astudillo  Carrillo,  en  que  se  le  da 
Cuenta  de  la  Fiesta  de  San  Juan  de  Alfaradie,  el  Dia  de  Sant 
Laureano,  a  letter  not  unworthy  of  the  Master.  Not  less 
characteristic  are  the  two  anonymous  romances,  the  one 
dedicated  to  Cortes  and  the  other  to  the  Great  Captain, 
first  printed  in  Engrava's  collection  in  1653.  The  Entremes 
de  Dona  Justina  y  Calahorra,  and  that  better  one  entitled 
De  los  Mirones,  are  almost  certainly  apocryphal,  as  is  also 
the  Entremes  de  los  Refranes :  all  three  ascribed  to  Cer- 
vantes by  that  solemn  wag  Adolfo  de  Castro,  who  further 
guarantees  the  authenticity  of  the  pastoral  Dialogo  entre 
Sillenia  y  Selanio.  A  discreeter  opinion  holds  the  four  for 
the  pranks  of  an  imitator,  seduced  by  a  famous  model.  That 
the  author  of  Don  Quixote  corrected  the  Madrid  reprint  of 
1608  is  a  wanton  fable  and  a  dangerous  deceit;  that  he 
Madrid  dwelt  in  the  capital  from  1609  till  his  death  is  certain.  On 

April  17  of  this  year  he  and   Antonio  Robles  y  Guzman 
are  the  first  recruits  of  the  Congregacidn  de  Esclavos  del 

1  British  Museum  Add.  MSS.,  20,812. 
xii 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Sanl.isimo  Sacramento,  founded  five  months  earlier  by  Fray      INTKO 

Alonso  tie  la  I'urilicacion  ;  and  in  1610  appears  the  ever-    DUCTION 

ready  sonnet  to    Hurtado   dc    Mendoza   (already   sun- 

Mel  iso  among  the  shepherds  of  the  Galatea)  in  the  Obras  del 

injiignc  Carallcro  Don  l)lc»r>  </r  Mendoza.     In  1611  he  joins 

the  new  christened  Academia  Selvaje  (once  Kl  Kirnaso),  so 

called  after  its  founder,  the  Francisco  de  Silva  celebrated  in 

the  Vlaje.     Meanwhile  he  is  busied  with  his  twelve  Nuirlax 

farm  plan's,  officially  approved   on   August  8,  1612.     The  Tin- 

most  of  them  masterpieces  in  little,  they  alone  had  sufficed  #JJJJ  '" 

for  fame:  their  inHiience  is  widespread,  and  their  descend- 

ants   multiply    in    every    literature.      The    adventures   of 

Rlnconcte  y    Cortadillo   and  the    whimsies  of  El   Coloquio 

(/c  los  P  err  os  have  travelled  the  world  over  as  the  most 

finished  expressions  of  the  picaresque  genius.     With  them 

journey  El  Casamicnto  cn^-anoso  and  La  Tia  finglda,  this 

last  first  published  at   Berlin   by  Franceson   and  Wolf  in 

1818.      Its   absence   from    the   printed   collection   of   1613 

leaves  its  authenticity   in   question  :    but  —  who    else  could 

have  written  it?     No  suggestion  is  forthcoming,  and,  per- 

force, the  story  ranks  among  Cervantes"  best.     In  our  own 

day  El  Llccnciado  Vldriera,  a  marvel  of  ingenious  fantasy, 

has  had  the  notable  distinction  of  translation  at  the  hands 

of  that  accomplished  Spanish  scholar,  M.  Foulche-Delbosc  ; 


an  odder  chance  moved  Caspar  Ens  to  transform  the  tale 

into    Latin,1  and,  disguised    as    Phantasio-Cratumcnox   xivc  Caspar  Eus 

1  Epidorfidum,  Lib.  v.  Pausilipus  sivc  tristium  cogitationum  &  molcsti- 
arum  Spongia  variis  incredibilibus  ac  iucunclis  historiis,  narrationibus,  faclis, 
dictis  tarn  seriisquam  iocosis  referta  ct  tarn  rccreandis  quam  erudiendis  animis 
accommodata  .  Colonise,  Apud  Michaelem  Demenium,  sub  signo  Nominis 
lesu.  Anno  MDCLIX.  Pp.  56-76. 

c  xiii 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  Homo  Vitreus,  it  was  issued  at  Koln  in  1659.  It  has  been 
DUCT  I  ON  said  that  El  Licenciado  Vidriera  may  be  taken  for  the  first 
sketch  of  Don  Quixote :  the  idea  is  untenable,  for  internal 
evidence  shows  it  to  have  been  written  after  the  novelist's 
return  from  Valladolid — that  is  to  say,  at  least  a  year 
after  the  Knight's  appearance  in  print.  The  germ  of  Don 
Quixote  is  to  be  sought,  if  anywhere,  in  the  Entremes  de  los 
Romances  (first  played,  it  is  said,  with  Lope's  Noche  toledana 
in  1604),  and  especially  in  the  verses  which  tell  the  craze 
of  Bartolo : — 

'  De  leer  el  Romancero 
Ha  dado  en  ser  caballero 
For  imitar  los  romances, 
Y  entiendo  que  a  pocos  lances 
Sera  loco  verdadero.' 

Middleton       Middleton  finds  his  account  in  La  Fuerza  de  la  Sangre  and 

Weber  La  Gitanilla  (this  last  the  heroine  of  Weber's  opera,  and  the 

Hugo  mother  of  Hugo's  Esmeralda).     Fletcher  rifles  the  Spaniard 

Fletcher          with  assurance  and  address.    From  Las  dos  Doncellas  he  lifts 

Lovers  Pilgrimage ;  from  La  Senora  Cornelia,  his  Chances ; 

from  El  Casamiento,  his  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife.    And 

thus,  in  every  land,  freebooters  of  genius  exploit  the  Cas- 

Tirso  tilian  originals :  so  that  a  contemporary,  Tirso  de  Molina, 

in  his  Cigarrales  de  Toledo,  glories  in  the  fame  of  6  nuestro 

Sir  Walter       espanol  Bocacio';  and  Scott,  as  betrayed  by  Lockhart,  'said 

'  that  the  Novelas  of  that  author  had  first  inspired  him 

'  with  the  ambition  of  excelling  in  fiction.' 

To  readers  in  1613  not  the  least  interesting  section  of  the 
Novelas  was  the  preface,  with  its  promise  of  a  sequel  to  the 
Knight's  adventures  and  to  the  Esquire  his  frolics  : — *  Veras, 
xiv 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

'  y  con  brevcdad,  dilatadas  las   ha/anas  de  Don  Quixote  y      INTRO- 
'  donairc-s  de  Sancho   Tan/a."      But  there  were  other  tasks    DUCTION 
more    pressing.      Before    1613    clo-  mnet    to    Diego 

Rosel  y  Fuenllana  mu4  he  despatched  to  Naples,  where  Juan 
Domingo  Roncallolo  will  produce  it  in  his  Partc  pr'uncra 
de  varias  ApKcadonet ;  and  not  less  urgent  are  the  futile 
(jiiatrains  to  Gabriel  IVre/  del  Barrio  Angulo.  This  while, 
Don  Quixote  tarries ;  nay,  is  superseded  in  1614  by  the 
Vltijc  dc!  Purnaxo,  an  imitation  from  the  Italian  of  Cesarc  The  Jnurnnj 
Caporali.  Neither  in  the  Dedication  to  Rodrigo  de  Tapia1  to  *'«ril«*«"* 
(then  a  boy  of  fifteen)  nor  in  the  Prologue  to  the  Curious 
Reader  is  there  mention  of  the  two  Manchegans.  They 
could  wait.  Of  more  concern  was  it  to  polish  the  seven 
stan/as  in  Saint  Teresa's  praise:  these  and  other  pieces,  of 
the  like  inspiration,  to  be  recited  in  presence  of  Lope  de 
Vega  at  the  Church  of  Carmen  Descal/o  in  October  1614. 
The  Curious  Reader  draws  his  own  inferences  from  in- 
disputable facts.  In  July  1613  the  Second  Part  had  been 
promised  'shortly' — 'con  brevcdad.''  It  interests  to  observe 
that  the  Governor  her  Husband  dates  his  famous  Letter  to 
his  wife  Teresa  Pan/a  'from  this  Castle  the  twentieth  of 
July  1614. '  A  twelvemonth  later  than  the  formal  pledge- 
given,  Cervantes  reaches  his  Thirty-Sixth  Chapter :  and  his 
book  contains  a  Seventy-Fourth !  It  seems  that  Knight 
and  Squire  hung  heavy  on  their  creator's  hands.  More  : 
there  were  fame  and  money  for  the  winning  on  the  boards. 
Hence  that  sorry  volume  entitled  Ocho  Comcdlns^  y  who  Playwright 
Kntrcmcscs  nucvos  (1615),  'sold  for  a  tolerable  price."  That 

1  Seven  years  later,  Lope  de  Vega  dedicated  El  Ingrato  arrcptniido  to  this 
same  Rodrigo  de  Tapia. 

xv 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  the  Licensers  dallied  with  Don  Quixote  gives  our  author  no 
DUCTION  pang:  to  the  last  his  part  of  stepfather  is  played  with  per- 
fection. And  so  he  passes  onward  to  fresh  adventures,  with 
the  brief  announcement  that  Don  Quixote,  booted  and 
spurred,  is  on  the  road  to  kiss  the  feet  of  his  Excellency, 
the  Conde  de  Lemos. 

The  First  Part,  appearing  in  1605,  had  succeeded  as  no 
classic  but  Childe  Harold  has  succeeded  since ;  and  the 
public  looked  for  a  sequel.  As  Shelton  delivers  the  report : — 
'  Some  more  loviall  than  Saturnists,  cry  out ;  Let 's  have 
'  more  Quixotismes :  Let  Don  Quixote  assault,  and  Sancho 
'  speake,  let  the  rest  bee  what  they  will,  this  is  enough.'1  But 
we  have  seen  Cervantes  absorbed  in  other  work  to  which 
Don  Quixote  must  give  place.  Add  that  his  posthumous 
romance — '  a  book  that  dares  to  vie  with  Heliodorus ' — los 
Trabajos  de  Persilesy  Sigismunda,  occupied  him.  Both  the 
Novelets  and  the  Comedias  promise  a  new  masterpiece  to  be 
called  Las  Semanas  del  Jardin  ;  and  in  the  Comedias  there  is 
mention  of  a  play,  El  Engano  a  los  Ojos,  a  certain  triumph  (if 
the  author  mistake  not) :  so  he  declares  himself,  punning  on 
the  title : — '  que  (si  no  me  engano)  le  ha  de  dar  contento.'  In 
Persiles — with  the  death-rattle  in  his  throat — he  announces 
the  appearance  of  Las  Semanas,  and  Elfamoso  Bernardo,  and 
La  Segunda  Parte  de  la  Galatea.  That  shepherdess  was  long 
a-coming.  Promised  in  1585  at  the  end  of  her  First  Part, 
she  is  pledged  to  reappear  in  the  Sixth  Chapter  of  the  First 
Don  Quixote  (1605)  ;  the  covenant  is  ratified  in  the  Prologue 
to  the  Second  Part  (1615) ;  and  in  the  Dedication  of  Persiles 
y  Sigismunda  she  is  promised  for  the  fourth  and  last  time. 
Of  these  four  conceptions — the  Semanas,  the  Engano,  the 

xvi 


Dreams 


The  Second 
Galatea 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Bernardo,  the  second   Galntcn — not  one  was  to   take-  life.      INTRO- 
Cervantes  died  as  he  had  lived,  brave,  confident,  and  blithe,    DUCTION 
prodigal  of  promises  and  invincible  in  hope.     It  delights  us 
to  forget  that  our  own  calendar  was  unreformed,  and  to 

t  that  he  died  on  the  same  day  with  Shakespeare  :  April  Cen.mt 
23,  1616.     Like  Saul  and  Jonathan,  they  *  were  lovely  and  S 
'  pleasant  in  their  lives,  and  in  their  death  they  were  not 
'  divided  :  they  were  swifter  than  eagles,  they  were  stronger 
4  than  lions/ 

Cervantes  sleeps  at  Madrid  in  the  Trinitarian  Convent 
of  the  Calk-  de  (Yintarranas.1  A  year  after  his  death 
appeared  the  Pcrulcs*  with  its  incomparable  Dedication  and  Persiles 
I'mlon-iie.-  '  One  foot  already  in  the  stirrup/  he  mounts  for 
the  last  ride.  So,  the  instinct  undininied  by  pain,  he  quotes 
with  glee  from  an  old  romance : — 

'  Puesto  ya  el  pie  en  el  estribo. 
Con  las  niisias  de  la  muerte, 
Ciran  senur  i'sta  te  escribo.' 

Some  hundred  years  later,  the  same  note  of  immitigable 

1  The  story  of  Cervantes'  remains  being  hawked  to  and  fro  between  the 
Calle  de  Cantarranas  and  the  Calle  del  Ilumilladero  is  another  idle  invention. 
The  convent  in  the  Calle  de  Cantarranas  was  founded  by  Francisca  Romero 
in  1612  ;  the  nuns  moved  to  the  Calle  del  Humilladcro  in  1639,  but  returned 
within  two  years  to  the  Calle  de  Cantarranas.  The  facts  are  accurately  given 
by  I'ascual  M:idoz,  Diccionario  gtografico  -  estadistico  -  historico  de  Espaiia 
(Madrid,  1846-50),  and  completely  refute  the  current  legend,  which  is  due 
to  a  rare  slip  of  Navarrcte's  (1819),  mechanically  reproduced  by  other 
biographers. 

-  The  epitaph  on  Cervantes,  which  prefaces  the  Persi/es,  is  by  Francisco  de 
Urbina,  brother-in-law  of  Lope  de  Vega.     This  fact  lends  colour  to  the 
notion  that  Cervantes'  mother,  Lenor  de  Cortinas  (of  Barajas),  and  L< 
first  mother-in-law,  Magdalena  de  Cortinas  (also  of  Barajas),  were  cousins  in 
some  degree. 

xvii 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-     gaiety  and  the  same  courteous  air  of  dignity  and  valour 

DUCT  I  ON  recur  in  the  Journal  of  a  Voyage  to  Lisbon.    Like  Cervantes, 

Henry  Fielding  too  died  of  dropsy,  and  his  reproduction  of  the  great 

Cervantesque  manner  places  Captain  Richard  Veal  nigh  on 

a  level  with  that  student  met  on  the  road  between  Esquivias 

and  Madrid.      With  the  completion  of  the  Persiles,  the 

writer's  work   ends  :    his  sonnets  to  Juan  Yagiie   and  to 

the  nun  Alfonsa  Gonzalez  de  Salazar  are  of  little  moment. 

His  Bernardo  and  the  rest  are  lost.     Henceforth,  the  dust 

of  immortality  settles  on  him. 

II 

He  had  lived  long  enough  to  learn  that  no  writer,  how- 
Avellaneda  ever  great,  can  afford  to  palter  with  his  pledges  and  to  trifle 
with  his  fame.  In  the  summer  of  1614  Felipe  Roberto  of 
Tarragona  issued  a  small  quarto  entitled  Segundo  Tomo  del 
Ingenioso  Hidalgo  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha  que  contiene  su 
tercera  Salida :  y  es  la  quinta  Parte  de  sus  A  Venturas.  Its 
avowed  author  was  the  Licentiate  Alonso  Fernandez  de 
Avellaneda,  '  natural  de  la  villa  de  Tordesillas.'  The  name 
is  assumed,  nor  can  the  puzzle  of  authorship  be  solved.  It  is 
lightly  said  that  the  publication  of  this  sham  sequel  was 
purely  malicious.  But  this  is  doubtful.  If  imitation  be  the 
sincerest  form  of  flattery,  then  was  Avellaneda  no  enemy 
As  He  Seemed  but  a  devotee.  His  'fecundity  of  invention1  is  unwarily 
admitted  by  a  difficult  critic  like  Salva.  His  book  was 
hailed  a  triumph  by  Le  Sage,  who  found  the  second  Sancho 
'plus  original  meme  que  celui  de  Cervantes':  and  he  mani- 
fests his  good  faith  by  producing  a  sleek  Gallic  version 
Pope  that  inspired  six  lines  in  Pope's  Essay  on  Criticism  : — 

xviii 


to  Salva 


Le  Sage 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

'  <  hire  un  ;i  time  L;i  Mancha's  knight,  they  say,  INTRO- 

A  certain  bard  encuunfriiiir  <»u  the  way,  DUCT1ON 

Discoursed  in  terms  as  just,  with  looks  as  sage, 
As  e'rr  could  Dennis,  of  the  Grecian  st: 
Concluding  all  \\ere  desperate  sots  and  fools, 
\Vlio  durst  depart  from  Aristotle's  rule:-.' 

(iermond  ili-  LuvigiK1  has  likewise  paid  his  tribute  to  the  Germond  de 
imitation  in  a  new  French  rendering.  The  judgment  of  tlu 
three  experts  is  not  to  he  dismissed  curtly  ;  and,  in  truth — 
considered  as  a  mere  continuation — Avellaneda's  exploit  is  far 
from  contemptible.  That  it  should  lack  initiative  is  a  thing 
of  course ;  and  even  the  fervid  Lavigne  confesses  his  hero 
an  '  imitateur  servile/  Nor  may  it  be  gainsaid  that,  de- 
spite his  many  merits,  he  shames  his  model  by  making  of  As  He  Is 
Don  (Quixote  a  commonplace  lunatic  and  of  Sancho  a  plain 
buffoon.  Yet  the  plagiary  is  persuaded  that  he  carries  out 
Cervantes'  ideas  with  conspicuous  success.  Accepting  the 
theory  of  malice,  llosell  and  Braunfels  plead  that  Avellaneda 
sought  to  avenge  the  insult  conveyed  in  the  very  name  of 
Sancho  Panza.  But,  in  that  case,  why  should  he  wait  nine 
years  to  take  the  field  ?  The  facts  yield  an  explanation  His  Motive 
simpler,  and  therefore  preferable.  Cervantes  had  left  his 
intention  in  doubt,  and  his  last  words  are  almost  an  invita- 
tion to  another  writer  to  continue  the  chronicle  of  the  Knight 
Adventurous.  Avellaneda  took  him  at  his  word.  Near  upon 
nine  years  had  gone,  and  still  Cervantes  lay  coy,  though, 
as  he  tells  us,  his  Second  Part  was  hoped  for,  and  though 
there  had  been  nine  editions  of  his  First.  Was  not  it 
natural  to  infer  that  he  had  abandoned  the  chivalrous 
Alonso,  even  as  he  deserted  the  chaste  Galatea  ?  Here  was 
an  opportunity  neglected  !  That  it  would,  sooner  or  later, 

xix 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  be  used  was  a  thing  most  certain.  Then  why  not  by 
DUCTION  Avellaneda  ?  Like  enough,  Avellaneda  had  his  book  already 
written  when,  in  the  preface  to  the  Novelas,  the  promise  of 
the  genuine  sequel,  '  shortly,'  met  his  eye.  A  magnanimous 
man  had  laid  his  work  aside,  regretting  his  lost  time.  At 
least  he  had  been  civil  to  him  whose  ideas  he  had  pilfered. 
But  Avellaneda's  character  was  beneath  his  talent.  One  of 
those  footpads,  as  Viardot  says,  '  qui  inj  urient  les  gens  qu'ils 
detroussent,'  he  grew  furious  at  seeing  the  bread  taken  out 

His  Preface  of  his  mouth.  His  preface  is  the  outburst  of  a  balked 
schemer,  the  attempt  of  a  man  in  the  wrong  to  put  himself 
right  by  robustious  invective.  His  profession,  borne  out  by 
internal  evidence,  that  his  aim  and  Cervantes'  are  one,  is  em- 
phatic:— 'Tenemos  ambos  un  fin,  que  es  desterrar  la  perniciosa 
licidn  de  los  vanos  libros  de  Cavallerias.'  But  he  candidly 
avows  that  his  immediate  object  is  money  : — '  Quexese  de  mi 
trabajo  la  ganancia  que  le  quito.'  His  reference  to  Lope  de 
Vega  is  a  blind,  or  at  least  an  afterthought,  of  no  more 
pertinence  than  his  taunts  that  Cervantes  is  now  '  as  old  as  the 
Castle  of  San  Cervantes,'  that  he  is  a  surly,  maimed  jail-bird, 
for  ever  in  a  heat  with  all  and  everything,  so  friendless  that  he 
must  needs  write  his  own  eulogistic  Sonnets  Prefatory  under 
cover  of  Prester  John  or  the  Emperor  of  Trebizond.  The  shafts 

The  Reply  went  home.  Cervantes,  refusing  to  '  be-Asse  him,  be-madman 
him,  and  be-foole  him,'  bitterly  resents  the  sneer  at  his  age 
and  his  wounds.  With  his  infallible  insight,  he  seizes  upon 
his  enemy's  admission,  and  returns  an  angry  defiance  : — '  Tell 
(  him  too,  that  for  his  menacing,  that  with  his  booke  he 
'  will  take  away  all  my  gain,  I  care  not  a  straw  for  him.' 
Mayhap  there  was  a  real  basis  for  the  grievance  that 
xx 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Avcllancda  states : — 'El  ofender  a  mi.'     The  rational  pro-      INTRO- 

bability  is  that  he  was  a  petty  playwright,  hit  by  a  flying    DUCTinN 

shot  in  the  First  Part,  who  imagined  in  his  self-importance 

that  the  attack  on  the  dramatists  was  directed  at  him.    But, 

as  he  was  buoyed  by  the  hope  of  booty,  there  had  been  no 

abusive  prologue,  had  not  Cervantes  published  that  he  was 

about  to  claim  his  own.     Clearly  it  had  been  impolitic  to 

attack  the  true  author  of  Don  Quixote.    The  less  said  of  him, 

the  greater  the  chance  of  passing  the  spurious  continuation 

as  the  true. 

Ill 

Critics,  commentators,  and  mareVnesters  at  large,  have  Who  was  He? 
vainly  sought  for  Avellaneda  among  the  important  figures  of 
the  time.  More  probable  is  it  that  he  was  a  needy  scribbler 
writing  to  lill  his  purse,  not  to  gratify  his  spite;  and  the 
mystery  that  enshrouds  him  is  the  consequence  of  his  rank 
obscurity.  Suspicion  has  fastened  on  the  names  of  Aliaga,  the 
King's  confessor,  and  of  Lope  cle  Vega.  Cervantes  says  of  his 
rival  that  '  his  language  is  Arragonian  :  for  sometimes  he 
writes  without  Articles/  Now,  Aliaga  was  an  '  Arragonian. ' 
The  difficulty  is  to  find  him  a  grievance  in  the  First  Part. 
Acquainted  with  Lope,  he  was  not  himself  a  dramatist :  so 
the  plea  is  invented  that  he  was  aggrieved  by  the  character 
of  Sancho  Panza — his  own  nickname — which  brought  upon 
him  ridicule  and  contempt.  This  explanation  explains 
nothing.  Cervantes'  offence,  if  it  were  ever  real,  must  Not  Aliaga 
have  been  unwitting.  When  he  was  writing  Don  QitLrofc, 
he  could  never  have  heard  of  Aliaga,  then  a  simple  monk 
unknown  outside  his  convent  at  Zaragoza.  Further:  for  one 
who  felt  outraged  by  the  creation  of  Sancho,  it  was  surely 

(1 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-     a  mad  revenge  to  make  Sancho  grosser,  more  disreputable, 

DUCTION  more  offensive!  'The  very  same  Sancho  of  whom  you 
4  speake,"*  writes  Cervantes  as  interpreted  by  Shelton,  '  must 
'  be  some  notorious  rogue,  some  greedy-gut,  and  notable 
'  theefe.'  Again,  the  evidence  for  the  nickname  is  bad. 
Aliaga  is  once  called  Sancho  Panza  in  a  satire  by  Juan  de 

Villamediana  Tassis  y  Peralta  Munatones,  Conde  de  Villamediana,  under 
the  date  of  1621.  But  it  is  not  alleged  that  he  was  ever  so 
called  before  or  after ;  and  it  is  obvious  that,  in  this  instance, 
the  name  was  about  sixteen  years  older  than  its  appropria- 

Pellicer  tion.  Resourceful  as  ever,  Pellicer  comes  pat  with  certain 

verses  which,  if  they  prove  anything,  prove  that  Aliaga  was 
not  Avellaneda.  For  if,  as  the  ingenious  critic  assumes, 
Avellaneda  be  here  referred  to  as  Sancho  Panza,  it  follows 
that  he  competed  in  a  poetic  tourney  at  Zaragoza  in 
1614.  Now,  it  happens  that  the  list  of  the  competitors 
survives,  and  Aliaga's  name  is  not  contained  in  it.  It  may 
be  worth  while  to  refute  another  argument,  most  con- 
fidently used  by  supporters  of  the  Aliaga  theory.  There  is 
alleged  to  exist  a  striking  identity  of  style  (not  apparent  to 
the  profane)  between  Avellaneda's  book  and  the  Venganza 

Quevedo  de  la  Lengua  espanola,  a  scurrilous  reply  to  Quevedo^s  Cuento 
de  Cuentos.  And  the  syllogism  is  eked  out  with  courage. 

Resell  It  is  positively  known,  asserts  Rosell — ( se  sabe  de  positive ' 

— that  Aliaga  wrote  the  Venganza.  It  is  not  so.  '  Se  sabe 
de  positive'  nothing  of  the  kind  :  for  the  solid  reason  that 
Aliaga  had  been  more  than  a  twelvemonth  in  his  grave  when 
Quevedo  issued  the  Cuento  de  Cuentos.  Aliaga  died  on 
December  3,  1626 :  the  Cuento  first  appeared  at  Barcelona 
in  1629.  Again,  the  Venganza  quotes  that '  infernal  libro,' 
xxii 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

guevc-doV  AW,/}m-,  which  was  not  published  till  1627.     So      INTRO 
much  for  the-  connexion  between  Avellaneda  and  Aliugu  on    DUCTION 
the  one  hand  and  Aliaga  and  Cervantes  on  the  other. 

It  remains  to  consider  the  case  of  Lope  de  Vega.  Of  all  con-  Still 
temporary  writers,  he  was  the  least  open  to  the  temptation  pe 
which  overcame  Avellaneda.  The  idol  of  his  nation,  he  could 
coin  money  as  he  chose :  for  all  his  writings  sold.  But  the 
essential  condition  was  that  they  should  bear  his  name.  Thus, 
he  was  careful  to  avow  the  works  of  Tome  de  Ikirgtiillos.  That 
he  wrote  the  spurious  continuation  of  Don  Quixote  for  greed 
of  gain  is  an  absurdity.  Had  he  wished  to  chasten  Cervantes, 
he  hail  gone  to  work  very  differently.  Connected,  it  may  be, 
by  marriage,  the  two  had  been  friends  till  the  publication  of 
the  Dragontca  sonnet  in  1602.  A  breach  occurred  in  1603, 
and  it  is  sought  to  saddle  Lope  with  the  responsibility.  Facts 
cannot  be  adjusted  to  this  theory.  In  the  famous  letter  de- 
claring that  nobody  is  'so  foolish  as  to  praise  Don  Qiiiroti',' 
Lope  proceeds  to  say  that  satire  is  to  him  'as  odious  as  are 
my  little  books  to  Almendure/  or  my  plays  to  Cervantes."  It 
is  to  be  noted  that  in  the  Vlaje  Cervantes  stoops  to  flatter 
Almendare/ — '  su  ilustre  musa."  The  sonnet — 'Lope  dicen  Cervantes' 
que  vino*1 — in  the  Colombina  Library  at  Seville  is  adjudged 
by  Seilor  Asensio  to  Cervantes ;  and,  despite  the  thing's 
vulgarity,  this  ascription  is  probable.  Barrera  proffers  a 
likely  theory  :  that  the  sonnet  was  an  impromptu,  and  was 
handed  about,  and  that  Lope  got  wind  of  it ;  hence  his  letter 
to  the  Duque  de  Sessa  (or,  some  hold,  to  an  anonymous 
doctor).  Howbeit,  the  earliest  public  attack  is  delivered  by 
Cervantes.  In  the  Prologue  to  his  First  Part  he  says,  with  a 
sneer  which  Shelton  conveys  : — '  So  likewise  shall  my  Book 

xxiii 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  '  want  sonnets  at  the  beginning,  at  least  such  sonnets  whose 
DUCTION  '  Authors  bee  Dukes,  Marquesses,  Earles,  Bishops,  Ladies, 
'  or  famous  Poets.'  The  jape  is  directed  at  Lope's  Rimas  with 
its  prefatory  pieces  by  the  Principe  de  Fez,  the  Duque  de 
Osuna,  the  Marques  de  la  Adrada,  the  Conde  de  Villamor, 
and  more  nobles  :  the  '  Ladies '  being  none  other  than  that 
Marcela  Trillo  de  Armenta  and  that  Isabel  de  Figueroa 
who  wrote  preliminary  verses  for  El  Isidro.  Cervantes  pro- 
claims his  'invective  against  Bookes  of  Knighthood,  a  subject 
4  whereof  Aristotle  never  dreamed,  Saint  Basil  said  nothing, 
4  Cicero  never  heard  any  word.'  By  an  unlucky  coincidence 
these  three — Aristotle,  Saint  Basil,  Cicero — are  quoted  by 
Lope  de  Vega  in  El  Isidro.  4  Neither  have  I  any  thing  to 
4  cite  on  the  margent,  or  note  in  the  end,'  scoffs  Cervantes, 
4  and  much  lesse  doe  I  know  what  Authors  I  follow,  to  put 
4  them  at  the  beginning  as  the  custome  is,  by  one  letter 
4  of  the  ABC  beginning  with  Aristotle,  and  ending  in 
Parodies  '  Xenophon,  or  in  Zoylus  or  Zeuxis.'  A  palpable  hit ! 
Lope's  El  Isidro  is  seamed  with  ostentatious  marginal  notes, 
and  El  Peregrino  en  su  Patria  displays  a  catalogue  of 
authors  cited  in  alphabetical  array.  Nor  does  Cervantes 
stop  here.  He  provides  4  an  other  notable  notation,  saying 
4  the  river  Tagus  was  so  called  of  a  king  of  Spaine,  it 
4  takes  its  beginning  from  such  a  place,  and  dies  in  the 
4  Ocean  Seas,  kissing  first  the  Walles  of  the  famous  Citie 
4  of  Lisborne :  And  some  are  of  opinion  that  the  sands 
Jibes  4  thereof  are  of  gold,  etc.'  This  is  a  precise  transcript  of  a 

passage  in  Lope's  Arcadia.     Cervantes  continues : — 4  If  of 
4  the  instability  of  friends,  thou  hast  at  hand  Cato  freely 
4  offering  his  distichon  : — 
xxiv 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

'  "  Donee  eris  /,W»>  multns  numorahis  nmicos.  I  NTR<  >- 

Tempora  si  fuerint  nuliila,  solus  eris."  '  DUCT1ON 

The  pedant  triumphs  in  his  recognition  of  a  passage  from 
the  7V/.s7/V/.;  but  the  writer  thinks  not  of  Ovid  nor  of 
Dionysius  Cato.  His  point  is  made  when  he  reminds  his 
render  that  Felix  is  Lope's  name.  Once  more  in  the  clipped 
dt'cimas  of  Urganda  the  admonition  intrudes  : — 

'  No  indiscretos  hierogli — 
Estampes  en  el  escu — .' 

These  'emblems  vain*1  are  incontestably  the  nineteen  castles  on  Lope's  Arms 

Lope's  shield,  as  given  in  the  Aut>\Tica  and  the  Dnig'ontca  of 

1602,  in  the  Arcadia  of  1603,  and  in  the  Percgrlno  of  1604. 

It  smacks  of  blasphemy  to  think  that  Lope's  mistress,  the 

Manchegao  Lucinda,  is  hidden  beneath  the  obvious  anagram  His  Mi 

of  Dulcinea :  she  with  *  a  little  unsavorie  sent,  somewhat 

rammish   and    manlike.'*      But   the   transformation   of  the 

'  Unieus  aut  peregrinus "  of  the  Peregrinus  title-page  into 

the  '  Unico  ysolo"*  of  A  mad  is"  burlesque  sonnet  is  patent. 

In  the  Twenty-First  Chapter  of  the  Fourth  Book,  Lope's 

worst  play,  La   Ingratitud  rcng'adti,   is  excepted   from    the 

general   censure.      Vet,  writes  Cervantes,  *  strangers,  which 

"  doe  with  much  punctuality  observe  the  method  of  Comedies, 

'  hold  us  to  be  rude  and  ignorant.'1     Thus,  with  fine  adroit-  His  Plays 

ness,  he  uses  against  Lope  the  very  words  of  the  Arte  nucvo 

dc  haccr  Comcdlas : — 

'  M;i<  ninjjuno  de  todos  llamar  puedo 
M  ifl  tnirh(int  que  yo,  pues  contra  el  artc, 
Me  atrevu  ;i  dar  preceptos,  y  me  dejo 
Llevar  de  la  vulgar  corriente  adonde 
Me  llameii  iynorante  Italia  y  Francia.' 

XXV 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  This  persistence  in  attack  shows  Cervantes1  disposition 
DUCTION  towards  his  popular  rival.  Vainly,  in  his  Second  Part, 
does  he  profess  that  'I  adore  his  wit,  admire  his  workes, 
and"* — with  a  knavish  glance  at  the  private  life  of  Lope 
who,  like  himself,  was  neither  saint  nor  Joseph — 'his  con- 
tinuall  vertuous  imployment.1  Good  taste  apart,  there  is 
no  more  reason  to  object  to  these  assaults  on  Lope  than  to 
condemn  Lope^s  sole  ripost.  Yet  to  Cervantes  belongs  the 
credit  of  publishing  the  quarrel  to  the  world  ;  and  the  world 
is  flattered  by  the  confidence.  Contemptuous  of  brawls, 

His  Retort       Lope's  resentment  is  shown  mainly  by  disdainful  coldness. 

Contempt*.  A  hunjre(j  methods  of  reply  were  ready  to  his  hand,  for 
Cervantes  was  far  from  invulnerable ;  yet  we  know  that  in 
1612  he  speaks  kindly  of  his  assailant.  But  that  he  wrote 
Avellaneda's  text  (which  delivers  no  assault  against  Cervantes) 
or  his  preface  (which  does)  is  a  theory  unsupported  by  a 
tittle  of  evidence.  It  were  as  reasonable  to  charge  Cer- 
vantes with  treachery  in  the  matter  of  the  Conde  de  Lemos, 
to  whom  Lope  had  once  been  private  secretary.  A  stroke  of 
easy  sophistry,  and  Cervantes  is  indicted  an  intriguer :  the 
fact  being  that,  in  each  instance,  the  accusation  is  ridiculous. 
On  Cervantes1  own  showing,  his  foe  was  an  '  Arragonian ' : 
Lope  was  a  Madrileilo.  And  his  accusers  refute  themselves. 
Their  first  contention  is  that  Avellaneda  published  with  a 
deliberate  purpose  of  fraud ;  their  second,  that  his  aim  was 
to  ruin  the  characters  out  of  spite  to  their  original  author. 
The  two  arguments  are  incompatible:  if  one  be  true,  the 
other  must  be  false.  Again,  they  lay  it  down  that  Avel- 
laneda's  is  the  worst  book  in  the  world ;  and,  in  the  next 
breath,  aver  that  the  most  likely  man  to  have  written 
xxvi 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

it  was  Lope  de  Y<  e  Cervantes  himself,  the  greatest      INTRO- 

figure  in  Spanish  literature.     In  truth,  the  charge  against    DUCTION 

Lope  has  nothing  to  sustain  it  but  the  fact  that  —  once,  and 

once  only,  in  a  private  letter  —  that   spoiled    child  of  the  Ilislnnocence 

Spanish  public  fretted  under  Cervantes'  satire,  and  pouted 

at  the  vogue  of  Don  Q/iLrote.      It  is  most  unlikely  that, 

watched  by  many  toadies  and  more  enemies,  he  could  ha 

escaped  identification  for  twenty  years.     Not  less  unlikely 

is  a  conspiracy  of  silence  among  the  publishers,  the  licensers, 

the  transcribers,  printers,  and  compositors  who  were  in  the 

sic  ret.      Still  more  incredible  is  it  that  Pedro  de  Torres 

Uamila  in  his  Xj>ongi<i  and  the  host  of  lampooners  should 

fail  to  find  the  skeleton  with  their  muck-rakes.     Lastly,  it 

is  inconceivable  that  an  old  soldier  of  the  Armada  should 

jeer  the  wounds  of  an  old  soldier  of  Lepanto.     That  Lope 

expressed    no    displeasure   at  the  attacks    on    Cervantes    is 

true:   but  why  should  he?     Cervantes  never  rebuked  Lop 

ruffianly  libellers.     Meanwhile  the  theory-mongers  ask  you  The  Madness 

.  f  i  rvti         -n      •     '  of  them  that 

to  reject  to-day  the  nostrum  of  yesterday.     Ihus  Benjumea 


in  1861  proves  (with  much  erudition)  Avellaneda  to  be  a 
Dominican  monk,  Blanco  de  Paz;  and  in  1875  (with  yet 
more  erudition)  reveals  him  as  another  Dominican,  Andres 
Perez.  Adolfo  de  Castro  —  the  forger  of  El  Jiuxctip'u', 
modestly  fathered  by  him  on  Cervantes  —  first  demonstrates 
that  Avellaneda  must  be  Aliaga  and  no  other  ;  and,  later, 
holds—  ('with  equal  confidence  and  enthusiasm,'  says  Senor 
Maine/  drily)  —  that  the  culprit  is  Juan  Unix  de  Alaredn. 
Senor  Maine/  himself  thought  it  certain  —  'nosotros  tenemos 
por  eierto'  —  that  Lope  de  Vega  was  the  offender;  but  that 
\vas  in  1S76.  It  remains  to  say  plainly  that,  if  Cervantes 

xxvii 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  did  well  to  be  angry,  he  had  done  better  to  exclude  his 
DUCTION  irritation  from  his  text.  Dignity  apart,  he  has  conferred  a 
factitious  importance  upon  Avellaneda  and  Avellaneda's  book. 
The  false  sequel  is  still  reprinted,  and  is  read  by  many 
who  take  it  for  a  vehicle  of  grave  ridicule,  like  Joseph 
Andrews ;  and  Cervantes'  critics  and  commentators  waste 
themselves  in  a  jack-oManthorn  chase  after  a  writer  of  no 
great  brilliancy,  whose  sole  title  to  importance  is  that  he 
unwittingly  obliged  Cervantes  to  complete  his  masterpiece 
and  utterly  establish  his  right  to  immortality. 


The  Result 


The  Second 
Part 


IV 

For  assuredly  the  effect  of  Avellaneda's  appearance  was  to 
hasten  his  hand.  But  for  the  intrusion  of  the  '  Arragonian,' 
Don  Quixote  might  have  been  discarded  in  favour  of  Las 
Semanas  del  Jardin ;  or,  at  best,  had  remained  unfinished 
while  Cervantes  was  inventing  a  final  burlesque  in  the  pas- 
toral sort.  A  trace  of  this  fatuous  intention  survives  in  the 
Sixty-Seventh  Chapter : — '  He  buy  sheepe,  and  all  things  fit 
'  for  our  pastorall  vocation,  and  calling  my  selfe  by  the  name 
'  of  the  Shepheard  Quixotiz,  and  thou  the  Shepheard  Pansino, 
'  we  will  walke  up  and  down  the  Hills,  thorow  Woods 
'  and  Meadowes,  singing  and  versifying.  ...  I  beleeve  the 
4  Bachelor  Samson,  and  Master  Nicholas  the  Barber  will  no 
'  sooner  have  scene  it,  but  they  will  turn  shepheards  with 
'  us :  and  pray  God  the  Vicar  have  not  a  minde  to  enter 
'  into  the  sheep-coat  too,  for  hee  is  a  merry  Lad  and  jolly.' 
To  such  pale  designs  Avellaneda's  impertinence  put  an 
end,  and  the  true  Don  Quixote  was  issued  in  the  winter  of 

xxviii 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

1615.     The  close  is  hurried,  confused,  unworthy  of  the  rest.      INT1K) 
IK'iv  Cervantes  shows  at   his  worst,  overcome    by  temper,    DUCTION 
mismanaging  his  characters,  neglecting  them  solely  that  '  the 
4  world  shall  see  what  a  lyar  this  moderne  Historiographer 
'  is.'     The  screed  of  abuse  is  tedious.     Cervantes  so  far  los 
his  self-respect  as  to  credit  his  enemy  with  a  Second  Edition,  a 
slip  that  misled  Ebert.    He  denounces  the  'filthy  and  obscene  Defects 
things '  in  his  rival's  work.     '  Let  it,'  he  clamours,  '  let  it  be 
cast  into  the  very  lowest  pit  of  Hell.'     And  the  very  Devil 
himself  declares  that  *  it  is  so  vile  a  Book  that,  had  I  my 
'  self  expressly  composed  it,  I  could  never  have  enconntred 
'  worse.'     But  the  essential  part  of  the  story  is  unaffected. 
To  the  Fifty-Ninth  Chapter  no  book  was  ever  more  suc- 
cessful in  disproving  the  truth  of  Sanson  Carrasco's  report  Merit- 
that   '  Second   Parts  are  never  good.'     The  enchantments 
of  the  Trifaldi  are  plainly  modelled  after  F^plundlan  and 
Lisimrte,   the   Fifth   and    Seventh   of   the   Amadis    seric 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  burlesque   of  Atnaili.f  is   less  clo- 
the plan  is  ampler,   the  variety  of  incident  is  richer,  and 
the  development  shows  a  liner  sense  of  finish.     Considered 
as  an  exercise  in  style,  the  Second  Part  outshines  the  First  Style 
at  all  points.     The  episode  of  Marcela,  with  its  reasonin 
borrowed  from  Castiglione's  //  Cortigitmo^  is  spotted  with 
cultivmo,  as  also  are  many  of  the  speeches  of  Cardenio  and 
Dorotea.     Save  in  copies  of  verses  or  in  speeches  like  the 
Trifaldi's,  intended  to  bring  contempt  upon  Gongora  and 
his  horde  of  verbal  contortionists,  the  mincing  affectations  of 
the  culto  sect  are  mostly  absent  from  the  Second.     As  the 
burlesque  of  the  Knight-Errantries  is  let  drop,  so  the  verbose 
parodies  of  Feliciano  de  Silva  and  his  brethren  vanish  with 
e  xxix 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  them.  Again,  the  construction  is  incomparably  more  solid, 
DUCTION  and  the  improvement  reacts  upon  the  writing.  The  author 

Construction  admits  that  his  interminable  insertions  are  a  fault  in  art, 
and  henceforth  he  prepares  his  episodes  and  incidents  with  a 
vigilant  eye  for  probability,  conviction,  and  dramatic  effect. 
That  is  a  sound  judgment  which  holds  the  First  Part  wealthier 
in  broad  farce,  the  Second  in  the  higher  comedy.  But,  in 
a  letter  to  Southey  (August  19,  1825),  Lamb  blasphemes 

Charles  Lamb  contrariwise : — '  Marry,  when  somebody  persuaded  Cervantes 
'  that  he  meant  only  fun,  and  put  him  upon  writing  that 
'  unfortunate  Second  Part  with  the  confederacies  of  that 
'  unworthy  duke  and  most  contemptible  duchess,  Cervantes 
'  sacrificed  his  instinct  to  his  understanding.1  Apart  from 
metaphysical  differences  between  instinct  and  understand- 

Characters  ing,  the  portrait  of  the  Duchess — the  Master's  sole  great 
lady — ranks  among  the  Master's  triumphs.  Gines  de  Pasa- 
monte  reappears,  more  brilliant,  more  witty  in  intention, 
'  his  left  eye,  and  halfe  his  cheeke  covered  with  a  patch  of 
'  green  Taffata,1  his  '  prophesying  Ape  and  the  Motion  of 
'  Melisendra '  both  at  hand.  The  loss  of  Palomeque  is 
more  than  repaid  by  the  discovery  of  the  great  Carrasco, 
Bachelor,  '  Knight  of  the  Looking-glasses '  and  of  the  White 
Moon.  To  him  succeeds  the  not  less  sapient  Graduate  of 
Osuna,  Doctor  Pedro  Recio  de  Agiiero,  rich  in  precedents 
and  aphorisms  from  'Hypocrates  our  master,  North-starre 
and  light  of  Physick."* 

The  Knight  A  notable  development  is  offered  in  Don  Quixote's 
case.  Cervantes  has  lived  with  his  hero  so  long  that  he 
has  learned  to  honour  and  to  love  him,  and  to  spare  him 
the  ignominious  buffetings  and  discomfitures  of  the  First 

XXX 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Part.     The  Knight  is  still   the  matchless  madman,  cram  I      INTRO- 
on  the  single  point  of  chivalry,  intimate  with  the  heroic    DUCTION 
warriors  of  historic  repute,  and  prompt  to  describe  them  as 
he  knew  those  paladins  in  the  flesh.     Thus,  of  the  master 
of  them   all: — 'I    may   say,  that   with  these  very  eyes   I 
'  have  beheld  Amadis  de  Gaul,  who  was  a  goodly  tall  man,  His  Amadis 
'  well  complectioned,  had  a  broad   beard,  and  blacke,  an 
'  equall  countenance  betwixt  milde  and  sterne,  a  man  of 
'  small  discourse,  slow  to  anger,  and  soone  appeased.'     Or, 
take  Reinaldos  de  Montalban,  as  he  knew  him : — 'Broad-  HisReinaldos 
4  faced,    his    complexion    high,    quick    and    full   eyed,   very 
'  exceptious  and  extremely  cholericke,  a  lover  of  thecves  and 
'  debaucht  company.1     And  the  reminiscence  of  Roland  is 
precise,  minute  as  intimacy  warrants : — '  Of  a  meane  stature,  His  Roland 
'  broad-shouldered,  somewhat  bow-legged,  Abourne  Bearded, 
'  his  body  hayrie,  and  his  lookes  threatning.'     Save  for  his 
one  slight  foible,  the  Ingenious  Gentleman  is  the  happi* 
wit  of  all  La  Mancha.     None  meeter  than  he  for  acute  dis- 
course with  Don  Diego,  the  '  Knight  of  the  Green  Cassock ' ; 
none  apter  and  readier  for  criticism  on  the  Laws  of  Gloss- 
ing, wherein  his  subtlety  drives  the  young  poet  Lorenzo  to 
declare  : — '  I  desire  to  catch  you  in  an  absurdity,  but  cannot : 
for  still  you  slip  from  mee  like  an   Eele."      Even  in  his 
maddest  moments,  the  second  Don  Quixote  shows  himself  a 
thought  more  critical,  more  exigent  of  proof,  more  sensible 
to  sight.     In  the  First  Part,  the  slashed  wine-bag  was  ques- 
tionless a  decapitated  Giant ;  in  the  Second,  the  Dulciiic.-i 
fabled    by   Sancho   remains — what  she   was — 'a  Countrey- 
'  wench,  and  not  very  well-favoured,  for  shee  was  bhib-tac\l, 
k  and  flat-nosed."     The  Knight  develops  a  genuine  human 

xxxi 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  weakness  in  his  bedizenment  of  what  had  passed  in  Monte- 
DUCTION  sines1  Cave.  Much  frequenting  of  Sancho  Panza's  company 
has  led  him  to  this  pass ;  and  his  own  remark  on  Sancho's 
great  recital  proves  him  of  uneasy  conscience: — 'Sancho, 
'  since  you  will  have  us  beleeve  all  that  you  have  seen  in 
6  Heaven,  I  pray  beleeve  all  that  I  saw  in  Montesino's  Cave, 
'  and  I  say  no  more.'  But  the  final  triumph  of  Cervantes' 
The  Squire  art  is  the  admirable,  deathless,  Sancho  Panza.  And  that 
this  personage  was  a  peculiar  favourite  with  his  creator  is 
shown  by  the  violent  contempt  which  Cervantes  pours  on 
Avellaneda's  caricature.  'Pray  God,'  says  the  true  man 
on  hearing  of  his  counterfeit,  'pray  God,  as  he  calls  mee 
Glutton,  he  say  not  that  I  am  a  Drunkard  too.'  His 
noble  mendacity  is  never  at  fault :  in  fact,  it  furnishes 
the  principal  motive  of  the  Second  Part.  From  chapter 
to  chapter  he  develops  to  the  perfection  of  maturity,  less 
clownish,  more  convincing,  always  preparing  himself  for  his 
high  destiny  in  Barataria.  And  his  belief  in  the  mirage 
of  the  Island  and  its  Governorship  is  fed  by  cunning  fore- 
tastes of  joy.  There  is  that  blissful  abode  of  four  days 
at  the  Castle  of  the  Knight  of  the  Green  Cassock,  where 
Sancho  'liked  wondrous  well  of  Don  Diego's  plentifull 
provision.'  There  is,  again,  the  Wedding  Feast  of  the 
rich  Camacho,  the  invention  which  was  to  link  the  name 
Mendelssohn  of  Cervantes  with  that  of  Mendelssohn :  — '  Six  halfe 
'  Olive -buts,  and  every  one  was  a  very  Shambles  of 
'  meat,  they  had  so  many  whole  sheepe  soking  in  them 
'  which  were  not  seen,  as  if  they  had  beene  Pigeons,  the 
'  flayed  Hares,  and  pulled  Hens  that  were  hung  upon  the 
'  trees,  to  bee  buried  in  the  pots,  were  numberlesse ;  birds 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

1  and  fowle  of  diver,   aorta   infinite'.1     And  both  Man  and      INTRO- 
Mastcr  take  their   honourable  entertainment  by  the  Duke    IJ'  (  FIO 
and    Duchess  as   confirmation   strong   of  their   inimitable 
vocation. 

Done  on  a  higher  level  of  art,  the  development  of  the 
Second  Part  proceeds  logically  from  the  First;  and  the 
increased  urbanity  of  treatment,  tone,  and  episode  justifies 
— were  justification  needed — the  change  of  Don  Quixote's 
title  from  Hidalgo  to  Cabattcro.  The  humour  remains  Humour 
simple  and  direct  as  ever,  self-contained,  unmoved,  and 
grave.  Cervantes  is  little  skilled  in  the  humour  which 
blends  pathos  ami  laughter  by  means  of  minute  touches 
and  subtle  innuendo.  His  great  effects  are  broad  and 
ample ;  they  spring  from  the  contrasts  of  incongruous 
circumstance  viewed  in  the  dry  light  of  satiric  observa- 
tion. A  master  of  unwinking  irony,  he  lives  by  virtue  of  Qualities 
his  general  truthfulness,  his  brilliant  colour,  his  inexhaust- 
ible invention  of  situation,  his  transfiguring  vision,  his 
achievement  in  portraiture,  and  his  noble  simplicity.  Id« 
he  has  none ;  or  if  he  have,  they  are  mostly  wrong.  He 
remains  what  he  was  at  the  outset :  a  man  of  genius, 
a  rare  contriver  of  incident,  a  Spaniard  penetrated  with 
the  average  sentiment  and  opinion  of  his  age.  A  con- 
summate artist  in  humorous  transcription,  he  presents  a 
living  picture  of  manners,  untinctured  by  sham  philosophy 
and  sham  poetry.  To  the  ineffectual  critic  there  remains 
the  task  of  solving  imaginary  mysteries.  It  cannot  be  too 
strongly  emphasised  that  Cervantes  offers  an  image  of  life, 
not  a  fatuous  conundrum.  In  the  First  Part  he  approves 
himself  the  brilliant  student  of  nature  with  a  turn  for 

xxxiii 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  eloquent  commonplace,  as  in  the  excellent  tirade  on  the 
DUCTION  exercises  of  Arms  and  Letters.  And  in  the  Second  Part  he 
Failings  shows  no  intellectual — as  opposed  to  artistic — progress.  It 

is  in  perfect  keeping  with  his  character  and  his  view  of  life 
that  he  should  hate  the  Moors,  and  should  applaud  their 
expulsion.  That  is  Cervantes  the  citizen,  as  we  know  him, 
and  should  wish  him  to  be.  His  appreciation  of  their 
picturesque  value  is  always  present  to  Cervantes  the  writer, 
the  observer  of  whim,  custom,  and  social  ritual.  A  certain 
Melancholy  undertone  of  melancholy  has  been  perceived  in  his  Second 
Part,  and  the  ingenious  would  explain  it  by  assuming  that 
he  foresaw  his  country's  decline.  Nothing  in  the  world  is 
less  likely.  Like  most  humorists  of  the  first  order,  he  was 
a  Tory  to  the  marrow,  and  by  consequence  his  country  was 
to  him  invincible  and  impregnable.  Such  dejection  as  he 
displays  is  rather  due  to  increasing  age  and  failing  health 
than  to  political  discouragement.  The  farcical  spirit  was 
an  essential  in  his  genius ;  but,  even  so,  it  dwindled  with  his 
strength.  But,  though  at  whiles  he  moralise  with  that 
touch  of  sadness  natural  to  a  man  of  many  years  and  trials, 
for  whom  life  is  only  retrospect,  the  absence  of  bitterness 
from  his  general  estimate  is,  as  Senor  Valera  notes,  con- 
spicuous. No  single  character  of  his  brain  is  wholly  mean 
or  odious ;  and,  as  his  heroes  flaunt  their  foibles,  so  do  his 
villains  blunder  into  virtue  unawares.  He  has  found  life  a 
good  estate  and  a  gallant  show :  and  so  he  has  the  courage 
to  present  it.  In  so  much,  posterity  is  his  debtor  everlast- 
Reward  ingly.  And  he  has  his  reward  :  as  universal,  generic  types, 

Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  rank  with  Shakespeare's  men, 
and  Homer's. 


Dignity  and 
Gentleness 


XXXIV 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

V  INTIU) 

1 1  is  reputation  was  no  more  to  make.  The  Aprdxu'u'm 
of  Marque/  Torres  to  the  Second  Part  is  evidence  of  fame. 
On  February  25,  1615,  the  members  of  the  French  Embassy 
fell  in  with  Sandoval's  chaplain : — '  Scarce  did  they  hear 
'Miguel  de  Cervantes'  name  when  they  rehearsed  the  esteem 
4  in  which  his  works  were  held  both  in  France  and  in  border- 
'  ing  realms — the  Galatea  (which  one  of  them  had  almost 
'  by  heart),  the  First  Part  of  this,  and  the  Novelets?  Oudin's 
French  version  of  1614°  had  made  Don  Quixote  a  Parisian, 
and  a  translation  of  the  Second  Part  was  in  demand. 
Accordingly  in  1618,  'traduicte  fidelement  ennostre  Lungue 
par  F.  de  Rosset,"1  at  Paris,  in  the  Rue  Saint- Jacques,  there  11.. 
was  published  by  Jacques  de  Clou  and  Denis  More.ui  the 
Partlc  dc  Ihlsto'irc  dc  ringcniciLV  ct  rcdorlublc 
^  Dom-Qvickoi  dc  la  Maiiche.  Nor  was  the 
Knight  of  Knights  forgotten  in  England.  An  entry  in  the 
Register  of  the  Stationers1  Company  indicates  a  false  alarm.  Mw.-ml 
«5°  Decembris,  1615.  Master  Blount.  Entred  for  his  lilount 
'  Copie  viuler  the  hamle  of  Master  Sanford  and  Master 
4  Swinhoe  warden.  The  second  part  of  Don  Quixote  vjd.' 
This  cannot,  however,  be  a  rendering  of  the  true  Second 
Part,  since — finally  licensed  by  Doctor  Gutierre  de  Cetina  on 
Novembers,  1615 — it  was  not  given  to  the  public  till,  at 
earliest,  the  very  close  of  the  year.  In  any  case,  it  is  a 
sheer  impossibility  that  the  book  could  have  been  printed 
off,  sent  from  Madrid  to  London,  and  translated  between 
November  5  and  December  5  of  the  same  year.  Even 
the  brilliant  Shelton  needed  '  the  space  of  forty  daies '  for 
his  rendering  of  the  First  Part;  and  the  Second  is  of 

XXXV 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-     equal    length.      The    copy    delivered    to   Master    Sanford 
DUCTION   and  Master   Swinhoe  in  December,  1615,  was  unquestion- 
ably Avellaneda's   counterfeit   (published  the  year  before), 
which    had    imposed   on    Master   Thomas    Shelton    as    on 
Master    Edward    Blount.       That    no    such   translation    is 
known  is  to  be  explained  by  the  abandonment  of  the  enter- 
prise on  the  appearance  of  the  authentic  work.     But  the 
4  vjd'  paid  for  the  counterfeit  is  made  to  serve  by  the  frugal 
Shelton  Blount.     The  Second  Part — with  a  Reprint  of  the  First — 

was  published  in  1620.1  Its  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Bucking- 
ham declares  it  for  '  a  bashfull  stranger,  newly  arrived  in 
'  English,  having  originally  had  the  fortune  to  be  borne 
'  commended  to  a  Grande  of  Spain ' — the  Conde  de  Lemos — 
'  and,  by  the  way  of  translation,  the  grace  to  kisse  the  hands 
'  of  a  great  Ladie  of  France.'  The  great  Ladie  of  France  is 
manifestly  none  other  than  the  Duchesse  de  Luynes  to  whom 
Rosset  dedicated  his  rendering  with  this  compliment : — '  Fay 
'  de  volontez  de  faire  paroistre  que  vous  estes  toute  la  gloire 
'  de  notre  siecle,  de  mesme  que  toute  la  honte  du  passe,  et 
'  la  plus  grande  enuie  du  futur.' 

The  absence  from  the  title-page  of  Shelton's  name  has  led 
some  to  declare  that  the  first  English  translation  of  the 

1  The  princeps  of  1612  and  the  reprint  of  1620  are  easily  distinguished. 
The  first  contains  twelve  unnumbered  leaves  of  prefatory  matter,  549  pages  of 
text,  and  two  final  leaves  unnumbered ;  the  second  has  thirteen  preliminary 
unnumbered  leaves,  572  pages  of  text,  and  two  final  leaves  unnumbered.  The 
princeps  is  divided  into  parts — first,  second,  third,  and  fourth ;  the  1620  edition 
substitutes  'booke'  for  'part,'  to  avoid  confusion  between  the  First  and 
Second  Parts  on  one  side,  and  the  parts  of  the  First  Part  on  the  other.  That 
useful  distinction  is  maintained  in  the  present  reprint.  Further,  in  \hzprinceps 
each  page  is  enclosed  in  black  lines,  which  in  the  first  reprint  are  confined  to 
the  headlines. 

xxxvi 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Second  Part  came  from  another  hand  than  his;  and  the  INTRO- 
contention  is  supported  by  the  assertion  that  the  later  effort  DUCTION 
shows  some  diminution  of  dash  and  spirit.  The  original 
Spanish  lias  the  same  charge  to  answer,  and  the  translation 
perforce  reflect*  its  <|iialities.  No  contemporary  ever  doubted 
that  tlu-  Kiujlishing  was  Shelloifs  work,  and  the  reprints  of 
1652-72  and  1731  (as  well  as  Stevens'*  botch  of  1700-6)  bear 
Shelton's  name.  Hut  more  convincing  proof  of  his  responsi-  Mannerisms 
bility  exists  in  the  absolute  identity  of  mannerism  and  in  :UI(1  Hlulldere 
the  fact  that  the  same  errors  of  rendering  appear  in  both 
parts.  Trance  is  a  case  in  point  :  the  translator  never 
chances  upon  the  right  word,  which  is  'emergency.1  As  in 
the  First  Part  "  este  tan  impensado  trance  "*  =  '  this  unex- 
pected trance/  so  in  the  Second  *  este  ultimo  v  for/oso 
trance '  =  k  this  last  and  forcible  trance";  and  4  el  rigoroso 
trance  iiuiica  visto '  is  naturally  given  as  *  the  rigorous 
trance  never  seen,'  for  was  not 'all  the  trances  of  warfare1 
the  foregoing  equivalent  of  '  todos  los  trances  de  la  guerra"? 
So  the  same  blunder  recurs  in  one  chapter  upon  another. 
And  as  with  trance  and  'trance,"  so  with  .vwr.s-m -and  '  suc- 
cesses/ Where  '  otros  sucesos "  was  accepted  as  'other 
successes,1  '  deste  suceso '  inevitably  finds  favour  as  '  out 
of  this  successe/  Again,  take  dcsmaynrse.  The  translator 
of  the  First  Part  was  fain  to  be  content  with  his  '  mutable 
and  dismaied  traytresse/  and  the  Second  follows  with  an 
exact  servility:  so  that  'did  muestras  de  desmayarse1  is 
delivered  as  'slice  made  shew  of  dismaying,'  and  'la  des- 
mayada  Altisidora '  takes  place  as  '  the  dismayed  Altisidora.' 
In  both  Parts  dwcreto  figures  as  '  discreet,"1  honcstad  as 
'  honesty/  suspenses  as  '  suspended/  and  admirados  as 
/  xxxvii 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-     '  admired ' ;  and  in  no  case  does  the  translator  vary  from  his 
DUCTION  self-imposed  convention.     Who  but  Shelton  could  so  '  fig 
you  like  the  bragging  Spaniard '  ?     That  the  two  Parts  come 
from  two  hands  is  manifestly  incredible. 

Shelton  and  As  with  the  First  Part,  it  is  possible  to  identify  the  text 
upon  which  Shelton  worked.  Writing  in  The  Quarterly 
Review  (January  1886),  Froude  selects  a  passage  in  the 
First  Chapter  which  he  scorns  as  typical  of  the  Sheltonian 
method.  He  quotes  the  rendering  of  '  que  por  solo  este 
pecado  que  hoy  comete  Sevilla '  (in  Shelton  = £  that  for  this 
dayes  offence  I  will  eat  up  all  Sevill');  and  he  forthwith 
resolves  that  'Shelton,  working  with  extreme  haste,  mis- 
took comete  for  comere?  Now,  this  is  the  kind  of  desperate 
guesswork  to  which  the  raw  amateur  is  given.  Belied  as 
4  acute '  and  c  ingenious,'  it  passes  for  sound  doctrine  with  the 
vulgar,  and  takes  place  as  a  Fortieth  Article.  The  example 
chosen  in  derision  of  Shelton  proves  a  happy  illustration  of 
Froude's  own  methods.  To  none  but  a  ferocious  partisan — 
as  Froude  was  ever — would  it  have  seemed  a  heinous  crime 
had  Shelton  been  convicted  of  misreading  a  single  letter  in  a 
single  word ;  but  in  truth  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  and 
the  instance  serves  but  to  show — not  the  translator's  but — 
the  commentator's  ineptitude.  Comparative  textual  criticism 
was  not  for  Froude ;  and  he  had  probably  been  staggered  by 
the  rendering  in  Rosset : — '  le  deuoreray  Seuille,  pour  le 
peche  qu'elle  commet.'  It  becomes  clear,  not  that  Shelton 
translated  from  Rosset  (as  some  have  feigned)  but,  that 
both  Shelton  and  Rosset  translated  from  a  common  text,  and 
reproduced  its  error.  And  so  it  was.  For  his  First  Part 
Shelton  had  worked  from  the  Edition  given  out  at  Brussels 
xxxviii 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

in  1607  by  Roger  Velpius.     The  English  market,  derived  its      INTRO- 
Castilian  books  by  way  of  the  Low  Countries — not  straight   DUCTION 
from  Spain.     The  practice  endured,  and  for  his  Second  Part 
Shelton  used   the  re-print — the  first  ever  issued — published, 
with  a  Pi-nnho  dated  February  4,  'En  Bruselas  Por  Iluberto 
Antonio,  imprcsor  jurado   eerea   del    Palacio,    1616.'     And 
there  (p.  S)the  clause  denounced  by  Froude  stands  a  monu- 
ment   to  Sheltoifs  integrity  and  to  his  critic's  uninquiring 
ignorance: — 'Que     por    solo    este    pecado    que    oy    com  ere 
Seuilla.' 

In  one  respect  a  change  is  to  be  noted  in  Shelton's  attitude 
to  his  original.     Grown  older,  more  critical,  and  more  in-  Commentary 
dependent,  in  his  shoulder-notes  lie  reveals  himself  a  man 
of  reading,  and  even  of  difficult  taste  ;  but  his  annotations 
are  not  ahvavs  final.     Cervantes  writes: — 'Y  se,  como  diee 
el  gran  Poeta  castellano  nuestro,'  and  quotes  three  lines  from 
Garcilaso  de   la  Vega's   elegy  on   Alva's   brother,  Bernar- 
dino de  Toledo.    Not  content  with  transcribing;  the  phrase  as 
'And  I  know  what  our  great  Castilian  Poet  said,1  Shelton  (J.-ircilaso 
volunteers  the'  tidings  that  the  verses  are  Boscan's,  ignoring  n 
the  fact  that  Boscan,  though  he1  wrote  in  Castilian,  was  a 
Catalan.     A   like  mishap  befalls  the  obliging   Scholiast   in 
the  Eighteenth  Chapter.     Entering  Don  Diego  de  Minimi 
house,   Don   Quixote  notes  the  Tobosan   wine-jars    in    the 
cellar,  and  exclaims  : — 

(\  O  dulces  prendas,  por  mi  mal  halladas  ! 
Dulces  y  alegres  cuando  Dios  queria. ' 

The  verses  an-  quoted  from  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega's  tenth  Garcilaso  and 
sonnet,  in  imitation  of  Virgil's  '  Dulces  exuviae,  dum  fata  MoSemayor 
deusque  sinebant.'  Shelton,  never  at  a  loss,  declares  them 

xxxix 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  '  A  beginning  of  a  sonnet  in  Diana  de  Monte  Mayor,  which 
DUCTION  D.  Q.  heere  raps  out  upon  a  sodaine.'  One  has  a  suspicion 
that ( Monte  Mayor '  has  been  transformed  from  a  man  to  the 
title  of  a  pastoral ;  but  curious  inquiry  were  rash  !  The 
commentary  grows  in  force  and  liberality.  Don  Quixote 
enlarges  on  the  honourable  treatment  due  to  soldiers 
Patriotism  grown  grey  under  arms  : — '  Neither  are  they  dealt  with- 
6  all  like  those  mens  Negars,  that  when  they  are  olde 
'  and  can  doe  their  Masters  no  service,  they  (under  colour  of 
'  making  them  free)  turne  them  out  of  doores,  and  make  them 
'  slaves  to  hunger,  from  which  nothing  can  free  them  but 
'  death.'  The  translator's  patriotic  gorge  rises  at  the 
recorded  infamy,  and  forthwith  appears  the  peremptory 
note : — '  He  describes  the  right  subtill  and  cruell  nature  of 
his  damned  Country-men.'  In  the  margin  of  the  Forty- 
Fourth  Chapter  the  idea  recurs  with  a  variant : — '  He 
'  describes  the  right  custome  of  his  hungry  countrey  men  in 
'  generall.'  And  a  shoulder-note  to  the  Fifty-Ninth  Chapter 
applauds  c  a  good  Character,  of  a  lying,  beggarly,  vaine- 
glorious  Spanish  Oast.'  The  spirit  of  nationalism  glows 
at  the  simple  statement  that '  encogid  Sancho  los  hombros,' 
or  '  Sancho  shrunk  his  shoulders '  (as  who  should  say 
shrugged  them);  and  there  arrives  a  spirited  comment  on 
'the  Spaniards  lowsie  humility.'  These  are  instances  out 
of  many. 

Idiosyncrasies  There  are  other  tokens  of  a  fearless  mind.  In  Montesinos' 
Cave  the  companion  of  the  spell-bound  Dulcinea  seeks  to 
borrow  six  reales  (or,  as  the  large-handed  Shelton  renders 
the  account,  '  three  shillings ')  '  upon  this  new  Cotton  Petti- 
cote  ' ;  and  Don  Quixote,  who  had  but  four  reales — say  ten 
xl 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

pence  at  par — upon  him,  vows  to  disenchant  his  fair,  and  INTRQ- 
'  not  to  be  quiet,  till  I  have  travelled  all  the  seven  partitions  DUCTION 
'  of  the  world,  more  punctually  then  Prince  Don  Manuel 
'  of  Portugal!.'  Doni  Pedro  seems  the  likelier  man  :  he  whose 
travels  in  Europe  and  the  East,  recounted  by  his  companion 
Gomez  de  Sancto  Estevan,  were  published,  more  than  a 
century  later  (1554)  at  Lisbon.  The  book  was  as  popular 
in  Spanish  as  in  Portuguese,  and  undoubtedly  it  had  its 
place  in  Don  Quixote's  library.  The  rover,  Dom  Pedro, —  A  Hero  of 
brother  of  Prince  Henry  the  Navigator  and  of  Ferdinand,  Caltlenm 
the  Principe  Coustuntc  of  Caldenin's  play, — was  grandson  of 
John  of  Gaunt ;  and  you  love  to  think  that  Cervantes,  for 
ing  an  English  translator,  introduced  thg  name  with  intent 
to  conciliate  a  national  prejudice.  The  wile  failed.  Shelton 
bites  his  thumb  at  Portugal,  deposes  Dom  Pedro,  and  pro- 
claims his  own  eivature,  Manuel,  instead.  At  sight  of  the 
words  '  lelilies  al  uso  de  mores,1  the  patriot  is  not  content 
with  rendering  'Moorish  cries";  he  drives  the  point  home 
with  a  marginal  parallel : — '  Like  the  cries  of  the  Wild  Irish." 
His  fastidious  taste  rejects  more  than  one  petty  quip.  In 
the  Forty-first  Chapter  the  Knight  tells  his  Esquire  that 
4  aunque  tonto,  eres  hombre  veridico ' — 4  though  thou  beest 
a  fool,  yet  I  think  thou  art  honest' — or,  more  exactly, 
'  true  blue/  The  reply  shows  that  veridico  is  taken  for  a 
diminutive  of  verde : — 4  No  soy  verde,  sino  more-no,  dijo 
Sancho ;  pero  aunque  fuera  de  mezcla,  cumpliera  mi 
palabra/  Preserving  the  point  of  the  jest,  the  answer 
should  read : — *  I  am  not  blue,  but  brown  ;  yet,  were 
I  piebald,  I  'd  keep  my  word/  Shelton  examines  the 
passage  frowningly,  rejects  it  with  disgrace,  and  passes 

xli 


THE  srroxn  PART  OF  THE 


N  FR(V     sentence:—  <Heer«  I  left  out  a  line  or  Ux>  of  a  dull 
DCCTION 


*not  bee  expressed*"    RmiKar  with  Rattan  models  only, 
be  boggle*  at  Spanish  assonants;    and,  being 
r..>t:-  on   Don  Quixote^ 


—he  is  forced  to  annotate  that  'These  wsos  and  the 


.  /  M^   _     ,/     \  •  -  .   .  :  .  ......     ,,..;,..    •,.  ^ 

locincr  01  xnusKiQnt  are  maae  vo  me  ouiuirjr  on  purpose 


<  he  ob*fw  neyther  rase  nor  rane,^  In  the  Sotr-nintb 
CJnapter  aie  ihiMmluced  two  octaves  sung  by  the  Cailieise 
of  a  goodly  Youth  did  like  a  Romane*:  tike  fiisk  written 
by  Orfantwbwself,  the  second  lifted  fiomGareilaw  de  la 
Eclogue,  That  Skeltnn  on  ha*e  ^gnoied  the 


IV-  Qm*t  poateAy  f 


What  haw  Uie  Staling  of  Gaidbsse  to  doe  with  the 
death  of  this  DwnoKllr^    But,  with  the  testimony  that  the 

--.j...*!.    4  -—-——  *l»»r  •    |  •i_l_  O|  •  •_••  V  fcJln  ^5»  •  *  ^«i»«»»»    M.  •  •  I  ••  fm  il 

youm  sung  tnese  vwo  ocanm  s  louowing,  nonoiv  is  samnea, 

«^4    "     *  «    fcJV*..         k  ^^---  .  \v>,;,v,  1   tr   m 

ana  juagmefit  lotiows  in  uNSt  mnns  .  —  »  >  men  i  nnewne 
*omit  as  being  basely  made  on  purpose,  and  so  not  worth 


as  in  the  IVtith  Chapter.    Saacho  bungks  the  proverb  .>— 
(Dopensaisquebay  tocinosnobayestaoas^;  or  i  where  you 

*  think  there  aieifo&es,  there  aie  no  pegs,"    TV  Engfeh 
vision  puts  the  point  aside  with  «  Sweet  meat  must  ha^ 
sowre  auxe,'    A  lew  lines  later,  Sancho  uses  the  saying, 

*  Orte,  puto,  all*  daias  tm^abbceriiAiiig  the  gcnei^  form: 
'^alUdaiasmyoe&camdeTunayQw^  Googora  employs  tbe 
catch  as  a  refrain  and  Lope  (it  is  said)  as  the  title  of  a  play  ; 

xlii 


HISTORIEOF  DON  QUIXOTE 

but  shrlton  i  i  to  write  *  Ware  Hawk,  ware  lla\\L"     i\i 

without  more  exertion,    Agaiii,  the  translator  trips  when  con-   1H  (  ||(>N 

fronted  with:  Ire^o,  burra  de  mi  SIM 

A  variant  of  the  same  occurs  in  tin-  FiiM  Ai  I  of  the  ( </<\s7/m/: 

— *  j  Xo  !   (jiu-  Ir  rslrirjro,  aMia  eoja."     Mahbe  ui\e^  it  precisely  M.-ililu- 

-  I  \\ill   CUITV    \ou   tor   lhi>  "ii    lame  Asse/      Hut 

Shellon  fares  ill.      A  -lance  at  K<^rt\  '  l'ai>  que  le  t\-(ril!r,   i;. 
a^iiivsM-    dr    limn    bran    |R'iv  "    liail    prrhap^    enabled    him    l<> 
aiilit-ipali-     Mablu-.       Thi'    pivnitition    omittrd,    Ih'    frankly 
.surri-iidi-is,     and     tin-     pro\trb     n-niaiiis     a     pn/./U-     to     all 
Mnn-li.sh    translators    of  Dun    Qulroft-    till   ()nn>by   >ol\r>   it.  Onn.-l.y 
Thr  dati^hti-r   of   Dii-^*)    dr    la    Liana,    di.srnxrivd     wandi-r- 
iiii;   at   midnight    *  i-lail    in  a  man's  habit,"  rxplains   to   tin- 
(JouTiior   Sancho    Pan/a    that    >lu-    and    lu-r    brother   sallird 
forth    \iniiados    dc-    niu-stro    nio/.o    y    drsbaratado    disi-ur>o/ 
Thi-  obvious  iik-anini;-   is  *  ur^vd    by  our  yoimi;-  and    nrkh 
impulse ';   but   tlu-  trap  is  bailed  with    the  word  JJK>-J>,  \\hirh 

is  used  indifferently  as  adjectiTe  ornoun.     .Jrrvus,  suooeeding  Jervas 

Shrlton,  stumblrs  into  I  ho  ditch,  and  dou^rdly  avows  that 
'guided  by  our  footboy  anil  our  own  unruly  fancies,  \\v 
traversed  tlu-  whole  town/  His  warier  j)rcdn  ttb 

the  difficulty,  and  ignores  the  pin 

To  point  to  his  .shortcoming  i^  an  i-a>v  ta^k,  for  his  line 
CareleemeeS is alwayt OOnftant,  \\'hat  though  *justa  lileraria"  Intrepidity 
appeal"  a>  a  -  true  study"  in  one  place-  if  it  be  rightly  i^iven 
in  anotlu-r?  What  though  '  Huen  cora/oii  (jiiebranta  mala 
vi-ntura'  be  cut  down  to  *  1'aint  lu-art  m-vi-r,  rtc."  r  \Vhat 
though  'un  conejo  albar"  be  presented  as  'a  pcrboyled  Coney." 
comiila  as  a  'Comedy,'  mostn'iuo  as  'a  Setting-dogg,' JMT 
Dies  as  cby  ten"?  The  pedant  may  enlarge  the  list  at  will, 

xliii 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  and  rectify  with  his  podenco  or  comedia.  For  those  '  not  in 
DUCTION  the  humour  to  play  at  Boyes  play' — so  Shelton  reads  it — 
it  is  a  more  grateful  task  to  note  his  many  successes, 
his  feats  of  daring,  his  flights  of  invention,  his  bursts  of 
Excellences  humour.  '  Yo  os  lo  vestire  como  un  palmito,'  says  Teresa 
Panza ;  and,  with  a  visible  twinkle,  comes  the  sentence  '  He 
clad  him  like  a  Date-leafe.'  f  Que  me  matan  si  nos  ha  de 
suceder  cosa  buena  esta  noche,'  declares  the  Knight ;  and 
the  peevishness  remains  in  the  familiar  : — '  Hang  me,  if  we 
have  any  good  fortune  this  night.'1  '  Mi  oislo  me  aguarda '  is 
Sancho's  excuse  to  the  Bachelor  Carrasco  when  first  he  learns 
that  his  exploits  are  in  print.  And  Shelton  bubbles  with 
merriment  as  he  transcribes  cmy  Pigs-nie  staies  for  me.1 
Oislo  fascinates  him,  and  in  the  Seventieth  Chapter  he  offers 
a  variant  of  the  earlier  achievement.  '  Mientras  estoy 
cavando,  no  me  acuerdo  de  mi  oislo  '  is  Sancho's  unromantic 
admission.  The  interpretation  runs  : — 'Whilest  I  am  digging 
or  delving,  I  never  thinke  on  my  Pinkaney  at  all.'  If  oislo 
soar  to  'Pigs-nie'  and  to  'Pinkaney J platica  is  ennobled  as 
'  enterparlie.'  Nor  is  the  store  of  gifts  exhausted.  '  Esotros 
badulaques,  y  enredos,  y  revoltillos,'  writes  Cervantes; 
'  Your  other  slabber-sawces,  your  tricks  and  quillets,'  echoes 
Shelton.  And  he  overtops  himself  in  his  inspired  announce- 
ment of  <  the  fearefull  Low-Bell-Cally  horrour  that  Don 
Quixote  received  in  Processe  of  his  Love,'  as  in  his  conver- 
sion of '  aquella  canalla  gatesca  encantadora  y  cencerruna ' 
to  '  that  Cattish-Low-Belly  Enchanting  crue.'  The  Mirror 
of  Honour  recites  the  qualities  that  denote  the  Perfect 
Knight  and  Happy  Warrior,  leaving  his  listener  to  decide  : — 
*  Si  es  ciencia  mocosa  la  que  aprende  el  caballero  que  la 
xliv 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

•  estudia   y   profesa/      Mocosa^  a   word   of  dread,   has  no      INTRO- 
terrors  for  the  Northerner  who  bluffly  inquires  'Whether   DUCTION 
'  it  be  a  sniveling  Science  that  the  Knight  that  learnes  it 
'  professeth  ? '     And  he  remains  undaunted  when  '  Discre- 
'  tion  it  selfe  was  a  Snotty-nose  to  her '  is  substituted  for 
'  Digamos  ahora  que  la  discrecion  era  mocosa/     Upon  other 
the    like    victories   of  bright  and    faithful    audacity   our 
modern  prudery  draws  a  veil. 

Turn  we  to  the  statelier  Shelton,  who  sang  the  Age  of 
Gold  in  the  First  Part,  and  he  awaits  us,  a  thought  more 
restrained.  The  Second  Part  has  no  such  locus  classicus  to  In  the  Noble 
Ixu.st,  for  it  excvls  rather  in  pointed  dialogue  than  in  formal  ^  e 
soliloquy  ;  but  even  here  occasions  offer  to  the  artist's  hand. 
Judge  him,  then,  when  to  the  Priest,  who  called  him  '  Don 
Coxcombe1  and  '  good -man  Dull-pate,1  the  copesmate  of 
Amadis  makes  his  Great  Remonstrance : — '  Is  it  happily 
'  a  vaine  plot,  or  time  ill  spent,  to  range  thorow  the 
'  world,  not  seeking  it's  dainties,  but  the  bitternesse  of 
4  it,  whereby  good  men  aspire  to  the  seat  of  immor- 
'  tality  ?  If  your  Knights,  your  Gallants,  or  Gentlemen 
'  should  have  called  me  Cox-comb,  I  should  have  held  it 
'  for  an  affront  irreparable ;  but  that  your  poore  Schollers 
'  account  mee  a  madde-man,  that  never  trod  the  paths  of 
'  Knight  Errantry,  I  care  not  a  chip ;  a  Knight  I  am,  a 
'  Knight  I  'le  die,  if  it  please  the  most  Highest.  Some  goe 
'  by  the  spacious  field  of  proud  ambition,  others  by  the 
4  way  of  servill  and  base  flattery,  a  third  sort  by  deceitful  1 
'  hypocrisie,  and  few  by  that  of  true  Religion  :  But  I  by 
*  my  starres  inclination  goe  in  the  narrow  path  of  Knight- 
4  Errantry ;  for  whose  exercise  I  despise  wealth,  but  not 

g  xlv 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-  *  honor.  I  have  satisfied  grievances,  rectified  wrongs, 
DUCTION  <  chastised  insolencies,  overcome  Gyants,  trampled  over 
(  Sprites ;  I  am  enamoured,  onely  because  there  is  a 
'  necessity  Knights  Errant  should  bee  so,  and  though  I 
6  be  so,  yet  I  am  not  of  those  vicious  Amorists,  but  of 
6  your  chaste  Platonicks.  My  intentions  alwaies  aime  at  a 
'  good  end,  as,  to  doe  good  to  all  men,  and  hurt  to  none : 
4  If  he  that  understands  this,  if  he  that  performes  it,  that 
'  practiseth  it,  deserve  to  be  called  foole,  let  your  Greatnesses 
c  judge,  excellent  Duke  and  Duchesse.' 

Thus  Shelton  acquits  himself  in  presence  of  the  madman's 
debonair  phrase ;  nor  falls  he  a  whit  behind  in  his  entreat- 
In  the  ment  of  Sancho's  pithier  tags  and  curter  periods.  '  Know 
6  now,  Teresa,  that  I  am  determined  thou  goe  in  thy  Coach, 
'  for  all  other  kinde  of  going,  is  to  goe  upon  all  foure.  Thou 
'  art  now  a  Governour's  wife,  let 's  see  if  any  body  will  gnaw 
'  thy  stumps.  I  have  sent  thee  a  greene  hunter's  sute,  that 
4  my  Lady  the  Duchesse  gave  me,  fit  it  so,  that  it  may  serve 
4  our  daughter  for  a  Coate  and  Bodies.  My  master  Don 
'  Quixote,  as  I  have  heard  say  in  this  Country,  is  a  mad  wise 
4  man,  and  a  conceited  Coxcombe,  and  I  am  ne're  a  whit 
4  behinde  him.  Wee  have  beene  in  Montesinos  Cave,  and 
4  the  sage  Merlin  hath  laid  hands  on  me  for  the  disenchanting 
4  my  Lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  whom  you  there  call  Aldonsa 
4  Lorenzo,  with  three  thousand  and  three  hundred  lashes 
4  lacking  five,  that  I  give  my  selfe,  she  shall  be  dis-enchanted 
4  as  the  Mother  that  brought  her  forth :  but  let  no  body 
4  know  this ;  for  put  it  thou  to  descant  on,  some  will  cry 
'  white,  others  blacke.  .  .  .  God  Almighty  hath  not  yet 
*  beene  pleased  to  blesse  mee  with  a  Cloke-bag,  and  another 
xlvi 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

*  hundred  Pistolets  as  those  you  wot  of:  but  be  not  grieved,      INTIU  >- 
'  my  Teresa,  there's  no  hurt  done,  all  shall  be  recompenced   DUCTION 
4  when  we   lay  the   Government  a  bucking."      So  Shelton 
manifests  himself  an  exquisite  in  the  noble  style,  an  expert  in 
the  familiar ;  and  with  such  effect  as  no  man  has  matched 
in  English. 

VI 

Cervantes    himself   was   a    severe    critic — not   to   say   a  Cervantes  on 
good  hater— of  translations.     In  his  First  Part  he  spares  Trailslations 
not  Jimenez   de   Urrea  and  his  fellows,  but  informs  them 
roundly   that   '  they   can    never    arrive   to   the   height   of 
'  that  Primitive    conceit,  which  they  [the   originals]  bring 
v  with  them  in  their  first  birth/     And,  in  the  Second,  he 
maintains    his   thesis  with  <i  more   caustic   deliberation  : — 
'  The  translating  out  of  easie  languages,  argues  neither  wit 
'  nor  elocution,  no  more  then  doth  the  copying  from  out  of 
'  one  Paper  into  another ;  yet  I  inferre  not  from  this,  that 
'  translating  is  not  a  laudable  exercise :  for  a  man  may  be 
4  far  worse  employed,  and  in  things  lesse  profitable."     So  the 
matter  presents  itself — and  naturally — to  the  mind  of  an 
original  genius ;  yet  to  the  reviled  translator  belongs  an  His  Debt  to 
honourable  esteem.     Consider  a  moment  the  diminution  of  i^ors™08' 
Cervantes'  fame  were  his  gay,  melancholy  book  to  be  read 
solely  in  Spanish !     To  Shelton,  Oudin,  Rosset,  and  their 
followers  is  due  the  universal  acceptance  of  his  perennial 
renown.     As  no  writer  has  tempted   more  interpreters,  so 
none  owes  them  more.     And  most  he  owes  to  Shelton,  lord  Shelton 
of  the  golden  Elizabethan  speech,  accomplished  artificer  in  a 
style,  first  of  foreigners  to  hail  him  for  the  Master  that  he 

xlvii 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

INTRO-     was,  first  to  present  him — and  that  with  the  grand  air — to 

DUCTION   the  company  of  the  universal  world. 

Don  Quixote  His  Second  Part  lagged  not  behind  his  First.  That  Don 
Quixote  greatly  throve  in  England  is  history.  Ben  Jonson's 
Execration  upon  Vulcan  cites  it  as  in  vogue,  and  in  Drayton's 
Nymphidia : — 

'  Men  talk  of  the  adventures  strange 
Of  Don  Quixoit,  and  of  their  change 
Through  which  he  armed  oft  did  range 
Of  Sancho  Panza's  travel. ' 

German  Nor  was  the  fashion  less  abroad.  A  fragmentary  German 

version  by  Pahsch  Basteln  von  der  Sohle  appeared  at  Cothen 

Italian  in  1621  ;x  Lorenzo  Franciosini's  First  Part  in  Italian  was 

published  at  Venice  in  1622,  the  Second  in  1625 ;  Lambert 

Dutch  van  den  Bos  gave  the  story  in  Dutch  at  Dordrecht  in  1657. 

Then  for  a  hundred  years,  though  Spanish,  English,  and 
French  presses  are  busy  with  reprints  or  new  renderings, 
there  is  a  pause  elsewhere  till  Charlotte  Dorothea  Biehl 

Danish  does  the  book  into  Danish.  Then  the  tide  flows  again,  and 

collectors  now  boast  a  shelf  of  translations  (more  or  less 
complete)  in  some  twenty  European  languages :  Bohemian, 
Catalan,  Croatian,  Finnish,  Greek,  Hungarian,  Polish,  Portu- 
guese, Roumanian,  Serbian,  Swedish,  and  what  not.  A  list  of 
editions  would  fill  a  large  volume  :  all  attempts  in  this  kind, 
as  yet  revealed,  are  simply  puerile,  and  those  that  purport 

1  But  there  is  earlier  proof  of  German  vogue.  At  a  Dessau  baptismal 
festival,  held  on  October  27-28,  1613,  six  or  seven  characters  taken  from  Don 
Quixote  figured  in  the  procession ;  and  a  series  of  illustrations  (signed  by 
Andreas  Bretschneider)  was  published  in  1613-14  at  Leipzig  'durch  Justum 
Jansonium  Danum.' — An  Iconography  of  Don  Quixote,  1605-1895,  by 
H.  S.  Ashbee,  F.S.A.  (privately  printed,  1895),  P-  J32- 

xlviii 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

to  be  complete  are  the  very  worst.      A  final  Bibliography      INTRO- 
is  preparing  by  Sefior  D.  Leopoldo  Ruis  y  Llosellas,  who    DUCTION 
has  dedicated  a  lifetime  of  labour  to  the  task.    Not  till  it 
appears   can  the  extent  of  the  immortal   book's   diffusion 
In-   accurately  judged.     Versions  are   reported   to   exist  in 
Oriental  tongues ;   and,  sixteen  years   since,  Adolfo  Riva- 
deneyra   in   his    Viaje  al  interior  de  Persia,  mentioned  a 
transfiguration   of  Cervantes   in   the   speech  of  Hafiz  and  Persian 
Sa'dl  done  expressly  through  the  Russian  by  order  of  the  Russian 
Shah.    A  fragment  in  Provencal  is  found  among  the  (Euvres  Provencal 
of  Andre-Jean- Victor  Gelu,  and  in  Basque  there  is  another.1  Basque 
Fernando/  de  Navarrete  mentions  an  ancient  Latinising  by  a 
German ;  and  indubitably  there  is  a  Latin  verse  rendering  Latin 
of  *  the  marriage  of  the  rich  Camacho  and  the  successe  of 
poor  Basilius1  included  in  the   Parva  Poemata  latina,  sen 
Ludicru  liter  aria  of  Raymundo  del  Busto  Valdes,  dedicated 
'  amplissimo  viro,  Marchioni   de  Pidal,'  under  the  style  of 
Nuptuv  Caimich'n. 

In  England  Cervantes  has  been  translated  times  out  of  English 
counting  by  men  like  Jervas,  Smollett,  Ormsby — the  soundest 
scholar  of  them  all ;  while  his  critics  and  commentators — 
'  by  one  letter  of  the  ABC ' — run  from  Bowie  to  Watts  and 
Webster.  Shelton's  secular  fame  ensured  him  the  attention 
of  that  impudent  buccaneer,  Captain  John  Stevens,  who 
mangled  and  despoiled  him  in  the  reprint  of  1700-6.  '  For- 
4  merly  made  English  by  Thomas  Shelton  ;  now  Revised, 

1  Julien  Vinson,  Bibliographic  de  la  Langue  Basque  (Paris,  1891),  No.  557  ; 
Don  Quichotte  Manchako  aitoren-seme  izpiritutsua  Michel  de  Cervantes 
Saavedra  deitzen  denaz,  xlii  capitulua  (Bi-garren  partca) — (s.t.l.ni.d.  :  1882) 
in-8,  4  pp.  tire*  a  un  tres  petit  nombre  d'exemplaires.  Traduction  d'apres  le 
s,  de  la  fin  du  chapitre,  depuis  les  mots  :  '  Primeramente,  oh  hijo  ! ' 

xlix 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

INTRO-  '  Corrected  and  partly  new  Translated  from  the  Original,' 
DUCTION  the  artificial  monster  perished  at  birth.  But  Shelton  lives. 
His  successors  have  merits  to  which  he  makes  no  pretence  ; 
yet  he  may  well  survive  them.  For  his  work  is  literature, 
sane  and  strong  and  beautiful.  A  great  poet  once  wrote 
of  a  fervent  admirer  of  Cervantes  that  he  knew 

'  no  version  done 
In  English  more  divinely  well ' 

than  Fitzgerald's  of  'Umar  Khaiyam.  And,  with  small 
abatement,  as  much  may  be  said  for  our  first  and  best 
interpretation  of  Cervantes. 

JAMES   FITZMAURICE-KELLY. 


NOTE 

The  le.rl  of  the  Second  Part 

is  reprinted  from   I  he 

Ed i tin  Prince ps  of 

1620 


THE    SECOND    PART    OF 

THE    HISTORY    OF   THE 

VALOROUS  AND  WITTY 
KNIGHT-ERRANT 

DON     QUIXOTE 

OF   THE    MANCHA 

WRITTEN   IN   SPANISH   WY 

MICHAEL   CERVANTES 

AND   NOW  TRANSLATED 

INTO  ENGLISH 

1620 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE 

GEORGE  MARQUESSE  BUCKINGHAM 

Viscount  Villiers,  Baron  of  Whaddon, 

Lord  High  Admirall  of  England  ;  Justice  in  Eyre  of  all 
his  Majesties  Forrests,  Parkes,  and  Chases  beyond  Trent, 
Master  of  the  Horse  to  his  Majestic,  and  one  of  the 
Gentlemen  of  his  Majesties  Bed-chamber,  Knight  of  the 
most  noble  Order  of  the  Garter,  and  one  of  his  Majesties 
most  Honourable  Privy  Counsell  of  England  and  Scotland. 


Right  Noble  Lord, 

OUR  humble  servant  hath  observ'd 
in  the  multitude  of  books  that  have 
past  his  hands,  no  small  varietie  of 
Dedications  ;  and  those  severally 
sorted  to  their  Presenters  ends : 


Some,  for  the  meere  ambition  of  Great  names : 
Others,  for  the  desire,  or  need  of  Protection ; 
Many,  to  win  Friends,  and  so  favour,  and  opinion  ; 

but  Most,  for  the  more  sordid  respect,  Gaine. 

3 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

THE       This  humbly  offers  into  your  Lo:  presence,  with 

Wt STTT  V 

DJ-DICA  none  °f  these  deformities :  But  as  a  bashfull 
TORIE  stranger,  newly  arrived  in  English,  having  origin- 
ally had  the  fortune  to  be  borne  commended  to 
a  Grande  of  Spaine ;  and,  by  the  way  of  transla- 
tion, the  grace  to  kisse  the  hands  of  a  great  Ladie 
of  France,  could  not  despaire  of  lesse  courtesie  in 
the  Court  of  Great  Brittaine,  then  to  bee  received 
of  your  Lo :  delight ;  his  study  being  to  sweeten 
those  short  starts  of  your  retirement  from  pub- 
lique  affaires,  which  so  many,  so  unseasonably, 
even  to  molestation  trouble. 

By  him  who  most  truely  honours, 

and  humbly  professes  all  duties 
to  your  Lordship. 

ED.  BLOUNT. 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


THE  AUTHORS  PROLOGUE  TO  THE 
READER 

\()\V    (iod   defend'    Header,  Xoble   or   Pleb- 
«;////;i,   ic/nit    ere    thon    art:    In,:  III) 

•/.v    ////   thin   thru    c.rpeet   this 
I'ro/ofjtn,  .supposing   that    tJiou    must  find 
in   it  not/ling-  but   rert  ngr.   />ra;c/'/ng\  and 
railing-  ///ton    tin-    Anthonr  of  the  xeeand 
•  Dun   Qn'u-ote,"  of  ichom   I  one/t/   suit 
other*  .SY///,  that  lie  ictis  be^ot  in  Tordesill 
and  honu   in  Tan  the  truth  i.y,  herein  I  ineain    not   to 

'<  •  {.      I.,t    it   lie    i  Centra!/  n  >Wr,    tliat 

injuries  aicaken  nnd   ron::e  up  eholer   in  hinnhle  hnxfx.ifet  in 
mine    must   thi.s    ride    admit  an   e.iet  jttion  :    Tlton,   it   mat/   fa, 
:cfiu/(/.\t   hai~e   imr  Ite-Aw  him.  ht-madman  //////,  and  he-/'oole 
him,  hnt  no  .inch  mailer  (an  enter  into  mi)  thought  ;    no.  let  / 
oicnc  rod  :chip  him  •  //.v  In  e  hath  Itr,  f   him  bit!, 

where    he   xhall   hare    it:   and   i/ef   there   is  iOmtwkat  wkick   I 
cannot  hnt  rexent,  and  that  /'.v,  //////  he  e.rprobrates  unto  me  my 

.  and  mij  *tmtymt;  ax  if  it  had  been   in   mi)  poicer,  to   hold  *!!»•  1" 
Time  bntkt\   that   so   it   shnuld   not  y^/.s.sv   upon  mn\  or  if  mi/  of  lii>  liand-. 
mat/me   had  be/idne  me  in  a  Tarerne,  aud  not   upon  the  moxt 
jawans   *  occasion  iJiich   eitlier   the  Of  \fthe 

',  ,  nor  mat/  the  time*  to  mine  Jooke  for  t/ie  like:   If  mi)  Hattt-ll  of 
-icnnndx  .v/////c   not   in    the  r/yr.v   of  .v///7/    a\   behold   them-   //<( 
shall  theij  be   e\teemed  at   least   in   tin    judgement  of  *neh 
knoic  lio:c  (/,.  often.      A  So/ddiour  had  rather  hi  dead 

in   the   battell,  t/ien  free  hi)  running-  a\cai)  :  and  so  i.\  if  icit/t 
me,  that  should  men  set  before  we  and /ac'difafr  an  tmpOUtinSi 

5 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

TO  THE  /  should  rather  have  desired  to  have  beene  in  that  prodigious 
READER  action ;  then  now  to  bee  in  a  whole  skinne,  free  from  my 
skarres,for  not  having  been  in  it.  The  skarres  which  a 
Souldiour  shewes  in  his  face  and  brest,  are  starres  which  leade 
others  to  the  Heaven  of  Honor,  and  to  the  desire  of  just  praise: 
and  besides  it  may  be  noted,  that  it  is  not  so  much  mens  pens 
which  write,  as  their  judgements ;  and  these  use  to  be  bettered 
with  yeeres.  Nor  am  I  insensible  of  his  calling  me  Envious, 
and  describing  me  as  an  ignorant.  What  Envy  may  be,  I 
vow  seriously,  that  of  those  two  sorts,  that  are ;  I  skill  not 
but  of  that  H oly,  Noble,  and  ingenuous  Envy,  which  being 
so,  as  it  is,  I  have  no  meaning  to  abuse  any  Priest ;  especially, 
if  he  hath  annexed  unto  him  the  Title  of  FAMILIAR  of 
the  Inquisition :  and  if  he  said  so,  as  it  seemes  by  this  second 
Author,  that  he  did,  he  is  utterly  deceived:  For  I  adore  his 
wit,  admire  his  worJces,  and  his  continuall  vertuous  imploy- 
ment ;  and  yet  in  effect  I  cannot  but  thanke  this  sweet  Senior 
Author,  for  saying  that  my  Novelles  are  more  Satyrick,  then 
Exemplar ;  and  that  yet  they  are  good,  which  they  could  not 
be,  were  they  not  so  quite  thorow.  It  seemes,  thou  tellest  me, 
that  I  write  somewhat  limited,  and  obscurely,  and  containe  my 
selfe  within  the  bounds  of  my  modestie,as  knowing,  that  a  man 
ought  not  adde  misery  to  him  that  is  afflicted,  which  doubtlesse 
must  needs  be  very  great  in  this  Senior,  since  he  dares  not 
appeare  in  open  Jield,  in  the  light,  but  conceales  his  Name, 
faines  his  Countrey,  as  if  hee  had  committed  some  Treason 
against  his  King.  Well,  if  thou  chance  to  light  upon  him, 
and  know  him,  tell  him  from  mee,  that  I  hold  my  selfe  no  whit 
aggrieved  at  him :  for  I  well  know  what  the  temptations  of 
the  Divell  are ;  and  one  of  the  greatest  is,  when  hee  puts  into 
a  mans  head,  that  he  is  able  to  compose  and  print  a  booke, 
whereby  he  shall  gaine  as  much  Fame  as  money,  and  as  much 
money  as  Fame.  For  confirmation  hereof,  I  intreat  thee,  when 
thou  art  disposed  to  be  merry  and  pleasant,  to  tell  him  this 
Tale. 

There  was  a  Mad-man  in  Sevill,  which  hit  upon  one  of  the 
prettiest  absurd  tricks  that  ever  mad-man  in  this  world  lighted 
on,  which  was :  Hee  made  him  a  Cane  sharpe  at  one  end,  and 
6 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

then  catching-  a  Doggr  in  I  lie  street,  or  elsewhen',  hee  held  fast      TO  THK 
one  uf  the  'Dogges  togse*  under  his  foot,  and  the  other  //< .       RKADKR 
held  ii j>  with  his  hand.      7 'hen  Jilting'  his  Cane  a*  well  ax  he 
could,  hchinde,  he  fell  a  blowing  til/  hee  made  the  Dogge  as 
round   <i\   a   /fall:    and   then,  holding  him   still   in   the  same 
manner*  hee  gave  him  two  clappes  with  his  hand  on  the  belly, 
and  .so  let  him  goe,  Saying  to  those  which  stood  by  (which 
idwayes   were    man//)   how   thinke  you,   my  Masters,   Is   it   a 
small  mutter   to  blow  up  a  Dogge  like  a  /Madder?  and  h< 
thinke  you*  Is  it  a  small  labour  to  make  a  liookc?     If  this 
Tale  should   not  Jit    him:    then,  good  Header*   tell   him    this 
other  •  fur  this  al^  Mad-man  and  a  Dog.      hi  Cord«. 

another  Mad-man,  which  was  wont  to  carry  on  the  top 
of  his  head,  a  huge  piece  of  Marble,  not  of  the  tightest,  who 
meiting'  a  tnastcrlcssc  /)<>ggc,  would  stalke  up  close  to  him: 
and  on  a  sudden,  downe  with  his  burden  upon  him:  the  Dog: 
would  presently  tjearuc,  and  harking  and  yelling  run  away, 
three  streets  could  not  hold  him.  It  fell  out  ajlcrward*  among 
other  Dodges  (upon  whom  hee  let  fall  his  load}  there  was  a 
Cappi  7-.s-  UOggti  which  his  Master  made  great  account  of,  upon 
whom  hee  let  dow/ie  his  great  stone*  and  tooke  him  full  on  the 
head :  the  />oore  hatter  d  Curre  crijcs  pittifidly.  His  Master 
spies  it,  and  affected  with  it,  gets  a  meat -yard,  assaults  tin 
mad-man,  and  Avur.v  ///'/;/  not  a  whole  hone  in  his  \-kinjie;  and 
>y  blow  that  he  gave  him,  he  crycx  out.  Thou  Dagge* 
Thou  Thief e,  my  Spaniell !  Saw'sf  thon  not,  thou  eruell 
Villainc,  that  my  Dogge  was  a  Spaniell?  And  ercr  and 
anon  repeating  still  his  Spaniell.  he  sent  away  the  Mad-man 
all  blaeke  and  blue.  The  Mad-man  was  terribly  xkarrcd  here- 
with, but  got  away,  and  for  more  then  a  motieth  a/it  t 
came  abroad :  At  last  out  her  comes  with  his  invention  again, . 
and  a  /n'ggcr  load  then  before :  and  comming  where  the  UOA 
stood,  riewing  him  orer  and  orer  againc  rery  heedily  •  he  had 
no  minde,  he  durst  not  let  goe  the  .shine*  but  ondy  said.  Take 
heed,  this  i.\  a  Spaniell.  In  fine,  whatxnc-ccr  Dogges  he  met, 
though  they  were  Mastifs  or  I-\ijstiug-Hounds,  hee  still  said 
they  were  Spaniels.  So  that  after  that,  he  never  durst  thn 
Itis  great  Stone  any  more.  Ami  who  knowes  but  the  same  may 

7 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

TO  THE  befall  this  our  Historian,  that  hee  will  no  more  let  fall  the 
READER  prize  of  his  wit  in  Bookes?  for  in  being  naught,  they  are 
harder  then  Roches :  tell  him  too,  that  for  his  menacing,  that 
with  his  booke  he  will  take  away  all  my  gaine ;  I  care  not  a 
straw  for  him  :  but  betaking  my  selfe  to  the  famous  Interlude 
of  Perendenga :  I  answere  him,  Let  the  Old  man  my  Master 
live,  and  Christ  bee  with  us  all.  Long  live  the  great  Conde 
de  Lemos  (whose  Christianity  and  well-knowne  Liber alitie 
against  all  the  blowes  of  my  short  fortune,  keepes  me  onfoote) 
and  long  live  that  eminent  Charitie  of  the  Cardinall  of  Toledo, 
Don  Bernardo  de  Sandoval  y  Rojas.  Were  there  no  printing 
in  the  world,  or  were  there  as  many  Bookes  printed  against 
mee,  as  there  are  letters  in  the  Rimes  of  Mingo  Revidgo ; 
these  two  Princes,  without  any  sollicitation  of  flatter  ie,  or  any 
other  kinde  of  applause,  of  their  sole  bounty  have  taken  upon 
them  to  doe  me  good,  and  to  favour  me ;  wherein  I  account 
my  selfe  more  happy  and  rich,  then  if  fortune,  by  some  other 
ordinary  way,  had  raised  me  to  her  highest :  Honour,  a  Poore 
man  may  have  it,  but  a  Vicious  man  cannot:  Poverty  may 
cast  a  mist  upon  Noblenes,  but  cannot  altogether  obscure  it  : 
but  as  the  glimmering  of  any  light  of  it  selfe,  though  but 
thorow  narrow  chinkes  and  Cranyes,  comes  to  be  esteemed  by 
high  and  Noble  spirits,  and  consequently  favoured.  Say  no 
more  to  him;  nor  will  I  say  any  more  to  thee:  but  onely 
advertise  that  thou  consider,  that  this  Second  part  of  *  Don 
Quixote?  which  I  offer  thee,  is  framed  by  the  same  Art,  and 
cut  out  of  the  same  cloth  that  the  first  was :  in  it  I  present 
thee  with  Don  Quixote  enlarged,  and  at  last  dead  and  buried, 
that  so  no  man  presume  to  raise  any  farther  reports  of  him ; 
those  tlwt  are  past  are  enow :  and  let  it  suffice  that  an  honest 
man  may  have  given  notice  of  these  discreet  Jollies,  with  pur- 
pose not  to  enter  into  them  any  more.  For  plenty  of  any 
thing,  though  never  so  good,  makes  it  lesse  esteemed:  and 
scarsitie  (though  of  evill  things)  makes  them  somwhat 
accounted  of.  I  forgot  to  tell  thee  that  thou  mayst 
expect  'PersilesJ  which  I  am  now  about  tojinish; 
as  also  tJie  Second  part  of  '  Galatea? 

8 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


A    SUMMARY     TABLE 

of  that,  which  this  second  part  of  the  famous 

History   of  the   valourous   Don    Quixote 

de  la  Mancha  doth  containe. 

CHAPTER     I  PAGE 

I  low   the   Vicar  and   the   Barber   passed   their   time  with   Don 

Quixote,  touching  his  iufirmitie  .  .  .  .15 

(    HAI'TKR     II 
Of  the  notable  fray  that  Sam-ho  Pansa  had  with  the  Neece  and 

the  old  Woman,  and  other  delightful  passages  .  .20 

(HA  PTKR     1  I  1 
The  ridiculous  discourse  that  passed  hrtwixt  Don  Quixote,  Sancho, 

and  the  Bachelor  Samson  Carrasco      .  .     31 

CHAPTER     IV 

How  Sancho  Pansa  satisfies  the  Bachelor  Samson  Carrasco's  doubts 
and  demands ;  with  other  accidents  worthy  to  be  knowne  and 
related  ....  .39 

CHAPTER    V 

Of  the  wise  and  pleasant  discourse,  that  passed  betwixt  Sancho 
Pansa  and  his  wife  Teresa  Pansa,  and  other  accidents  worthy 
of  happy  remembrance  .  .  .  .  .44 

CHAPTER     VI 

What  passed  betwixt  Don  Quixote,  his  Neece,  and  the  old 
Woman  :  and  it  is  one  of  the  most  materiall  Chapters  in  all 
the  History  .  .  ."><> 

3:B  9 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    VII  PAGE 

What  passed  betwixt  Don  Quixote  and  his  Squire,  with  other 

famous  accidents          .  .  .  .  .  .56 

CHAPTER    VIII 

What  befell  Don  Quixote,  going  to  see  his  Mistris  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso  .  .  .  .  .  .  .63 

CHAPTER    IX 

Where  is  set  downe  as  followeth     .  .  .  .  .70 

CHAPTER    X 

How  Sancho  cunningly  inchanted  the  Lady  Dulcinea,  and  other 

successes,  as  ridiculous  as  true  .  .  .  .74 

CHAPTER    XI 

Of  the  strange  Adventure  that  befell  Don  Quixote,  with  the  Cart 

or  Waggon  of  the  Parliament  of  Death  .  .  .83 

CHAPTER    XII 

Of  the  rare  Adventure  that  befell  Don  Quixote,  with  the  Knight 

of  the  Looking-Glasses  .  .  .  .  .89 

CHAPTER     XIII 

Where  the  Adventure  of  the  Knight  of  the  Wood  is  prosecuted, 
with  the  discreet,  rare  and  sweet  Coloquy,  that  passed  be- 
twixt the  two  Squires  .  .  .  .  .  .95 

CHAPTER    XIV 

How  the  Adventure  of  the  Knight  of  the  Wood  is  prosecuted      .   101 

CHAPTER    XV 

Who  the  Knight  of  the  Looking-glasses  and  his  Squire  were        .   112 

CHAPTER    XVI 

What  befell  Don  Quixote  with  a  discreet  Gentleman  of  Mancha      114 

CHAPTER    XVII 

Where  is  shewed  the  last  and  extremest  hazzard,  to  which  the 
unheard  of  courage  of  Don  Quixote  did  or  could  arrive,  with 
the  prosperous   accomplishment  of  the   Adventure  of  the 
Lyons   ........   124 

10 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

CHAPTER    XVIII  PAGE 

What  happened  to  Don  Quixote  in  the  Castle,  or  Knight  of  the 

Greene  Cassocke  his  house,  with  other  extravagant  matters      134 

CHAPTER    XIX 

Of  the  Adventure  of  the  enamoured  Shepheard,  with  other,  indeed, 

pleasant  Accident*       ......  142 

CHAPTER    XX 

Of  the  Marriage  of  the  rich  Camacho,  and  the  successe  of  poore 

Basilius  .  .149 

CHAPTER    XXI 

Of  the  prosecution  of  Camarho's  marriage,  with  other  delightfull 

accidents  .......   158 

CHAPTER    XXII 

Of  the  famous  Adventure  of  Montesino's  Cave,  which  is  in  the 
heart  of  Mancha,  which  the  valourous  Don  Quixote  happily 
accomplished  .......  104 

CHAPTER    XXIII 

Of  the  admirable  tilings,  that  the  unparalel'd  Don  Quixote  re- 
counted, which  hee  had  scene  in  Montesino's  profound  Cave, 
whose  strangenesse  and  impossibility  makes  this  Chapter  to 
be  held  for  Apocrypha  .....  172 

CM APTKR     XXIV 

U'here  are  recounted  a  thousand  ilim-flams,  as  impertinent,  as 
necessary  to  the  understanding  of  this  famous  History  .  182 

(    II  Al'TER    XXV 

Of  the  Adventure  of  the  Braying,  and  the  merry  one  of  the 
Puppet-man,  with  the  memorable  southsaying  of  the  pro- 
phesying Ape  .  .  188 

CHAPTER    XXVI 

Of  the  delightfull  passage  of  the  Puppet-play,  and  other  pleasant 

matters  .  .  .  .197 

11 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

CHAPTER    XXVII  PAGE 

Who  Master  Peter  and  his  Ape  were,  with  the  ill  successe  that 
Don  Quixote  had  in  the  Adventure  of  the  Braying,  which 
ended  not  so  well,  as  he  would,  or  thought  for  .  .  205 

CHAPTER    XXVIII 

Of  the  things  that  Benengeli  relates,  which  hee  that  reades  shall 
know,  if  he  reade  them  with  attention  .  .  .  212 

CHAPTER    XXIX 

Of  the  famous  Adventure  of  the  Enchanted  Barke  .  .  217 

CHAPTER    XXX 

What  hapned  to  Don  Quixote  with  the  faire  Huntresse    .  .  224 

CHAPTER    XXXI 

That  treats  of  many  and  great  affaires       ....  229 

CHAPTER    XXXII 

Of  Don  Quixotes  answere  to  his  Reprehender,  with  other  suc- 
cesses as  wise  as  witty  .....  237 

CHAPTER    XXXIII 

Of  the  wholesome  discourse  that  passed  betwixt  the  Duchesse  and 
her  Damozels  with  Sancho  Pansa,  worthy  to  be  read  and 
noted  .  ......  250 

CHAPTER    XXXIV 

How  notice  is  given  for  the  dis-enchanting  of  the  peere-lesse 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  which  is  one  of  the  most  famous 
Adventures  in  all  this  booke  .....  257 

CHAPTER    XXXV 

Where  is  prosecuted  the  notice  that  Don  Quixote  had,  of  dis- 
enchanting Dulcinea,  with  other  admirable  accidents  .  264 


THE  SECOND  PART 
OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER    I 

How  the  Vicar  and  the  Barber  passed  their  time 
with  Don  Quixote,  touching  his  infirmity. 

[D  HAMET  BENENGELI  tels  us  in  the 
second  purl  of  this  History,  and  Don 
(Quixote  his  third  sally,  that  the  Vicar 
and  Barber  were  almost  a  whole  moneth 
without  seeing  him,  because  they  would 
not  renew  and  bring  to  his  remembrance 
things  done  and  past.  Notwithstanding, 
they  forbore  not  to  visit  his  Neece  and 
the  olde  woman,  charging  them  they  should  bee  carefull  to 
cherish  him,  and  to  give  him  comforting  meats  to  eat,  good 
for  his  heart  and  brainc.  from  whence-  in  likeli-hood  all  his 
ill  proceeded.  They  answered,  that  they  did  so,  and  would 
doe  it  with  all  possible  love  and  care :  For  they  perceived 
that  their  Master  continually  gave  signes  of  being  in  his 
entire  judgement;  at  which  the  two  received  great  joy,  and 
thought  they  tooke  the  right  course,  when  they  brought 
him  inchaunted  in  the  Oxe-Waine  (as  hath  beene  declared 
in  the  first  part  of  this  so  famous,  as  punctual  History.)  So 
they  determined  to  visit  him,  and  make  some  triall  of  his 
amendment,  which  they  thought  was  impossible ;  and  agreed 
not  to  touch  upon  any  point  of  Knight  Errantry ;  because 
they  would  not  endanger  the  ripping  up  of  a  sore,  whose 
stitches  made  it  yet  tender. 

At  length  they  visited  him,  whom  they  found  set  up  in 
his  bed,  clad  in  a  Waste-coat  of  greene  bayes,  on  his  head  a 
red  Toledo  bonet,  so  dried  and  withered  up,  as  if  his  hY>h 

15 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    had  beene  mommied.     He  welcommed  them,  and  they  asked 
1  him  touching  his  health :  of  it  and  himselfe  he  gave  them 

How  the  good  account,  with  much  judgement  and  elegant  phrase, 
\iCaB&hd  an^  *n  Processe  °f  discourse,  they  fell  into  State-matters, 
passed  their  anc*  manner  °f  Government,  correcting  this  abuse,  and 
time  with  condemning  that;  reforming  one  custome,  and  rejecting 
Don  Quixote,  another ;  each  of  the  three  making  himselfe  a  new  Law- 
touching  his  maker,  a  moderne  Lycurgus,  and  a  spicke  and  span  new 
Solon ;  and  they  so  refined  the  Common- wealth,  as  if  they 
had  clapped  it  into  a  forge,  and  drawne  it  out  in  another 
fashion  then  they  had  put  it  in.  Don  Quixote  in  all  was  so 
discreet,  that  the  two  Examiners  undoubtedly  beleeved,  he 
was  quite  well,  and  in  his  right  minde.  The  Neece  and  the 
old  woman  were  present  at  this  discourse,  and  could  never 
give  God  thankes  enough,  when  they  saw  their  Master  with 
so  good  understanding:  But  the  Vicar  changing  his  first 
intent,  which  was,  not  to  meddle  in  matters  of  Cavallery, 
would  now  make  a  thorow  triall  of  Don  Quixotes  perfect 
recovery ;  and  so  now  and  then  tels  him  newes  from  Court, 
and  amongst  others,  that  it  was  given  out  for  certaine,  that 
the  Turke  was  come  downe  with  a  powerfull  Army,  that  his 
designe  was  not  knowne,  nor  where  such  a  clowd  would  dis- 
charge it  selfe:  and  that  all  Christendome  was  affrighted 
with  this  terrour  he  puts  us  in  with  his  yeerely  Alarme : 
Likewise,  that  his  Majesty  had  made  strong  the  coasts  of 
Naples,  Sicilie,  and  Malta.  To  this  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  his 
Majesty  hath  done  like  a  most  politique  Warrior,  in  looking 
to  his  Dominions  in  time,  lest  the  enemy  might  take  him 
at  unawares :  but  if  my  counsaile  might  prevaile,  I  would 
advise  him  to  use  a  prevention,  which  he  is  farre  from 
thinking  on  at  present.  The  Vicar  scarse  heard  this,  when 
hee  thought  with  himselfe;  God  defend  thee,  poore  Don 
Quixote:  for  mee  thinkes  thou  fallest  headlong  from  the 
high  top  of  thy  madnesse,  into  the  profound  bottome  of  thy 
simplicity.  But  the  Barber  presently  being  of  the  Vicars 
minde,  askes  Don  Quixote  what  advice  it  was  he  would  give  ? 
for  peradventure  (sayd  he)  it  is  such  an  one  as  may  bee  put 
in  the  roll  of  those  many  idle  ones  that  are  usually  given  to 
16 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Princes.     Mine,  Good-man  Shaver  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  is    CHAPTER 
no  such.     I  spoke  not  to  that  intent  (replyed  the  Barber)  I 

but  that  it  is  commonly  scene,  that  all  or  the  most  of  your  How  the 
projects  that  are  given  to  his  Majesty,  are  either  impossible,  v,^ar,  ai,ul 
or  frivolous,  either  in  detriment  of  the  King  or  Kingdome.  p^edthTir 
Well,  mine    (quoth    Don    Quixote)   is    neither   impossible,  tjme  wjth 
nor  frivolous;  but  the  plainest,  the  justest,  the  most  man-  Don  Quixote, 
ageable  and  compendious,  that  may  bee  contained  in  the  touching  his 
thought  of  any  Projectour.     You  are  long  a  telling  us  it,  " 
Mr.   Don  Quixote,  sayd  the  Vicar.      I  would  not  (replyed 
hee)  tell  it  you   heere  now,  that  it  should  bee  earely  to 
morrow  in  the  cares  of  some  privy  Councellour,  and  that 
smother  should  reap   the  praise  and  reward  of  my  labour. 
For  mee  (quoth  the  Barber)  I  passe  my  word,  heere  and 
before  God,  to  tell  neither  King  nor  Keisar,  nor  any  earthly 
man  what  you  say :  an  oath  I  learnt  out  of  the  Ballad  of 
the  Vicar,  in  the  Preface  whereof  he  told  the  King  of  the 
theefe  that  robbed  him  of  his  two  hundred  double  pistolets, 
and  his  gadding  mule.     I  know  not  your  histories  (sayd 
Don  Quixote)  but  I  presume  the  oath   is  good,  because  I 
know  Mr.  Barber  is  an  honest  man.     If  he  were  not  (sayd 
the  Vicar)  I  would  make  it  good,  and  undertake  for  him, 
that  he  shall  be  dumb  in  this  busines,  under  paine  of  ex- 
communication.     And   who  shall  undertake  for  you,  Mr. 
Vicar  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  ?     My  profession  (answered  he) 
which  is  to  keep  counsaile.    Body  of  me,  (sayd  Don  Quixote) 
is  there  any  more  to  be  done  then,  but  that  the  King  cause 
proclamation  to  bee  made,  that  at  a  prefixed  day,  all  the 
Knights  Errant  that  rove  up  and  downe  Spaine,  repaire  to 
the  Court  ?  and  if  there  came  but  halfe  a  doozen,  yet  such 
an  one  there  might  bee  amongst  them,  as  would  destroy  all 
the  Turkes  power.     Harken  to  me,  Hoe,  and  let  me  take 
you  with  mee  :  doe  yee  thinke  it  is  strange,  that  one  Knight 
Errant  should  conquer  an  army  of  two  hundred  thousand 
fighting  men,  as  if  all  together  had  but  one  throat,  or  were 
made  of  sugar-pellets  ?     But  tell  me,  how  many  stories 
full  of  tHosemarvelsT  j  You  should  have  brave  Don  ~ 
alixejiaw.,  with  a  pox  uTmeffor  lie 'curse  no  other 

3:C  17 

>r  t^+b<^4 


t,  or  were 

tories  are 

Belianis 

;  or  some 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    one  of  that  invincible  linage  of  Amadis  de  Gaul :  for  if  any 
of  these  were  living  at  this  day,  and  should  affront  the 
How  the          Turke,  Ffaith  I  would  not  be  in  his  coat :  but  God  will 
X,1CaR H  Kd        provide  for  his  people,  and  send  some  one,  if  not  so  brave 
passedthdr     a  Knight  Errant  as  those  formerly,  yet  at  least  that  shall 
time  with        n°t  be  inferiour  in  courage ;  and  God  knowes  my  meaning, 
Don  Quixote,  and  I  say  no  more.    Alasse  (quoth  the  Neece  at  this  instant) 
touching  his    hang  me,  if  my  master  have  not  a  desire  to  turne  Knight 
Errant  againe."    Then  cryed  Don  Quixote,  I  must  die  so, 
march  the  Turke  up  and  downe  when  he  will,  and  as  power- 
fully as  he  can,  I  say  againe,  God  knowes  my  meaning. 
Then  sayd  the  Barber,  Good  Sirs,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you 
a  briefe  tale  of  an  accident  in  Sevil,  which  because  it  fals 
out  heere  so  pat,  I  must  needs  tell  it.     Don  Quixote  was 
willing,  the  Vicar  and  the  rest  gave  their  attention,  and 
thus  he  began. 

In  the  house  of  the  mad-men  at  Sevil,  there  was  one  put 
in  there  by  his  kindred,  to  recover  him  of  his  lost  wits,  hee 
was  a  Bachelour  of  Law,  graduated  in  the  Canons  at  Osuna, 
and  though  he  had  beene  graduated  at  Salamanca,  yet 
(as  many  are  of  opinion)  he  would  have  beene  mad  there 
too ;  this  Bachelor  after  some  yeeres  imprisonment,  made 
it  appeare  that  hee  was  well  and  in  his  right  wits,  and 
to  this  purpose  writes  to  the  Arch-Bishop,  desiring  him 
earnestly,  and  with  forcible  reasons,  to  deliver  him  from 
that  misery  in  which  hee  lived,  since  by  Gods  mercy,  he 
had  now  recovered  his  lost  understanding:  and  that  his 
kindred,  onely  to  get  his  wealth,  had  kept  him  there,  and 
so  meant  to  hold  him  still  wrongfully  till  his  death.  The 
Arch-Bishop,  induced  by  many  sensible  and  discreet  lines  of 
his,  commanded  one  of  his  Chaplaines  to  informe  himselfe 
from  the  Rector  of  the  house,  of  the  truth  ;  and  to  speake 
also  with  the  mad-man,  that  if  he  perceived  he  was  in  his 
wits,  hee  should  give  him  his  liberty.  The  Chaplaine  did 
this,  and  the  Rector  said  that  the  party  was  still  mad,  that 
although  hee  had  sometimes  faire  intermissions,  yet  in  the 
end  he  would  grow  to  such  a  raving,  as  might  equall  his 
former  discretion  (as  hee  told  him)  he  might  perceive  by 
18 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

discoursing  with  him.  The  Chaplaine  would  needes  make  CHAPTER 
triall,  and  comming  to  him,  talked  with  him  an  houre  and 
more,  and  in  all  that  time  the  mad-man  never  gave  him  a  How  the 
crosse,  nor  wilde  answer,  but  rather  spoke  advisedly,  that  the  th^ 
Chaplaine  was  forced  to  beleeve  him  to  be  sensible  enough  ;  0^ 
and  amongit  the  rest  he  told  him,  the  Rector  had  an  inck-  time  with 
ling  against  him,  because  hee  would  not  lose  his  kindreds  Don  Quixote, 
Pretenti,  that  hee  might  say  he  was  madde  by  fittes  :  withall  touching  his 
hee  said,  that  his  Wealth  was  the  greatest  wrong  to  him  " 
in  his  evill  Fortune,  since  to  enjoy  that,  his  enemies  de- 
frauded him,  and  would  doubt  of  Gods  mercie  to  him,  that 
had  turned  him  from  a  Beast  to  a  Man.  Lastly,  hee  spoke 
so  well,  that  hee  made  the  Hector  to  bee  suspected,  and  his 
kindred  thought  covetous  and  damnable  persons,  and  him- 
selfe  so  discreet,  that  the  Chaplaine  determined  to  have  him 
with  him,  that  the  Arch-Bishop  might  see  him,  and  be 
satisfied  of  the  truth  of  the  businesse.  With  this  good 
beliefe,  the  Chaplaine  required  the  Rector  to  give  the 
Bachelor  the  clothes  hee  brought  with  him  thither  :  who 
replied  ;  desiring  him  to  consider  what  he  did,  for  that 
the  party  was  still  madde  :  but  the  Rectors  advice  prevailed 
nothing  with  the  Chaplaine,  to  make  him  leave  him ;  so  hee 
was  forced  to  give  way  to  the  Arch-bishops  order,  and  to 
give  him  his  apparell,  which  was  new  and  handsome :  and 
when  the  madoe  man  saw  himselfe  civilly  cladde,  and  his 
mad-mans  weedes  off,  hee  requested  the  Chaplaine,  that  in 
charity  he  would  let  him  take  his  leave  of  the  mad-men  his 
companions.  The  Chaplaine  told  him  that  hee  would  like- 
wise accompany  him,  and  see  the  madde-men  that  were  in 
the  house.  So  up  they  went,  and  with  them  some  others 
there  present,  and  the  Bachelor  being  come  to  a  kinde  of 
Cage,  where  an  outragious  mad-man  lay,  (although  as  then 
still  and  quiet,)  he  said,  Brother,  if  you  will  command  me 
ought,  I  am  going  to  my  house ;  for  now  it  hath  pleased 
God,  of  his  infinite  goodnesse  and  mercy,  without  my 
desert,  to  bring  me  to  my  right  minde :  I  am  now  well  and 
sensible,  for  unto  Gods  power  nothing  is  unpossible.  Be 
of  good  comfort,  trust  in  him,  that  since  he  hath  turned 

19 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    mee  to  my  former  state,  he  will  doe  the  like  to  you,  if  you 
I  trust  in  him.     I  will  be  carefull  to  send  you  some  dainty  to 

How  the  eat,  and  by  any  meanes  eat  it ;  for  let  me  tell  you  what  I 
Vicar  and  know  by  experience,  that  all  our  madnesse  proceeds  from 
the  Bar  er  ^Q  emptinesse  of  our  stomacks,  that  fills  our  brains  with 
time6 with61  aire :  Take  heart,  take  heart ;  for  this  dejecting  in  misery, 
Don  Quixote,  lessens  the  health,  and  hastens  death.  Another  madde- 
touching  his  man  jn  a  Cage  over-against,  heard  all  the  Bachelors  dis- 
infirmity.  course,  and  raysing  himselfe  upon  an  olde  Matresse  upon 
which  hee  lay  starke  naked,  asked  aloud,  who  it  was  that 
was  going  away  sound  and  in  his  wits.  The  Bachelor  re- 
plied :  It  is  I,  brother,  that  am  going,  for  I  have  no  need 
to  stay  heere  any  longer ;  for  which  I  render  infinite  thankes 
to  God,  that  hath  done  me  so  great  a  favour.  Take  heed 
what  you  say,]  Bachelor,  reply'd  the  madde-man,  let  not 
the  Devill  deceive  you ;  keepe  still  your  foot,  and  be  quiet 
heere  at  home,  and  so  you  may  save  a  bringing  backe.  I 
know  (quoth  the  Bachelor)  I  am  well,  and  shall  need  to 
walke  no  more  stations  hither.  You'r  well,  said  the  mad- 
man. The  event  will  try  ;  God  be  with  you  :  but  I  sweare 
to  thee  by  lupiter,  whose  Majesty  I  represent  on  earth, 
that  for  this  dayes  offence,  I  will  eat  up  all  Sevill,  for  de- 
livering thee  from  hence,  and  saying  thou  art  in  thy  wits ; 
I  will  take  such  a  punishment  on  this  City,  as  shall  be  re- 
membred  for  ever  and  ever,  Amen.  Knowest  not  thou, 
poore  rascall  Bachelor,  that  I  can  doe  it,  since  (as  I  say)  I 
am  thundering  lupiter,  that  carry  in  my  hands  the  scorch- 
ing bolts,  with  which  I  can,  and  use  to  threaten  and  destroy 
the  world  ?  But  in  one  thing  onely  will  I  chastise  this 
ignorant  Towne  ;  which  is,  That  for  three  yeers  together 
there  shall  fall  no  raine  about  it,  nor  the  liberties  thereof, 
counting  from  this  time  and  instant  hence-forward,  that 
this  threat  hath  beene  made.  Thou  free  ?  thou  sound, 
thou  wise,  and  I  mad,  I  sicke,  I  bound  ?  as  sure  will  I  raine, 
as  I  meane  to  hang  my  selfe.  The  standers  by  gave  atten- 
tion to  the  mad-man :  but  our  Bachelor  turning  to  the 
Chaplaine,  and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  said,  Be  not 
afraid,  Sir,  nor  take  any  heed  to  this  mad -mans  words: 
20 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

for  if  he  be  lupiter  and  will  not  raine,  I  that  am  Neptune    CHAPTER 
the  Father  and  god  of  the  waters,  will  raine  as  oft  as  I  list, 
and  need  shall  require.      To  which  (quoth  the  Chaplaine)  How  the 
Nay,  Mr.  Neptune,  it  were  not  good  angring  Mr.  lupiter,  Xtca«H1id 
I  pray  stay  you  here  still,  and  some  other  time,  at  more  pa^se(f  th^r 
leisure  and   opportunitie,   we  wil   returne  for  you   againe.  time  with 
The   Rector   and    standers    by   began    to   laugh,   and    the  Don  Quixote, 
Chaplaine  grew   to  bee  halfe  abashed :    the  Bachelor  was  touching  his 
unclothed,  there  remained,  and  there  the  Tale  ends.  infirmity. 

Well ;  is  this  the  Tale,  Mr.  Barber  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
that  because  it  fell  out  so  pat,  you  could  not  but  relate  it  ? 
Ah,  goodman  Shavester,  goodman  Shavester,  how  blind  is 
he  that  sees  not  light  through  the  bottome  of  a  Meale-sive  ? 
and  is  it  possible  that  you  should  not  know,  that  compari- 
sons made  betwixt  wit,  and  wit,  valour  and  valour,  beauty 
and  beauty,  and  betwixt  birth  and  birth,  are  alwayes  odious 
and  ill  taken  ?  I  am  not  Neptune,  god  of  the  waters,  neither 
care  I  who  thinks  me  a  wise  man,  (I  being  none)  onely  I 
am  troubled  to  let  the  world  understand  the  errour  it  is  in, 
in  not  renewing  that  most  happy  Age,  in  which  the  Order 
of  Knight  Errantry  did  flourish:  But  our  depraved  times 
deserve  not  to  enjoy  so  great  a  happines,  as  former  A^ 
when  Knights  Errant  undertook  the  defence  of  Kingdomes, 
the  protection  of  Damosels,  the  succouring  of  Orphans,  the 
chastizing  the  Proud,  the  reward  of  the  Humble.  Most  of 
your  Knights  now-a-daies,  are  such  as  russle  in  their  silkes, 
their  cloth  of  gold  and  silver,  and  such  rich  stuffes  as  these 
they  weare,  rather  then  Maile,  with  which  they  should  arme 
themselves.  You  have  no  Knight  now  that  will  lye  upon 
the  bare  ground,  subject  to  the  rigour  of  the  ayre,  armed 
Cap  a  Pie  :  None  now  that  upright  on  his  stirrops,  and 
leaning  on  his  Launce,  strives  to  be  head-sleepe  (as  they 
say  your  Knights  Errant  did  :)  You  have  none  now,  that 
comming  out  of  this  wood,  enters  into  that  mountaine,  and 
from  thence  tramples  over  a  barren  and  desart  shore  of  the 
Sea,  most  commonly  stormy  and  unquiet ;  and  finding  at 
the  brinke  of  it  some  little  Cock-boat,  without  Oares,  Saile, 
Mast,  or  any  kinde  of  tackling,  casts  himselfe  into  it  with 

21 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    undanted  courage,  yeelds  himselfe  to  the  implacable  waves 
I  of  the  deepe  Maine,  that  now  tosse  him  as  high  as  Heaven, 

How  the  and  then  cast  him  as  low  as  hell,  and  he  exposed  to  the 
Vicar  and  inevitable  tempest,  when  he  least  dreames  of  it,  findes  him- 
aLeri  their  selfe  at  least  three  tnousan(1  Leagues  distant  from  the  place 
time  with  where  he  embarqued  himselfe  :  and  leaping  on  a  remote  and 
Don  Quixote,  unknowne  shore,  lights  upon  successes  worthy  to  be  written 
touching  his  in  brasse,  and  not  parchment.  But  now  sloth  triumphs 
infirmity.  UpOn  industry,  idlenesse  on  labour,  vice  on  vertue,  presump- 
tion on  valour,  the  Theorie  on  the  Practice  of  Armes, 
which  onely  lived  and  shined  in  those  golden  Ages,  and  in 
those  Knights  Errant.  If  not,  tell  me,  who  was  more 
vertuous,  more  valiant,  then  the  renowned  Amadis  de 
Gaul  ?  more  discreet  then  Palmerin  of  England  ?  more 
affable  and  free,  then  Tirante  the  White  ?  more  gallant 
then  Lisuart  of  Greece  ?  a  greater  hackster,  or  more  hacked 
then  Don  Belianis  ?  more  undaunted  then  Perion  of  Gaule  ? 
who  a  greater  undertaker  of  dangers  then  Felismarte  of 
Hircania  ?  who  more  sincere  then  Esplandian  ?  who  more 
courteous  then  Don  Cierongilio  of  Thracia  ?  who  more 
fierce  then  Rodomant  ?  who  wiser  then  King  Sobrinus  ? 
who  more  couragious  then  Renaldo  ?  who  more  invincible 
then  Roldan  ?  who  more  comely,  or  more  courteous  then 
Rogero  ?  from  whom  the  Dukes  of  Ferrara  at  this  day  are 
descended  (according  to  Turpin  in  his  Cosmography.)  All 
these  Knights,  and  many  more  (Master  Vicar)  that  I  could 
tell  you,  were  Knights  Errant,  the  very  light  and  glory  of 
Knight-hood.  These,  or  such  as  these,  are  they  I  wish  for, 
which  if  it  could  be,  his  Majesty  would  bee  well  served,  and 
might  save  a  great  deale  of  expence,  and  the  Turke  might 
goe  shake  his  eares.  And  therefore  let  me  tell  you,  I  scorne 
to  keepe  my  house,  since  the  Chaplaine  delivers  mee  not, 
and  his  lupiter  (as  goodman  Barber  talkes)  raines  not ; 
heere  am  I  that  will  raine  when  I  list :  this  I  speake,  that 
goodman  Bason  may  know  I  understand  him. 

Truly  Mr.  Don  Quixote  (said  the  Barber)  I  spoke  it 
not  to  that  end,  and  so  help  mee  God,  as  I  meant  well,  and 
you  ought  not  to  resent  any  thing.  I  know  well  enough 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

whether  I  ought  or  no,  Sir,  replyed  Don  Quixote.     Then    CHAPTER 
(quoth  the  Vicar)  well,  goe  to :  I  have  not  spoken  a  word  I 

hitherto,  I  would  not  willingly  remaine  with  one  scruple  How  the 
which  doth  grate  and  gnaw  upon  my  conscience,  sprung  Vicar  and 
from  what  Mr.  Don  Quixote  hath  here  told  us.  For  this  Sj 
and  much  more  you  have  full  liberty,  good  Master  Vicar  {iime  with 
(said  Don  Quixote)  and  therefore  tell  your  scruple,  for  sure  Don  Quixote, 
it  is  no  pleasure  to  continue  with  a  scrupulous  conscience,  touching  his 
Under  correction  (quoth  the  Vicar)  this  it  is,  I  can  by  no  infirmity- 
means  be  perswaded  that  all  that  troope  of  Knights  Errant 
which  you  named,  were  ever  true,  and  really  persons  of  flesh 
and  bone  in  this  world  :  I  rather  imagine  all  is  fiction, 
tales,  and  lies,  or  dreames  set  downe  by  men  waking,  or  to 
say  trulier,  by  men  halfe  asleepe.  There's  another  error 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  into  which  many  have  falne,  who 
believe  not  that  there  have  beene  such  Knights  in  the 
world :  and  I  my  selfe  many  times  in  divers  companies, 
and  upon  severall  occasions,  have  laboured  to  shew  this 
common  mistake,  but  sometimes  have  failed  in  my  purpo 
at  others  not;  supporting  it  upon  the  shoulders  of  Truth, 
which  is  so  infallible,  that  I  may  say,  that  with  these  very 
eyes  I  have  beheld  Amadis  de  Gaul,  who  was  a  goodly  tall 
man,  well  complectioned,  had  a  broad  beard,  and  blacke, 
an  equall  countenance  betwixt  milde  and  sterne,  a  man  of 
small  discourse,  slow  to  anger,  and  soone  appeased :  and 
just  as  I  have  delineated  Amadis,^  might  in  my  judgement 
paint  and  decipher  out  as  many  Knights  Errant,  as  are  in 
all  the  Histories  of  the  world :  Tor  by  apprehending,  they 
were  such  as  their  histories  report  them,  by  their  exploits 
they  did,  and  their  qualities ;  their  features,  colours,  and 
statures  may  in  good  Philosophy  be  guessed  at.*  How  bigge, 
deare  Mr.  Don  Quixote  (quoth  the  Barber)  might  Gyant 
Morgante  be  ?  Touching  Gyants  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
there  be  different  opinions  whether  there  have  beene  any 
or  no  in  the  world  :  but  the  holy  Scripture,  which  cannot 
erre  a  jot  in  the  truth,  doth  shew  us  plainely  that  there 
were,  telling  us  the  story  of  that  huge  Philistine  Golias,  that 
was  seven  cubits  and  a  halfe  high,  which  is  an  unmeasur- 

23 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  able  greatnesse.  Besides,  in  the  He  of  Sicilia,  there  have 
beene  found  shanke-bones,  and  shoulder-bones  so  great,  that 
How  the  their  bignesse  shewed  their  owners  to  have  beene  Gyants, 
^ica£al?d  and  as  huge  as  high  towers,  which  Geometry  will  make 
passed  th^r  g°°d-  But  f°r  a^  tnis>  I  cannot  easily  tell  you  how  big 
time  with  Morgante  was,  though  I  suppose  he  was  not  very  tall ;  to 
Don  Quixote,  which  opinion  I  incline,  because  I  finde  in  his  history,  where 
touching  his  there  is  particular  mention  made  of  his  Acts,  that  many 
times  hee  lay  under  a  roofe  :  And  therefore  since  hee  found 
an  house  that  would  hold  him,  tis  plaine,  he  could  not  be 
of  extraordinary  bignesse.  Tis  true  (quoth  the  Vicar)  who 
delighting  to  heare  him  talke  so  wildely,  asked  him  what  he 
thought  of  the  faces  of  Renaldo  of  Montalban,  Don  Roldan 
and  the  rest  of  the  twelve  Peeres  of  France,  who  were  all 
Knights  Errant.  For  Renaldo  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  I 
dare  boldly  say,  he  was  broad-faced,  his  complexion  high, 
quicke  and  full  eyed,  very  exceptious  and  extremely  choler- 
icke,  a  lover  of  theeves  and  debaucht  company.  Touching 
Rolando,  or  Rotolando,  or  Orlando,  for  histories  afford 
him  all  these  names,  I  am  of  opinion,  and  affirme  that  hee 
was  of  a  meane  stature,  broad -shouldred,  somwhat  bow- 
legged,  Abourne  bearded,  his  body  hairie,  and  his  lookes 
threatning,  dull  of  discourse,  but  affable  and  well  behaved. 
If  Orlando  (said  the  Vicar)  was  so  sweet  a  youth  as  you 
describe  him,  no  marvell  though  the  faire  Angelica  disdained 
him,  and  left  him,  for  the  handsome,  briske  and  conceited 
beard-budding  Medor,  and  that  she  had  rather  have  his 
softnesse,  then  tothers  roughnesse.  That  Angelica  (quoth 
Don  Quixote)  was  a  light  huswife,  a  gadder,  and  a  wanton, 
and  left  the  world  as  full  of  her  fopperies,  as  the  reports  of 
her  beauty  :  shee  despised  a  thousand  Knights,  a  thousand 
both  valiant  and  discreet,  and  contented  herselfe  with  a 
poore  beardlesse  Page,  without  more  wealth  or  honour,  then 
what  her  famous  singer  Ariosto  could  give  her  in  token  of 
his  thankfulnesse  to  his  friends  love,  either  because  hee  durst 
not  in  this  respect,  or  because  hee  would  not  chaunt  what 
befell  this  Lady,  after  her  base  prostitution,  for  sure  her 
carriage  was  not  very  honest :  So  he  left  her  when  he  said, 
24 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

And  how  Catayes  scepter  she  had  at  will,  CHAPTER 

Perhaps,  some  one  will  write  with  better  quill.  I 

And  undoubtedly  this  was  a  kinde  of  prophesie,  for  Poets  How  the 
are  called  Vates,  that  is,  South-sayers  :  and  this  truth  hath  Vicar  ami 
beene  cleerely  seene,  for  since  that  time,  a  famous  Anda-  pJJ^J1^^ 
lu/ian  Poet  wept,  and  sung  her  teares :  and  another  famous  time  with 
and  rare  Poet  of  Castile  her  beauty.     But  tell  mee,  Mr.  Don  Don  Quixote, 
Quixote  (quoth  the  Barber)  was  there  ever  any  Poet  that  touching  his 
wrote  a  Satyre  against  this  faire  Lady,  amongst  those  many  " 
that  have  written  in  her  praise  ?    I  am  we'll  perswaded  (quoth 
Don  Quixote)  that  if  Sacripant  or  Orlando  had  beene  Poets, 
they  had  trounced  the  Damosell :  for  it  is  an  ordinary  thing 
amongst  Poets  once  disdained,  or  not  admitted  by  their  faincd 
Mistresses,  (fained  indeed,  because  they  faine  they  love  them) 
to  revenge  themselves  with  Satyres  and  Libels ;  a  revenge 
truely  unworthy  noble  spirits  :  but  hitherto  I  have  not  heard 
of  any  infamatory  verse  against  the  Lady   Angelica,  that 
hath  made  any  burly  burly  in  the  world.     Strange,  quoth 
the  Vicar.     With  that  they  might  heare  the  Neece  and 
the  olde  woman  (who  were  before  gone  from  them) 
keepe  a  noyse  without  in  the  Court :  so  they 
went  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 


3:D  25 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    II 

Of  the  notable  fray  that  Sancho  Panca  had  with 

the  Neece  and  the  old  woman,  and  other 

delightfull  passages. 

HE  Story  sayes,  that  the  noyse  which  Don 
Quixote,  the  Vicar  and  the  Barber  heard, 
was  of  the  Neece  and  the  old  woman, 
that  were  rating  Sancho  Panza,  that 
strove  with  them  for  entrance  to  see 
Don  Quixote,  who  kept  the  doore  against 
him.  What  will  this  bloud-hound  have 
heere  ?  sayd  they,  Get  you  home  to  your 
own  house,  for  you  are  he  and  none  else,  that  doth  distract 
and  ring-lead  our  Master,  and  carry  him  astray.  To  which 
(quoth  Sancho)  Woman  of  Satan,  I  am  hee  that  is  dis- 
tracted, ring-led,  and  carried  astray,  and  not  your  Master : 
twas  he  that  led  mee  up  and  downe  the  world,  and  you  de- 
ceive your  selves  and  understand  by  halves :  he  drew  me 
from  my  house  with  his  conycatching,  promising  mee  an 
Island,  which  I  yet  hope  for.  A  plague  of  your  Islands 
(replied  the  Neece)  cursed  Sancho :  and  what  be  your 
Islands  ?  is  it  any  thing  to  eat,  good-man  glutton,  you 
cormorant,  as  you  are  ?  Tis  not  to  eat  (quoth  Sancho)  but 
to  rule  and  governe,  better  then  foure  Cities,  or  foure  of 
the  Kings  ludges.  For  all  that  (sayd  the  olde  woman) 
you  come  not  in  heere,  you  bundle  of  mischiefe  and  sacke 
of  wickednesse,  get  you  home  and  governe  there,  and  sow 
your  graine,  and  leave  seeking  after  Hands  or  Dilands. 
The  Vicar  and  the  Barber  tooke  great  delight  to  heare  this 
Dialogue  betweene  the  three :  But  Don  Quixote,  fearing 
lest  Sancho  should  out  with  all,  and  should  blunder  out 
a  company  of  malicious  fooleries,  or  should  touch  upon 
poynts  that  might  not  be  for  his  reputation,  he  called  him 
26 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

to  him,  and  commanded  the  women  to  be  silent,  and  to  let    CHAPTER 
him  in.     Sancho  entred,  and   the  Vicar  and  Barber  tooke  H 

leave  of  Don  Quixote,  of  whose  recovery  they  dispaired,  Of  the  notable 
seeing  how  much  lie  was  bent  upon  his  wilde  thoughts,  {fa.v  that 
and  how  much  he  was  besotted  with  his  damned  Knights  pjjjjjj^ j 
Errant.  So  (quoth  the  Vicar  to  the  Barber)  you  shall  with  the 
quickly,  Gossip,  perceive,  when  we  least  thinke  of  it,  that  Neeceand  the 
our  Gallant  takes  his  flight  againe  by  the  river.  No  doubt,  ol(1  woman, 
(sayd  the  Harher)  but  I  'wonder  not  so  much  at  the  Knights  ™1 
madnesse,  as  the  Squires  simplicity,  that  believes  so  in  the 
Hands,  and  I  thinke  all  the  Art  in  the  world  will  not  drive 
that  out  of  his  noddle.  God  mend  them  (sayd  the  Vicar) 
and  let  us  expect  what  issue  the  multitude  of  this  Knight 
and  Squires  absurdities  will  have:  for  it  seemes  they  were 
both  framed  out  of  one  forge,  as  it  were,  for  the  Masters 
maclnes  without  the  Servants  lolly,  is  not  worth  a  chip. 
Tis  true  (sayd  the  Barber)  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
their  present  discourse.  I  warrant  (sayd  the  Vicar)  the 
Neece  and  old  woman  will  tell  us  all  when  they  have-  done, 
for  they  are  not  so  mannerly  as  not  to  barken.  In  the  In- 
terim, Don  Quixote  locked  in  Sancho,  and  thus  discoursed 
with  him  :  I  am  very  sorry,  Sancho,  you  should  affirme  and 
make  good,  that  I  was  bee  that  drew  you  from  your  dog-hole 
cottage,  knowing  that  I  willingly  left  mine,  a  Palace  in  com- 
parison ;  wee  went  out  joyntly,  so  we  marched  on,  and  so  we 
held  our  whole  peregrination ;  both  of  us  having  undergone 
the  same  lot,  the  same  fortune  ;  and  if  once  thou  wast  tossed 
in  a  blanket,  I  have  beene  banged  an  hundred  times,  and 
heerein  have  I  the  advantage  of  thee.  Why,  it  was  very  fit 
(answered  Sancho)  for  (as  you  hold)  misfortunes  are  more 
annexed  to  Knights  Errant  then  to  their  Squires.  Thou 
art  deceived,  Sancho,  (quoth  Don  Quixote  :)  for  according  to 
the  saying,  Quando  caput  ilolet,  etc.  I  understand  no  other 
language  but  mine  owne,  said  Sancho.  Why  I  mean  (re- 
plied Don  Quixote)  that  when  the  head  akes,  all  the  body 
is  out  of  tune :  so  that  I  being  thy  Lord  and  Master,  am 
thy  head,  and  thou  a  part  of  me,  since  thou  art  my  servant, 
in  which  respect,  the  ill  that  toucheth  me,  must  conceme 

27 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  and  grieve  thee,  and  so  thine  me.  Indeed  (quoth  Sancho) 
it  ought  to  bee  so :  but  when  I  was  tossed  in  the  blanket, 
Of  the  notable  my  head  stood  aloofe,  like  a  part,  beholding  me  fly  in  the 
San  h^  a*re?  w*thout  any  feeling  my  griefe,  and  since  the  members 
Panca°had  are  bound  to  suffer  for  the  head,  the  head  in  requitall 
with  the  should  also  suffer  for  them.  You  meane,  Sancho  (quoth 
Neece  and  the  Don  Quixote)  that  I  had  no  feeling  of  your  being  tossed  ? 
01  d  wo^nan'  And  if  you  meane  so,  doe  not,  neither  imagine  any  such 
deliffhtftdl  thing:  for  at  that  time,  I  was  more  vext  in  spirit,  then 
thou  couldst  bee  in  body :  but  leave  we  this  for  the  pre- 
sent ;  for  wee  shall  have  leisure  to  consider  and  rectifie  it : 
and  tell  me,  friend  Sancho,  what  say  the  common  people  of 
me  ?  In  what  estimation  doe  the  Gentlemen  hold  me  ?  In 
what  the  Knights  and  Gallants?  What  say  they  of  my 
valour  ?  What  of  my  exployts  ?  What  of  my  affability  ? 
What  discourse  they  touching  my  plot  in  raising  and  re- 
storing to  the  world,  the  long  forgotten  order  of  Knight 
Errantry?  To  conclude,  I  would  have  thee  tell  me  all 
that  thou  hast  heard  :  and  you  must  tell  me,  without  adding 
to  my  praise,  or  diminishing  my  dispraise,  for  it  is  the  part 
of  loyall  servants,  to  tell  the  naked  truth  to  their  Masters, 
in  its  native  colour,  without  increasing  it  by  flattery,  or 
diminishing  it  for  any  other  vaine  respect;  And  I  would 
have  thee,  Sancho,  learne  by  the  way,  that  if  the  naked 
truth  should  come  to  the  eares  of  Princes,  without  the 
apparrell  of  flattery,  we  should  have  another  manner  of 
world,  and  other  ages  would  be  called  iron,  and  not  ours, 
and  this  would  bee  the  golden  age.  And  let  mee  advise 
thee,  Sancho,  that  well  and  discreetly  thou  tell  me  the 
truth  of  what  thou  knowest,  concerning  my  demand.  I 
shall  with  a  very  good  will,  Sir,  (quoth  Sancho)  upon  con- 
dition that  you  shall  not  bee  angry  at  what  I  shall  tell  you, 
since  you  will  have  the  naked  truth,  without  any  other 
clothing  then  what  I  have  scene  her  with.  By  no  meanes 
will  I  be  angry  (answered  Don  Quixote)  thou  mayst  speake 
freely,  Sancho,  and  without  any  disguise.  Why  then,  first 
of  all  I  must  tell  you,  the  common  people  hold  you  for  a 
notable  mad-man,  and  that  I  am  no  lesse  Cox-combe.  The 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

ordinary  Gentle-men  say,  that   not  containing  your  selfe    (  IIAI'II.R 
within  the  limits  of  Gentrie,  you  will  needs   be-Don  your  II 

selfe,  and  be  a  man  of  honour,  having  but  three  or  foure  of  tin-notable 
acres  of  land,  and  a  rag  before,  and  another  belli nde.  The  Jfa.v  tllilt 
Knights  say,  they  would  not  have  your  poore  Squires  bee  pg^^^A 
ranked  with  them,  that  clout  their  owne  shooes,  and  take  with 'tlu- 
up  a  stitch  in  their  owne  blacke  stockings  with  greene  silke.  NYeiv  and  the 
That  concernes  not  me  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  for  thou  seest  "1(1  woman, 
that  I  goc  alwaies  well  clad,  and  never  patcht :  indeed  a 
little  torne  sometimes,  but  more  with  my  armour,  then  by 
long  wearing.  Concerning  your  valour  (quoth  Sancho)your 
affability,  your  exploits,  and  your  plot,  there  bee  different 
opinions  :  Some  say  you  are  a  mad-man,  but  a  merry  one : 
others,  that  you  are  valiant,  but  withall  unfortunate:  a 
third  sort,  that  you  are  affable,  but  impertinent :  and  thus 
they  descant  upon  us,  that  they  leave  neither  you  nor  me  a 
sound  bone.  Why  looke  thou,Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
wheresoever  vertue  is  eminent,  it  is  persecuted  :  few  or  none 
of  those  brave  Hero's  that  have  lived,  hu\e  seaped  malicious 
calumniation.  lulius  Caesar,  that  most  ooungjous,  im»t  wise, 
most  valiant  Captaine,  was  noted  to  be  ambitious,  and  to 
be  somewhat  slovenly  in  his  apparrell  and  his  conditions. 
Alexander,  who  for  his  exploits  obtained  the  title  of  Great, 
is  said  to  have  beene  given  to  drunkennesse :  Hercules,  hee 
with  his  many  labours,  was  said  to  have  beene  lascivious 
and  a  Striker :  Don  Galaor,  brother  to  Amadis  de  Gaul, 
was  grudged  at  for  being  offensive :  and  his  Brother  for  a 
sheepe-biter.  So  that,  Sancho,  since  so  many  worthy  men 
have  beene  calumniated,  I  may  well  suffer  mine,  if  it  have 
beene  no  more  then  thou  tellest  me.  Why,  there's  the 
quiddity  of  the  matter,  Body  of  my  father,  quoth  Sancho. 
Was  there  any  more  sayd  then  ?  said  Don  Quixote.  There  "s 
more  behinde  yet,  said  Sancho :  all  that  was  said  hitherto, 
is  cakes  and  white-bread  to  this :  but  if  you  will  know  all 
concerning  these  calumnies,  He  bring  you  one  hither  by  and 
by,  that  shall  tell  um  you  all  without  missing  a  scrap ;  for 
last  night  Bartholomew  Carrasco's  sonne  arrived,  that  comes 
from  study  from  Salamanca,  and  hath  proceeded  Bachelour, 

29 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  and  as  I  went  to  bid  him  welcome  home,  he  told  me  that 
II  your  History  was  in  print,  under  the  Title  of  the  most 
Of  thenotable  Ingenious  Gentle-man  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha ;  and  hee 
fray,  etc.  tels  mee  that  I  am  mentioned  too,  by  mine  owne  name  of 
*It  should  be  Sancho  Pansa,  and  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  is  in  too,  and  other 
Benengeli,  matters  that  passed  betwixt  us,  at  which  I  was  amazed,  and 
si£  ly^s0  blessed  my  selfe  how  the  Historian  that  wrote  them,  could 
takes  as  fol-  come  to  the  knowledge  of  them.  Assure  thee,  Sancho  (said 
loweth  in  the  Don  Quixote)  the  Author  of  our  History  is  some  Sage  En- 
next  note.  chanter  :  for  such  are  not  ignorant  of  all  secrets  they  write. 
*Berengena  Well  (said  Sancho)  if  hee  were  wise  and  an  Enchanter,  I 
is  a  fruit  in  will  tell  you  according  as  Samson  Carrasco  told  me,  for 
sPain'  w}"ch  thats  the  mans  name  that  spoke  with  mee,  that  the  Authors 
withsodmeat,  name  of  this  History  is  Cid  Hamete  *Berengena.  That  is 
as  we  do  '  the  name  of  a  Moore,  sayd  Don  Quixote.  It  is  very  like 
carrats,  and  (quoth  Sancho)  for  your  Moores  are  great  lovers  of  *Beren- 
here  was  gens.  Sancho  (said  Don  Quixote)  you  are  out  in  the  Moores 
pHcityin^  sirname>  wnic^  is  Cid  Hamete  Benengeli,  and  Cide  in  the 
taking,  and  to  Arabicke  signifieth  Lord.  It  may  bee  so  (quoth  Sancho) 
thinke  that  but  if  you  will  have  the  Bachelour  come  to  you,  He  bring 
name  was  him  to  you  flying.  Friend  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  thou  shalt 
AVth  r  for  doe  mee  a  sPecia^  pleasure,  for  I  am  in  suspence  with 
loving  the  what  thou  hast  told  *me,  and  will  not  eat  a  bit  till  I  am 
fruit.  informed  of  all.  Well,  I  goe  for  him  (sayd  Sancho ;)  And 

leaving  his  Master,  went  for  the  Bachelor,  with  whom 
a  while  after  hee  returned,  and  the  three  had 
a  passing  pleasant  Dialogue. 


30 


HISTORIEOF  DON  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER   III 

The  ridiculous   discourse  that  passed   betwixt 

Don  Quixote,  Sancho,  and  the  Bachelour 

Samson  Carrasco. 

ON  QUIXOTE  was  monstrous  pensative, 
expecting  the  Bachelour  Carrasco,  from 
whom  he  hoped  to  heare  the  newes  of 
himselfe  in  print  (as  Sancho  had  told 
him)  and  he  could  not  be  perswaded 
that  there  was  such  a  History,  since  yet 
the  bloud  of  enemies,  killed  by  him,  was 
scarse  dry  upon  his  k  sword  blade,  and 
would  they  have  his  noble  acts  of  Chivalry  already  in  the 
?  Notwithstanding,  hee  thought  that  some  wise  man, 
or  friend,  or  enemy,  by  way  of  enchantment,  had  committed 
them  to  the  Presse :  If  a  friend,  then  to  extoll  him  for 
tin-  most  remarkable  of  any  Knight  Errant:  if  an  enemy, 
to  annihilate  them,  and  clap  um  beneath  the  basest  and 
meanest  that  ever  were  mentioned  of  any  inferior  Squire, 
although  (thought  he  to  himselfe)  no  acts  of  Squire  were 
ever  divulged :  but  if  there  were  any  History,  being  of  a 
Knight  Errant,  it  must  needs  be  lofty  and  stately,  famous, 
magnificent,  and  true.  With  this  he  comforted  himselfe 
somewhat,  but  began  to  bee  discomforted,  to  thinke  that 
his  Author  must  be  a  Moore,  by  reason  of  that  name  of 
Cide :  and  from  Moores  there  could  bee  no  truth  expected ; 
for  all  of  them  are  Cheaters,  Impostors,  and  Chymists. 

He  feared  likewise,  that  he  might  treat  of  his  Love  with 
some  indecency,  that  might  redound  to  the  lessening  and 
prejudice  of  his  Lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso's  honesty,  he 
desired  that  he  might  declare  his  constancy,  and  the  de- 
corum that  hee  had  ever  kept  toward  her,  contemning 
Queenes  and  Empresses,  and  Damobels  of  all  sorts,  kcepino- 

31 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    distance  with  violencies  of  naturall  motions.     Sancho  and 

Carrasco  found  him  thus  tossed  and  turmoyled  in  these  and 

The  ridicu-      many  such  like  imaginations,  whom  Don  Quixote  received 

thatdasCsedrSe  wlth  mUch  courtesie' 

betwudb&Don  This  Bachelour,  though  his  name  was  Samson,  was  not 
Quixote,  very  tall,  but  a  notable  Wag-halter,  leane-faced,  but  of  a 
Sancho,  arid  good  understanding ;  he  was  about  foure  and  twenty  yeeres 
the  Bachelour  of  ag6j  round-faced,  flat-nosed,  and  wide-mouthed,  all  signes 
of  a  malicious  disposition,  and  a  friend  to  conceits  and 
merriment,  as  he  shewed  it  when  he  saw  Don  Quixote ;  for 
hee  fell  upon  his  knees  before  him,  saying,  Good  Mr.  Don 
Quixote,  give  me  your  Greatnesse  his  hand,  for  by  the 
habit  of  St.  Peter,  which  I  weare,  you  are,  Sir,  one  of  the 
most  complete  Knights  Errant,  that  hath  beene,  or  shall  be 
upon  the  roundnesse  of  the  earth.  Well  fare,  Cid  Hamete 
Benengeli,  that  left  the  stories  of  your  Greatnesse  to  pos- 
terity? and  more  then  well  may  that  curious  Author  fare, 
that 'had  the  care  to  cause  them  to  bee  translated  out  out 
of  the  Arabicke  into  our  vulgar  Castilian,  to  the  generall 
entertainment  of  all  men. 

Don-Quixote  made  him  rise,  and  sayd;  Then  it  seemes 
my  History  is  extant,  and  that  he  was  a  Moore,  and  a  wise 
man  that  made  it.  So  true  it  is  (quoth  Samson)  that  upon 
my  knowledge,  at  this  day,  there  bee  printed  above  twelve 
thousand  copies  of  your  History :  if  not,  let  Portugal,  Bar- 
celona, and  Valencia  speak,  where  they  have  beene  printed, 
and  the  report  goes,  that  they  are  now  printing  at  Antwerp, 
and  I  have  a  kinde  of  ghesse,  that  there  is  no  Nation  or 
Language  where  they  will  not  bee  translated.  One  of  the 
things  then  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  that  ought  to  give  a  man 
vertuous  and  eminent  content  in,  is,  to  see  himselfe  living, 
and  to  have  a  good  name  from  every  bodies  mouth,  to  be 
printed  and  in  the  Presse.  I  said  with  a  good  name:  for 
otherwise,  no  death  could  bee  equalled  to  that  life.  If  it  bee 
for  good  name  (said  the  Bachelour)  your  Worship  carries 
the  prize  from  all  Knights  Errant:  For  the  Moore  in  his 
language,  and  the  Christian  in  his,  were  most  carefull  to 
paint  to  the  life,  your  gallantry,  your  great  courage  in 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

attempting  of  dangers,  your  patience   in  adversities,  and    CHAPTER 
your  sufferance  as  well  in  misfortunes,  as  in  your  wounds,  III 

your  honesty  and  constancy  in  the  so  Platonick  loves  of  your  The  ridicu- 
selfc,  and  my  Lady  Donna  Dulcinea  del  Toboso.     I  never  I"1 
(replied  Sancho)  heard   my  Lady  stiled  Don  before,  onelv  J,^^^!,, 
the  Lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  and  there  the  History  erreth  guixote, 
somwhat.     This  is  no  objection  of  moment  (said  Carrasco.)  Sancho,  and 
No  truly  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  but  tell  me,  Signior  Bache-  theBachelour 
lour,  which  of  the  exploits  of  mine  are  most  ponderous  in  Damson 
this  History. 

In  this  (said  the  Bachelour)  there  bee  different  opinions, 
as  there  bee  different  tastes :  Some  delight  in  the  adventure 
of  the  wimle-inils,  that  you  tooke  to  be  Briareans  and 
Gyants :  Others  in  that  of  the  fulling-hiimnuTs  :  This  man 
in  the  description  of  the  two  Armies,  which  afterwards  fell 
out  to  be  two  flockes  of  sheepe ;  That  man  doth  extoll  vour 
adventure  of  the  dead  man,  that  was  carried  to  be  buried  at 
Segovia:  One  saith,  that  that  of  the  freeing  of  the  gally- 
slaves  goes  beyond  them  all :  Another,  that  none  comes 
neere  that  of  the  Benitian  Gyants,  with  the  combate  of  the 
valorous  Biscayner.  Tell  mee  (said  Sancho)  Sr.  Bachelour, 
comes  not  that  in  of  the  Yanguesian  Carriers  ?  when  our 
precious  Ho/inante  longed  for  the  forbidden  fruit?  The 
wise  man  (said  Samson)  left  out  nothing,  he  sets  downe  all 
most  punctually,  even  to  the  very  capers  that  Sancho  fetch t 
in  the  blanket.  Not  in  the  blanket  (replied  Sancho)  but  in 
the  aire,  more  then  I  was  willing. 

According  to  my  thought  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  there  is  no 
humane  History  in  the  world,  that  hath  not  his  changes, 
especially  those  that  treat  of  Cavallerv,  which  can  never 
bee  full  of  prosperous  successes.  For  all  that  (replied  the 
Bachelour)  there  be  some  that  have  read  your  History,  that 
would  bee  glad  the  Authors  had  omitted  some  of  those 
infinite  bastings,  that  in  divers  encounters,  were  given  Sr. 
Don  Quixote.  I,  there  (quoth  Sancho)  comes  in  the  truth 
of  the  Story.  They  might  likewise  in  equity  silence  them, 
(said  Don  Quixote)  since  those  actions  that  neither  change 
nor  alter  the  truth  of  the  story,  are  best  left  out,  if  they 

13  :  E  33 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  must  redound  to  the  misprizing  of  the  chiefe  person  of 
the  History.  ^Eneas  Tfaith  was  ne're  so  pitifull,  as  Virgil 
The  ridicu-  paints  him  out :  Nor  Ulisses  so  subtill,  as  Homer  describes 
lous  discourse  fom  True  it  is  (sayd  Samson)  but  it  is  one  thing  to  write 
betwurtDon  like  a  Poet>  an^  another  like  an  Historian ;  the  Poet  may 
Quixote,  say  or  sing  things,  not  as  they  were,  but  as  they  ought 
Sancho,  and  to  have  beene :  And  the  Historian  must  write  things,  not 
theBachelour  as  they  ought  to  bee,  but  as  they  have  beene,  without 
Carrasco  adding  or  taking  away  ought  from  the  truth. 

Well,  (said  Sancho)  if  you  goe  to  telling  of  truths,  wee 
shall  finde  that  this  Signior  Moore  hath  all  the  bastings  of 
my  Master  and  mee  ;  for  I  am  sure  they  never  tooke  mea- 
sure of  his  Worships  shoulders,  but  they  tooke  it  of  all  my 
body  too :  but  no  marvell,  for  as  my  Master  himselfe  saith, 
the  rest  of  the  parts  must  participate  of  the  heads  grief e. 
Sancho,  you  are  a  Crackrope  (quoth  Don  Quixote :)  Ffaith 
you  want  no  memory,  when  you  list  to  have  it.  If  I  would 
willingly  forget  those  cudgellings  that  I  have  had,  the 
bunches  yet  fresh  on  my  ribs  would  not  consent.  Peace, 
Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  and  interrupt  not  the  Bache- 
lour,  whom  I  request  to  proceede,  and  tell  mee  what  is 
said  of  mee  in  the  mentioned  History.  And  of  mee  too 
(said  Sancho)  for* it  is  said,  that  I  am  one  of  the  principall 
Parsonages  of  it?  s  Personages,  and  not  Parsonages,  you 
would  say  Sancho  (quoth  Samson./  More  correcting  of  words 
(quoth  Sancho)  ?  Goe  to  this ;  and  we  shall  not  end  in  all 
our  life- time.  Hang  me,  Sancho  (said  Samson)  if  you  be  not 
the  second  person  in  the  Story,  and  you  have  some,  that 
had  as  liefe  heare  you  speake,  as  the  best  there :  though 
others  will  not  sticke  to  say,  you  were  too  credulous  to 
beleeve,  that  your  government  of  the  Hand  offered  by  Sr. 
Don  Quixote  heere  present,  might  be  true. 

There  is  yet  sun-shine  upon  the  wals  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
and  when  Sancho  comes  to  be  of  more  yeeres,  with  the  ex- 
perience of  them,  he  will  be  more  able  and  fit  then  now, 
to  bee  a  Governour.  By  the  Masse  (said  Sancho)  if  I  bee 
not  fit  to  governe  an  Hand  at  these  yeeres,  I  shall  never 
governe,  though  I  come  to  be  as  old  as  Methusalem ;  the 
34 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

mischiefe  is,  that  the  said  Hand  is  delaid  I  know  not  how,    CHAPTER 
ami   not  that  I  want  braine  to  governe  it.     Leave  all  to  HI 

God,  Sancho  (said  Don  Quixote)  for  all  will  be  well,  and  The  ridu-u- 
perhaps  better  then  you  thinke  for;  and  the  leaves  in  the  l«us  disburse 
tree  moove  not  without  the  will  of  God.  bJtwStSn 

Tis  true  indeed  (said    Samson)  for  if  God  will,  Sancho  Quixote, 
shall  not  want  a  thousand  Hands,  much  lesse  one.     I  have  Sancho,  and 
scene  (sayd  Sancho)  of  your  Governours  in  the  world,  that  J.he  Bachelour 
are  not  worthy  to  wipe  my  shooes,  and  for  all  this,  they  cSJJJJJp 
give   um   titles,  and  are  served   in  plate.     Those  are  not 
Governours  of  Hands  (replied  Samson)  but  of  other  easier 
Governments :  for  they  that  governe  Hands,  must  bee  at 
least  Grammarians.     For  your  Gra,  I  care  not,  but  your 
Mare  I  could  like  well  enough  :  but  leaving  this  government 
to  Gods  hands,  let  him  place  me  where  he  pleaseth  :  I  say, 
Sr.   Bachelour  Samson  Carrasco,  that  I  am  infinitely  glad 
that  the  Author  of  the  History  hath  spoken  of  me,  in  such 
sort,  that  the  things   he  spi-akes  of  me,  do  not  cloy  the 
Reader,  for  by  the  faith  of  a  Christian,  if  he  had  spoken 
any  thing  of  mee  not  befitting  an  *old  Christian  as  I  am,  *In  Spanish 
I  should  make  deafe  men  heare  on't.     That  were  to  worke  Christiana 

miracles,  said    Samson.      Miracles  or  not  miracles  (quoth  II?10' f  °ame 

y1  they  desire 

aancho)  every  man  looke  how  hee  speaks  or  writes  or  men,  to  ^e  distm- 

and   set  not  down  each  thing  that  comes  into  his  noddle  guisht  from 
in  a  mingle-mangle.     One  of  the  faults  that  they  say  (said  the  Moores 
Carrasco)   is   in   that  History,   is    this ;   that   his   Author  ^v* 
put  in  it  a  certaine   Novell  or  Tale,  intitled  the  Curioitx 
Impertinent,  not  that  it  was  ill,  or  not  well  contrived,  but 
that  it  was  unseasonable  for  that  place,  neither  had  it  any 
thing  to  doe  with  the  History  of  Don  Quixote. 

He  hold  a  wager  (quoth  Sancho)  the  Dog-bolt  hath  made 
a  Gallimawfry.  Let  me  tell  you  (said  Don  Quixote)  the 
Author  of  my  Story  is  not  wise,  but  some  ignorant  Prater, 
that  at  unawares  and  without  judgement  undertooke  it, 
hab-nab,  as  Orbaneja  the  Painter  of  Ubeda,  who  being 
asked  what  he  painted,  answered,  As  it  happens,  sometimes 
he  would  paint  yee  a  Cocke,  but  so  unlike,  that  he  was 
forced  to  write  underneath  it  in  Gothish  letters,  4  This  is  a 

35 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    Cocke1 :  and  thus  I  beleeve  it  is  with  my  History,  that  it 

HI          hath  neede  of  a  Coment  to  make  it  understood. 
The  ridicu-          No  surely  (replied  Samson)  it  is  so  conspicuous,  and  so 
lous  discourse  vo{&  of  difficulty,  that  children  may  handle  him,  youths 

that  passed  read  him,  men  may  understand  him.  and  old  men  may 

betwixt  Don         .  <.  ,  .     '  ~  J,    -.      ,  1*5 

Quixote,          celebrate  him :  To  conclude,  he  is  so  gleaned,  so  read,  and 

Sancho/and  so  knowne  to  all  sorts  of  people,  that  they  scarse  see  a  leane 
the  Bachelour  horse  passe  by,  when  they  say,  *  There  goeth  Rosinante':  And 
Samson  amongst  these,  Pages  are  most  given  to  read  him :  You 

have  no  great  mans  withdrawing  room  that  hath  not  a  Don 
Quixote  in  him,  some  take  him,  if  others  lay  him  downe, 
these  close  with  him,  they  demand  him :  Lastly,  the  Story 
is  the  most  pleasing,  the  least  hurtfull  for  entertainment, 
that  hath  hitherto  beene  scene ;  for  all  over  it,  there  is  not 
to  be  scene  a  dishonest  word,  or  one  like  one ;  nor  an  imagi- 
nation lesse  then  Catholike. 

He  that  should  write  otherwise  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
should  write  no  truths,  but  lies,  and  he  that  doth  so,  ought 
to  bee  burned,  like  them  that  coyne  false  mony ;  and  I 
know  not  what  the  Author  meant,  to  put  in  Novels  and 
strange  Tales,  my  Storie  affording  him  matter  enough ;  be- 
like, he  holds  himselfe  to  the  proverbe  of  chaffe  and  hay,  etc. 
Well,  He  tell  you,  out  of  mentioning  onely  my  thoughts, 
my  sighs,  my  teares,  my  honest  wishes,  and  my  on-sets, 
he  might  have  made  a  greater  volume  then  all  Tostatus 
works.  Indeed,  Signior  Bachelor,  all  that  I  conceive,  is, 
that  to  write  a  History,  or  any  other  worke  of  what  sort 
soever,  a  man  had  need  of  a  strong  judgement  and  a  ripe 
understanding:  To  speake  wittily,  and  write  conceits,  be- 
longs onely  to  good  wits  :  The  cunningst  part  in  a  play, 
is  the  Fooles ;  because  he  must  not  be  a  foole,  that  would 
well  counterfet  to  seeme  so  :  An  History  is  as  a  sacred 
thing,  which  ought  to  be  true  and  reall,  and  where  truth 
is,  there  God  is,  in-asmuch  as  concerneth  truth,  howsoever ; 
you  have  some  that  doe  so  compose  and  cast  their  workes 
from  them,  as  if  they  were  Fritters. 

There  is  no  booke  so  bad  (said  the  Bachelour)  that  hath 
not  some  good  in  it.     No  doubt  of  that  (said  Don  Quixote :) 
36 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

but  many  times  it  fals  out,  that  those  that  have  worthily    CHAPTER 
hoorded  up,  and  obtained   great  fame  by  their  writings,          III 
when  they  commit  them  to  the  Presse,  they  either  alto-  The  ridicu- 
gether  lose  it,  or  in  something  lessen  it.      The  reason  of  lous  discourse 
it  (quoth  Samson)  is  this,  that  as  the  printed  workes  are  be^f^ 
viewed  by  leisure,  their  faults  are  easily  espied,  and  they  are  Quixote, 
so  much  the  more  pried  into,  by  how  much  the  greater  the  Sancho,  and 
Authors  fame  is :  Men  famous  for  their  wits,  great  Poets,  the  Bachelour 
illustrious   Historians,  are   alwaies   or   for  the   most   part  ?Jm 
envied  by  them,  that  have  a  pleasure  and  a  particular  pas- 
time, to  judge  of  other  mens  writings,  without  publishing 
their  owne.      That's   not  to  bee  wondred  at  (cries  Don 
Quixote)  for  there  bee  many  Divines  that  are  nothing  worth 
in  a  pulpit,  and  are  excellent  in  knowing  the  defect  or  ex- 
cesse  of  him  that  preacheth.     All  this  (said  Carrasco)  Sr. 
Don  Quixote,  is  right,  but  I  could  wish  such  Censurers  were 
more  milde,  and  lesse  scrupulous,  in  looking  on  the  moats 
of  the  most  cleere  sunne  of  his  workes,  whom  they  bite ;  for 
if  aliquando  bonus  dormitat  Homerus,  let  um  consider  how 
much  hee  watched,  to  shew  the  light  of  his  worke  without 
the  least  shadow  that  might  bee :  and  it  might  bee,  that 
what  seemes  ill  to  them,  were  moles  that  sometimes  increase 
the  beauty  of  the  face  that  hath  them ;  and  thus,  I  say, 
that  hee  that  prints  a  booke,  puts  himselfe  into  a  manifest 
danger,  being  of  all  impossibilities  the  most  impossible  to 
frame  it  so,  that  it  may  content  and  satisfie  all  that  shall 
read  it. 

The  booke  that  treats  of  me  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  will 
have  pleased  very  few.  Rather  contrarie  (saies  Samson)  for 
as  Stultorum  infimtus  cst  numerus^  an  infinite  number  have 
been  delighted  with  this  History,  but  some  found  fault,  and 
craftily  taxed  the  Authors  memory,  in  that  hee  forgot  to 
tell,  who  was  the  theefe  that  stole  Sancho's  Dapple,  for 
there  is  no  mention  there,  onely  it  is  inferred  that  nee  was 
stole,  and  not  long  after  wee  see  him  mounted  upon  the 
same  Asse,  without  knowledge  how  he  was  found.  They  also 
say,  that  he  forgot  to  tell  what  Sancho  did  with  those 
hundred  pistolets,  which  he  found  in  the  Maile  in  Sierra 

37 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    Morena,  for  he  never  mentions  them  more,  and  there  be 
III          many  that  desire  to  know  what  became  of  them,  and  how 
The  ridicu-      he  imployed  them,  which  is  one  of  the  essential  points  in 
lous  discourse  £ne  worke. 

betwLTrJon        Master  Samson  (said   Sancho)  I  am  not  now  for  your 
Quixote,          reckonings  or  relations,  for  my  stomacke  is  faint,  and  if  I 
Sancho,  and    fetch  it  not  agen  with  a  sup  or  two  of  the  old  Dog,  it  will 
the  Bachelour  make  me  as  gaunt  as  Saint  Lucia ;  I  have  it  at  home,  and 
my  Pigs-nie  staies  for  me,  when  I  have  dined  I  am  for  ye, 
and  will  satisfie  you  and  all  the  world  in  any  thing  you  will 
aske  me,  aswell  touching  the  losse  of  mine  Asse,  as  the 
expence  of  the  hundred  pistolets:  And  so  without  expect- 
ing any  reply,  or  exchanging  another  word,  home  he  goes. 
Don  Quixote  intreated  the  Bachelour  to  stay  and  take  a 
pittance  with   him ;   The   Bachelour  accepted  the   invite- 
ment,  and   so   staid   dinner:    Beside   their   ordinary   fare, 
they  had  a   paire   of  houshold   Pigeons  added  ;   at   table 
they   discoursed    of    Cavallery,    Carrasco    followed    his 
humour,  the   banquet  was  ended,  and   they  slept 
out   the   heat :    Sancho    returned,  and  the 
former  discourse  was  renewed. 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER    IV 

How  Sancho  Pansa  satisfies  the  Bachelor  Samson 

Carrasco's  doubts  and  demands  ;  with  other 

accidents  worthy  to  be  knowne 

and  related. 

ANCHO  came  backe  to  Don  Quixotes  house, 
and  turning  to  his  former  discourse,  said  : 
Touching  what,  Mr.  Samson  desired  to 
know;  who,  how,  and  when  mine  Asse 
was  stolne :  By  way  of  Answer,  I  say ; 
That  the  very  same  night  wee  fled  from 
the  Hue  and  Cry,  we  entred  Sierra 
Morena,  after  the  unfortunate  adven- 
ture of  the  Gally-slaves,  and  the  dead  man  that  was 
carrying  to  Segovia;  my  Master  and  I  got  us  into  a 
thicket,  where  he  leaning  upon  his  launce,  and  I  upon 
my  Dapple,  both  of  us  well  bruized  and  wearied  with  the 
former  skirmishes,  we  fell  to  sleep  as  soundly,  as  if  we 
had  beene  upon  foure  feather-beds,  especially  I,  that  slept 
so  soundly,  tnat  he,  whosoever  hee  was,  might  easily  come 
and  put  me  upon  foure  stakes,  which  he  had  fastned  upon 
both  sides  of  my  pack-saddle,  upon  which  he  left  me  thus 
mounted,  and  without  perceiving  it,  got  my  Dapple  from 
,  under  mee. 

This  was  easie  to  be  done,  and  no  strange  accident ;  for 
wee  read  that  the  same  happened  to  Sacripant,  when  being 
at  the  siege  of  Albraca,  that  famous  Theefe  Brunelo,  with 
the  selfesame  slight  got  his  horse  from  under  his  legs. 
Sancho  proceeds  :  It  was  light  day  (said  he)  when  I  had 
scarse  stretched  my  selfe,  but  the  stakes  failed,  and  I  got 
a  good  squelch  upon  the  ground :  then  I  looked  for  mine 
Asse,  but  not  finding  him,  the  teares  came  to  mine  eyes, 

39 


CHAPTER 
IV 

How  Sancho 
Pansa  satisfies 
the  Bachelor 
Samson 
Carrasco's 
doubts  and 
demands ; 
with  other 
accidents 
worthy  to  be 
knowne  and 
related. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

and  I  made  such  strange  moane,  that  if  the  Authour  of 
our  History  omitted  it,  let  him  be  assured  he  forgot  a 
worthy  passage.  I  know  not  how  long  after,  comming  with 
my  Lady  the  Princesse  Micomicona,  I  knew  mine  Asse, 
and  that  he  who  rode  on  him  in  the  habit  of  a  Gipson, 
was  that  Gines  de  Passamonte,  that  Cheater,  that  arrant 
Mischiefe-monger,  that  my  Master  and  I  freed  from  the 
Chaine. 

The  errour  was  not  in  this  (said  Samson)  but  that  before 
there  was  any  newes  of  your  Asse,  the  Authour  still  said, 
you  were  mounted  upon  the  selfe-same  Dapple.  I  know 
not  what  to  say  to  that  (quoth  Sancho)  but  that  either 
the  Historian  was  deceived,  or  else  it  was  the  carelesnesse 
of  the  Printer.  Without  doubt  (saith  Samson)  twas  like 
to  bee  so  :  But  what  became  of  the  Pistolets  ?  Were  they 
spent  ? 

I  spent  them  upon  my  selfe  (quoth  Sancho)  and  on  my 
wife  and  children,  and  they  have  been  the  cause  that  she 
hath  endured  my  lournies  and  Careeres,  which  I  have 
fetched  in  my  Master  Don  Quixotes  service :  for  if  I  should 
have  returned  empty,  and  without  mine  Asse,  I  should  have 
been  welcommed  with  a  pox  :  and  if  you!  know  any  more  of 
me,  heere  I  am,  that  will  answer  the  King  himselfe  in  person  ; 
and  let  no  body  intermeddle  to  know,  whether  I  brought,  or 
whether  I  brought  not ;  whether  I  spent,  or  spent  not ;  for  if 
the  blowes  that  I  have  had  in  these  voyages  were  to  be  paid 
in  money,  though  every  one  of  them  were  taxed  but  at  three 
farthings  apiece,  an  hundred  Pistolets  more  would  not  pay 
mee  the  halfe  of  them,  and  let  every  man  looke  to  himselfe, 
and  not  take  white  for  blacke,  and  blacke  for  white,  for 
every  man  is  as  God  hath  made  him,  and  sometimes  a  great 
deale  worse. 

Let  me  alone  (quoth  Carrasco)  for  accusing  the  Author  of 
the  History,  that  if  he  print  it  againe,  hee  shall  not  forget 
what  Sancho  hath  said,  which  shall  make  it  twice  as  good 
as  it  was.  Is  there  ought  else,  Sr.  Bachelour  (said  Don 
Quixote)  to  bee  mended  in  this  Legend  ?  Yes  Mary  is 
there  (said  he)  but  nothing  so  important  as  what  hath 

40 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

beene  mentioned.     Perhaps  the  Author  promiseth  a  second    CHAPTER 
part  (quoth   Don  Quixote)?     He  doth  (said   Samson)  but 
saitli,  hee  neither  findes  nor  knowes  who  hath  it,  so  that  it  is  How  Sancho 
doubtfull,  whether  it  will  come  out  or  no :  so  that  partly  for  ^B^jjjj 
this,  ami  partly  because  some  hold  that  second  parts  were  gamson 

r  good  ;   ami   others,  that  there  is  enough  written  of  CarrMCo'i 
Don  Quixote,  it  is  doubted,  that  there  will  bee  no  second  doubts  and 
part,  although  some  more  loviall  then  Saturnists,  cry  out ;  w?I£aili8' 
Let  *s  have  more  Quixotismes  :    Let  Don  Quixote  assault,  accident" 
and  Sancho  speake,  let  the  rest  bee  what  they  will,  this  is  worthy  to  U« 
enough.     Ana  how  is  the  Authour  enclined  ?  knowne  and 

To  which  (said  Samson)  when  hee  hath  found  this  His-  related, 
tory,  that  hee  searcheth  after  with  extraordinary  diligence, 
hee  will  straight  commit  it  to  the  Presse,  rather  for  his 
profit  tho,  then  for  any  other  respect.  To  this  (said 
Sancho)  What?  Doth  the  Authour  looke  after  money  and 
gaine  ?  tis  a  wonder  if  he  be  in  the  right :  rather  he  will  be 
like  your  false  stitching  Taylours  upon  Christmas  Ei 
for  your  hasty  work  is  never  well  performed  :  let  that  Mr. 
Moore  have  a  care  of  his  businesse,  for  my  Master  and  I 
will  furnish  him  with  rubbish  enough  at  hand,  in  matter 
of  adventures,  and  with  such  different  successes,  that  he 
may  not  onely  make  one  second  part,  but  one  hundreth  : 
the  poore  fellow  thinkes  belike,  that  we  sleep  heere  in  an 
hay-mow  ;  well,  let  it  come  io  scanning,  and  hee  shall  see 
whether  wee  bee  defective  :  T'his  I  know,  that  if  my  Master 
would  take  my  counsaile,  hee  should  now  bee  abroad  in  the 
Champion,  remedying  grievances,  rectifying  wrongs,  as  good 
Knights  Errant  are  wont  to  doe. 

*  No  sooner  had  Sancho  ended  this  discourse,  when  the 
neighing  of  Rozinante  came  to  his  cares',  which  Don  Quixote 
tooKe  to  be  most  auspicious,  and  resolved  within  three  or 
foure  dayes  after  to  make  another  sally,  and  manifesting  his 
minde  to  the  Bachelor,  asked  his  advice  to  know  which  way 
hee  should  begin  his  journey  ;  whose  opinion  was,  That  hee 
should  goe  to  the  Kingdome  of  Aragon,  and  to  the  City  of 
Saragosa  ;  where,  not  long  after,  there  were  solemne  lusts  to 
bee  held  in  honour  of  Saint  George,  wherein  hee  might  get 

3:F  41 


CHAPTER 
IV 

How  Sancho 
Pansa  satisfies 
the  Bachelor 
Samson 
Carrasco's 
doubts  and 
demands ; 
with  other 
accidents 
worthy  to  be 
knowne  and 
related. 

*  Santiago, 
y  Cierra 
Espana.    As 
we  use  in 
England, 
Saint  George 
and  the 
Victory. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

more  fame  then  all  the  Knights  of  Aragon,  which  were 
above  all  other  Knights.  Hee  praised  his  most  noble  and 
valiant  resolution,  but  withall  desired  him  to  be  more  wary 
in  attempting  of  dangers,  since  his  life  was  not  his  owne, 
but  all  theirs  also,  who  needed  his  protection  and  succour  in 
their  distresse. 

I  renounce  that,  Mr.  Samson,  (said  Sancho)  for  my  Master 
will  set  upon  an  hundred  armed  men,  as  a  boy  would  upon 
halfe  a  doozen  of  young  Melons ;  Body  of  the  world,  Sr. 
Bachelour,  there  is  a  time  to  attempt,  a  time  to  retire,  all 
must  not  be  *Sainte  lacques,  and  upon  um.  Besides,  I  have 
heard,  and  I  beleeve  from  my  Master  himselfe,  (if  I  have  not 
forgotten)  that  valour  is  a  meane  betweene  the  two  extremes 
of  a  Coward  and  a  rash  man :  and  if  this  be  so,  neither 
would  I  have  him  fly,  nor  follow,  without  there  be  reason 
for  it :  but  above  all,  I  wish  that  if  my  Master  carry  me 
with  him,  it  be  upon  condition,  that  he  fight  for  us  both, 
and  that  I  be  tied  to  nothing  but  waiting  upon  him,  to 
looke  to  his  clothes  and  his  diet,  for  this  I  will  doe  as 
nimbly,  as  bring  him  water ;  but  to  thinke  that  I  will  lay 
hand  to  my  sword,  although  it  be  but  against  base  fellowes 
and  poore  raskals,  is  most  impossible.  I  (Mr.  Samson)  strive 
not  to  hoord  up  a  fame  of  being  valiant,  but  of  the  best  and 
trustiest  Squire  that  ever  served  Knight  Errant :  And  if  Don 
Quixote  my  Master,  obliged  thereunto  by  my  many  services, 
will  bestow  any  Hand  on  mee,  of  those  many,  his  Worship 
saith,  wee  shall  light  upon,  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  him  : 
and  if  he  give  mee  none,  I  was  borne,  and  one  man  must 
not  live  to  relie  on  another,  but  on  God ;  and  perhaps  I 
shall  bee  aswell  with  a  peece  of  bread  at  mine  ease,  as  to  be 
a  Governour  ;  and  what  doe  I  know,  whether  in  these  kindes 
of  governments,  the  Devill  hath  set  any  tripping-blocke 
before  me,  where  I  may  stumble  and  fall,  and  dash  out  my 
teeth  ?  Sancho  was  I  borne,  Sancho  must  I  die ;  but  for  all 
that,  if  so  and  so,  without  any  care  or  danger,  Heaven  should 
provide  some  Hand  for  me,  or  any  such  like  thing,  I  am  not 
so  very  an  Asse  as  to  refuse  it,  according  to  the  Proverbe, 
Looke  not  a  given  horse  in  the  mouth. 

42 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Friend    Sancho  (quoth   Carrasco)  you   have  spoken   like    CHAPTER 
an    Oracle:    Notwithstanding,  trust  in   God  and  Mr.  Don  ^ 

Quixote,  that   he  will  give  you  not  onely  an  Hand,  but  a  How 
Kingdome  too.     I  thinke  one  aswell  as  tother  (quoth  Sancho)  P 
and  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Samson,  (said  Sancho)  I  thinke  J 
my  Masters   Kingdome   would   not  bee  bestowed    on  met1  C 
in  vaine,  for  I  have   felt  mine  owne  pulse,  and   finde  my  doubts  and 
selfe  healthy  enough  to  rule  Kingdomes  and  governe  Hands,  demand.  ; 
and  thus  I  have  told  my  Muster  many  times.  JwMenti* 

Looke  yee,  Sancho  (quoth  Samson)  Honours  change  man-  W0rthy  to  he 
ners,  and  perhaps  when  you  are  once  a  Governour,  you  may  knowne  and 

know  your  owne  mother.  That's  to  be  understood  related, 
(said  Sancho)  of  them  that  are  basely  home,  and  not  of 
those  that  have  on  their  soules  *foure  fingers  fat  of  the  *To  exj> 
old  Christian,  as  I  have:  No,  but  come  to  my  condition,  his  not  beinp 
which  will  bee  ungrateful!  to  no  body.  God  grant  it  (quoth 
Don  Quixote)  and  wee  *hal  see  when  the  Government  comes, 
for  me  thinks  I  have  it  before  mine  eyes.  (Which  said)  he 
asked  the  Haehelour  whether  he  were  a  Poet,  and  that 
he  would  doe  him  the  favour  to  make  him  some  verses,  the 
subject  of  his  farewell  to  his  Mistris  Dulcinea  del  ToboM>, 
and  withall,  that  at  the  beginning  of  every  verse,  he  should 
put  a  letter  of  her  name,  that  so  joyning  all  the  first 
letters,  there  might  bee  read  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  ?  The 
Bachclour  made  answer,  that  though  he  were  none  of  the 
famous  Poets  of  Spaine,  which  they  said  were  but  three  and 
an  halfe ;  yet  he  would  not  refuse  to  compose  the  said 
meeter,  although  he  found  a  great  deale  of  difficulty  in 
the  composition,  because  there  were  seventeen  letters  in 
the  name  ;  and,  if  hce  made  foure  staves,  of  each  foure  vi  : 
that  there  would  be  a  letter  too  much  ;  and  if  hee  made 
them  of  live,  which  they  call  Decimi,  there  would  be  three 
too  little ;  but  for  all  that,  hee  would  see  if  hee  could 
drowne  a  letter:  so  in  foure  staves  there  might  be  read, 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso.  By  all  mcanes  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
let  it  be  so :  for  if  the  name  be  not  plaine  and  conspicuous, 
there  is  no  woman  will  beleeve  the  meeter  was  composed 
for  her. 

43 


THE  SECOXD  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER 
IV 


Upon  this  they  agreed,  and  that  eight  dayes  after  their 
departure  should  "be.     Don  Quixote  enjovned  the  Bachelour 
How  Sancho    to  keep  it  secret,  especially  from  the  Vicar,  and  *Mr.  Nicholas, 
^is  Neece,  and  the  old  woman,  lest  they  should  disturbe  his 
noble  and  valiant  resolution.     Carrasco  assured  him,  and 
so  tooke  leave,  charging  Don  Quixote  he  should  let  him 
heare  of  all  his  good  or  bad  fortune,  at  his  best 
leisure.    So  they  tooke  leave,  and  Sancho  went 
to  provide  for  their  journey. 


Pansa  satisfies 
the  Bachelor, 
etc. 

*The  Barber. 


CHAPTER    V 

Of  the  wise  and  pleasant  discourse,  that  passed 
betwixt  Sancho  Pansa  and  his  wife  Teresa 

Pansa,  and  other  accidents  worthy 
I  of  happy  remembrance. 

1HE  Translatour  of  this  History,  when  he 
*•     came  to  write  this  fifth  Chapter,  saies, 
that  hee  holds  it  for  Apocrypha,  because 
Sancho  speakes  in  it  after  another  manner 
then  could  be  expected  from  his  slender 
understanding,  and  speakes  things  more 
acutely  then  was  possible  for  him,  yet  hee 
would  translate  it,  for  the   accomplish- 
ment of  his  promise,  and  so  goes  on,  as  followeth.4 

Sancho  came  home  so  jocund  and  so  merry,  that  his  wife 
perceived  it  a  flight-shot  off,  insomuch  that  shee  needs 
would  aske  him ;  Friend  Sancho,  what  "s  the  matter  that 
you  are  so  joyfull  ?  To  which  he  answered  :  Wife,  I  would 
to  God  I  were  not  so  glad  as  I  make  shew  for.  I  under- 
stand you  not,  husband,  (quoth  shee)  and  I  understand  not 
what  you  raeane,  that  if  it  pleased  God,  you  would  not  bee 
so  contented ;  for  though  I  bee  a  foole,  yet  I  know  not  who 
would  willingly  be  sad. 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Looke  yee,  Teresa,  (said  Sancho)  I  am  jolly,  because  I  am    CHAPTER 
determined  to  serve  my  Master  Don  Quixote,  once  more,  V 

who  will  now  this  third"  time  sally  in  pursuit  of  his  adven-  Of  the 
tures,  and  I  also  with  him,  for  mv  poverty  will  have  it  so;  jj1.1^  pk««w»1 
besides  my  hope  that  rejoyceth  me,  to  thinke  that  I  may     !*^",™; 
fiiule  another  hundred   Pistolets,  for  those  that  are  spent :  twixt  Sanrho 
Vet  I  am  sad  againe,  to  leave  thee  and  my  children,  and  if  Pansa  and  his 
it  pleased  God  that  I  might  live  quietly  at  home,  without  ^ife  Teresa 

putting  my  selfe  into  those  Desarts  and  crosse-waies,  which  * 

•    i  i  i   •*  i  11  MI-  ••   •     other  acci- 

he  might  easily  grant  if  he  pleased  and  were  willing ;  it  is  (|ents  worthy 

manifest,  that  my  content  might  bee  more  firme  and  whole-  of  happy  re- 
some,  since  the  present  joy  I  nave,  is  mingled  with  a  sorrow  membrance. 
to  leave  thee :  so  that  I  said  well,  I  should  bee  glad  if  it 
pleased  God  I  were  not  so  contented. 

/Fie,  Sancho  (replied  Tere>a)  ever  since  thou  hast  been  a 
member  of  a  Knight  Errant,  thou  speakest  so  round-about 
the  bush,  that  no  body  can  understand  thee.  I  It  is  enough 
(quoth  Sancho)  that  God  understands  mee,  who  understands 
all  things,  and  so  much  for  that :  but  marke,  Sister,  I  would 
have  you  for  these  three  daies,  looke  well  to  my  Dapple,  that 
hee  may  bee  fit  for  Armes,  double  his  allowance,  seeke  out  his 
pack-saddle,  and  the  rest  of  his  tackling ;  for  wee  goe  not 
to  a  marriage,  but  to  compasse  the  world,  and  to  give  and 
take,  with  Gyants,  Sprights  and  Hobgoblins,  to  heare  hiss- 
ing, roaring,  bellowing,  and  bawling  :  and  all  this  were  sweet 
meat,  if  we  had  not  to  doe  with  *Yangueses  and  enchanted  *The Carriers 
Moo-  that  heat  the 

I  beleeve  indeede  (quoth  Teresa)  that  your  Squires  Errant  Master  ™* 
gaine  not  their  bread  for  nothing  :  I  shall  therefore  pray  to  ™ap"'rt 
our  Lord,  that  he  deliver  you  speedily  from  this  misfortune.  i)on  quixote. 
lie  tell  you,  wife  (said  Sancho)  if  I  thought  not  ere  long  to 
bee  Governour  of  an  Hand,  I  should  die  suddenly.      None  of 
that,  Husband  (quoth  Teresa :)  Let  the  hen  live,  though  it 
with  her  pip;   Live  you,  and  the  Devill  take  all  the 
Governments  in  the  world,  without  Government  were  you 
borne,  without  Government  have  you   lived  hitherto,  and 
without  Government  must  you  goe,  or  bee  carried  to  your 
grave,  when  it  shall  please  God.     How  many  be  there  in 

16 


CHAPTER 
V 

Of  the  wise 
and  pleasant 
discourse,  that 
passed  be- 
twixt Sancho 
Pansa  and  his 
wife  Teresa 
Pansa,  and 
other  acci- 
dents worthy 
of  happy  re- 
membrance. 


*Chapines. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

the  world,  that  live  without  Governments,  yet  they  live 
well  enough,  and  well  esteemed  of?  Hunger  is  the  best 
sawce  in  the  world,  and  when  the  poore  want  not  this,  they 
eat  contentedly.  But  harke,  Sancho,  if  you  should  chance 
to  see  a  Government,  pray  forget  not  mee  and  your  children: 
little  Sancho  is  now  just  fifteene  yeeres  old,  and  tisfit  he  goe 
to  schoole,  if  his  uncle  the  Abbot  meane  to  make  him  a 
Church-man :  And  looke  ye  to,  Mary  Sancha  our  daughter 
will  not  die,  if  we  marry  her,  for  I  suspect  she  desires 
marriage,  as  much  as  you  your  Government,  and  indeed 
a  daughter  is  better  ill  married,  then  well  Paramour'd. 

Fgood  faith  (quoth  Sancho)  if  I  have  ought  with  my 
Government,  Wife ;  Mary  Sancha  shall  be  so  highly 
married,  that  she  shall  be  called  Lady  at  least.  Not  so, 
Sancho  (quoth  Teresa)  the  best  way  is  to  marry  her  with  her 
equall,  for  if  in  stead  of  her  pattins  you  give  her  *high 
shooes,  if  in  stead  of  a  course  petticoat,  a  farthingale  and 
silke  kirtle,  and  from  little  Mai,  my  Lady  Whacham,  the 
girle  will  not  know  her  selfe,  and  shee  will  every  foot  fall 
into  a  thousand  errours,  discovering  the  thred  of  her  grosse 
and  course  web. 

Peace,  foole  (sayd  Sancho)  all  must  bee  two  or  three  yeeres 
practice,  and  then  her  greatnesse  will  become  her,  and  her 
state  fall  out  pat :  howsoever,  what  matter  is  it  ?  let  her  be 
your  Ladiship,  and  come  what  will  on  it.  Measure  your 
selfe  by  your  meanes  (said  Teresa)  and  seeke  not  after 
greater,  keepe  your  selfe  to  the  Proverbe ;  Let  neighbours 
children  hold  together :  Twere  pretty  ffaith  to  marry  our 
Mary  with  a  great  Lord  or  Knight,  that  when  the  toy 
takes  him  in  the  head,  should  new-mould  her,  calling  her 
milke-maid,  Boores  daughter,  Rocke-peeler :  not  while  I  live, 
Husband  :  for  this  forsooth  have  I  brought  up  my  daughter? 
Get  you  money,  Sancho,  and  for  marrying  her,  let  me  alone: 
Why,  there's  Lope  Tocho,  lohn  Tocho's  sonne,  a  sound 
chopping  Lad,  wee  know  him  well,  and  I  know,  he  casts  a 
sheepes  eye  upon  the  wench,  and  tis  good  marrying  her  with 
this  her  equall,  and  wee  shall  have  him  alwayes  with  us,  and 
wee  shall  bee  all  one :  Parent,  sonnes,  and  grandsonnes,  and 

46 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

sonne  in  law,  and  Gods  peace  and  blessing  will  alwaies  be    CHAPTER 
amongst  us,  and   let  not  me  have   her  married   into  your  V 

Courts  and  Grand  Palaces,  where  theyl  neither  understand  Of  the  « 
her,  nor  she  them.  a»d  pliant 

Come  hither.  Beast  (quoth  Sancho)  Woman  of  Barrabas,  pJJJJJ'JJj.  ' 
why  wilt  thou,  without  any  reason,  hinder  me  from  marry-  twixt  Sam-h<» 
ing  mv  daughter  where  shee  may  bring  mee  grand-sonnes  Pansa  ami  his 
that    may   be   stiled    Lordship?      Behold,   Teresa,  I    have  «;»*'''  T«resa 
alwaies  heard  mine  Elders  say,  That  he  that  will  not  when    S^icci 
hee  may,  when  hee  desireth,  shall   have  nay  :  And  it  is  not  dents  worthy 
fit  that  whilst  good  lucke  is  knocking  at  our  doore,  we  shut  of  happy  re- 
it  :   let  US  therefore  .saile  with   this  prosperous  winde.      (For  membrance. 
this  and  for  that  which  followeth,  that  Sancho  spoke,  the 
Author  of  the    History   saves,   hee    held    this  Chapter  for 
Apocrypha.)     Doe  not  you  thinke,  Bruit-one  (sayd  Sancho) 
that  it  will  be  fit  to  fall  upon  some  beneficiall  Government, 
that  may  bring  us  out  of  want :  and  to  marry  our  Daughter 
Sancha  to  whom  I  please,  and  you  shall  see  how  you  shall  bee 
called  Dona  Teresa  Pansa,  and  sit  in  the  Church  with  your 
carpet  and  your  cushions,  and  your  bung-clothes,  in  spite  of 
the  Gentle-women  of  the  towne  ?     No,  no,  remaine  still  as 
you  are,  in  one  estate,  without  increasing  or  diminishing, 
like  a  picture  in  hangings ;  goe  to,  let's  have  no  more,  little 
Sancha  must  bee  a  Countesse,  say  thou  what  thou  wilt. 

What  a  coyle  you  keepe  !  (quoth  Teresa)  for  all  that,  I 
feare  this  Earledome  will  be  my  daughters  undoing,  yet  doe 
what  ye  will,  make  her  Dutchesse  or  Princesse  ;  it  shall  not 
bee  with  my  consent :  I  have  alwaies  loved  equality,  and  I 
cannot  abide  to  see  folkes  take  upon  um  without  grounds, 
I  was  Christned  Teresa,  without  welt  or  gard,  nor  addi- 
tions of  Don  or  Dona,  my  fathers  name  was  Cascaio,  and 
because  I  am  your  wife,  they  call  me  Teresa  Pansa,  for 
indeed  they  should  have  called  me  Teresa  Cascaio:  But 
great  ones  may  doe  what  they  list,  and  I  am  well  enough 
content  with  this  name,  without  putting  any  Don  upon 
it,  to  make  it  more  troublesome,  that  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  beare  it,  and  I  will  not  have  folke  laugh  at  mee,  as  they 
see  mee  walke  in  my  Countesses  apparell,  or  my  Gover- 

47 


CHAPTER 
V 

Of  the  wise 
and  pleasant 
discourse,  that 
passed  be- 
twixt Sancho 
Pansa  and  his 
wife  Teresa 
Pansa,  and 
other  acci- 
dents worthy 
of  happy  re- 
membrance. 


*An  Infanta 
of  Spain. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

nesses,  you  shall  have  them  cry  straight,  Looke  how  stately 
the  Hog-rubber  goes,  she  that  was  but  yesterday  at  her 
spindle,  and  went  to  Church  with  the  skirt  of  her  coat  over 
her  head  in  stead  of  an  Huke,  to  day  she  is  in  her  Varthin- 
gale  and  her  buttons,  and  so  demure,  as  if  we  knew  her  not : 
God  keepe  mee  in  my  seven  wits,  or  my  five,  or  those  that  I 
have,  and  He  not  put  my  selfe  to  such  hazards ;  Get  you, 
Brother,  to  bee  a  Government  or  an  Hand,  and  take  state 
as  you  please,  for  by  my  mothers  Holy-dam,  neither  I  nor 
my  daughter  will  stirre  a  foot  from  our  village :  better  a 
broken  joynt  then  a  lost  name,  and  keepe  home,  the  honest 
mayd,  to  bee  doing  is  her  trade,  goe  you  with  Don  Quixote 
to  your  adventures,  and  leave  us  to  our  ill  fortunes ;  God 
will  send  better,  if  we  be  good,  and  I  know  not  who  made 
him  a  Don,  or  a  title  which  neither  his  Father  nor  his 
Grandfather  ever  had. 

(  Now  I  say  (quoth  Sancho)  thou  hast  a  Familiar  in  that 
body  of  thine :  Lord  blesse  thee  for  a  woman,  and  what  a 
company  of  things  hast  thou  strung  up  without  head  or 
feet?  What  hath  your  Cascaio,  your  buttons,  or  your 
Proverbes,  or  your  state,  to  doe  with  what  I  have  sayd  ? 
Come  hither  Cox-combe,  foole  (for  so  I  may  call  you,  since 
you  understand  not  my  meaning,  and  neglect  your  happi- 
nesse/If  I  should  say,  my  daughter  should  cast  her  selfe 
downe  some  Towre,  or  she  should  rove  up  and  downe  the 
world,  as  did  the  *  Princesse  Dona  Urraca,  you  had  reason 
not  to  consent :  But  if  in  lesse  then  two  trap-blowes,  or  the 
opening  and  shutting  of  an  eye,  I  clap  yee  a  Don  and  Ladi- 
ship  upon  your  shoulders,  and  bring  it  out  of  your  stubble, 
and  put  it  you  under  barne-cover,  and  set  you  in  your 
state,  with  more  Cushions  then  the  Almohada  Moores  had 
in  all  their  linage :  why,  will  you  not  consent  to  that, 
that  I  would  have  you  ?  Would  you  know  why,  Husband 
(answered  Teresa)?  for  the  Proverbe  that  sayes;  He  that 
covers  thee,  discovers  thee :  Every  one  passeth  his  eyes 
slightly  over  the  poore,  and  upon  the  rich  man  they  fasten 
them,  and  if  the  said  rich  man  have  at  any  time  beene 
poore,  there  is  your  grumbling  and  cursing,  and  your  back- 
48 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

biters  never  leave,  who  swarme  as  thicke  as  hives  of  Bees    CHAPTER 
thorow  the  streets.  ^ 

Marke,  Teresa  (said  Sancho)  and  give  eare  to  my  speech,  Of  the  wise 
such  as  peradventure  you  have  not  heard  in  all  your  life  |jnd  pleasant 
time,  neither  doe  I  speake  any  thing  of  mine  owne,  for  pa^'S.   ' 
all  I  purpose  to  speak,  is  sentences  of  our  Preacher,  that  twixt  Sancho 
preached  all  last  Lent  in  this  Towne,  who  (as  I  remember)  Pansa  and  his 
said,  that  all  things  that  wee  see  before  our  eyes  present,  wife  Teresa 
assist  our  memory  much  better,  and  with  more  vehemency,  J^ie^aelci. 
then  things  past.  dents  worthy 

(All  these   reasons  heere  delivered    by  Sancho,  are   the  of  happy  re- 
second,  for  which  the   Translatour  of  the   History  holds  membrance. 
this  chapter  for  Apocrypha,  as  exceeding  the  capacity  of 
Sancho,  who  proceeded,  saying  :) 

Whereupon  it  happens,  that  when  wee  see  some  personage 
well  clad  in  rich  appanrll,  and  with  many  followers,  it  seemes 
IKV  inooves  and  invites  us  perforce  to  give  him  respect: 
although  our  memory  at  that  very  instant  represents  unto 
us  some  kindc  of  l);i>uir>M',  which  we  have  seen  in  that  per- 
sonage, the  which  cloth  vilifie  him,  bee  it  either  for  poverty 
or  linage,  both  passed  over,  are  not :  and  that  which  wee 
see  present,  only  is.  And  if  this  man  (whom  fortune  blotted 
out  of  his  basenesse,  and  to  whom  consequently  his  father 
left  all  height  of  prosperity)  be  well-behaved,  liberall  and 
courteous  towards  all  men,  and  contends  not  with  such,  as 
are  most  anciently  noble,  assure  thy  selfe,  Teresa,  all  men 
will  forget  what  he  was,  and  reverence  him  for  what  hee  is, 
ept  the  envious,  whom  the  greatest  scape  not.  I  under- 
stand you  not,  Husband  (replied  Tnv-.-i)  doe  what  you  will, 
and  doe  not  trouble  me  with  your  long  speeches  and  your 
Rhetoiicke:  and  if  you  be  revolved  to  doe  what  you  say. 
x  Resolved  you  must  say,  Wife  (quoth  Sancho)  and  not  re- 
volved/ I  pray  dispute  not  with  mee,  Husband  (sayd 
Teresa)  I  speake  as  it  pleases  God,  and  strive  not  for  more 
eloquence  :  and  I  tell  you,  if  you  persist  in  having  your 
Government,  take  your  sonnc  Sancho  with  you,  and  teach 
him  from  henceforth  to  governe ;  for  it  is  fit  that  the  sonnes 
doe  inherit,  and  learue  the  offices  of  their  fathers. 

3:G  49 


CHAPTER 
V 

Of  the  wise 
and  pleasant 
discourse,  that 
passed  be- 
twixt Sancho 
Pansa  and  his 
wife  Teresa 
Pansa,  and 
other  acci- 
dents worthy 
of  happy  re- 
membrance. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

When  I  have  my  Government  (quoth  Sancho)  I  will  send 
Post  for  him,  and  I  will  send  thee  monies,  for  I  shall  want 
none,  and  there  never  want  some  that  will  lend  Governours 
money  when  they  have  none :  but  clothe  him  so,  that  hee 
may  not  appeare  what  he  is,  and  may  seeme  what  he  must 
bee.  Send  you  money  (quoth  Teresa)  and  He  clad  him  like  a 
Date-leafe.  So  that  now  (sayd  Sancho)  wee  are  agreed  that 
our  daughter  shall  bee  a  Countesse. 

The  day  that  I  shall  see  her  a  Countesse  (said  Teresa)  will 

bee  my  deaths  day :  But  I  tell  you  againe,  doe  what  you  will, 

for  we  women  are  borne  with  this  clog,  to  bee  obedient  to 

our  husbands,  though  they  be  no  better  then  Leekes  :  And 

heere  she  began  to  weep  so  heartily,  as  if  her  little  daughter 

Sancha  had  been  dead  and  buried.     Sancho  comforted  her, 

saying,  that  though  she  must  bee  a  Countesse,  yet  hee  would 

deferre  it  as  long  as  hee  could.    Heere  their  Dialogue 

ended,  and  Sancho  returned  to  see  Don  Quixote, 

to  give  order  for  their  departure. 


CHAPTER   VI 

What  passed  betwixt  Don  Quixote,  his  Neece,  and 

the  old  woman  :   and  it  is  one  of  the  most 

materiall  Chapters  in  all  the  History. 

HILST  Sancho  and  his  wife  were  in  this 
impertinent    aforesayd    discourse,     Don 
Quixotes   Neece   and   olde   woman   were 
not  idle,  and  by  a  thousand  signes  ghessed, 
that  her  Unckle  and  their  Master  would 
a  slashing  the  third  time,  and  returne  to 
the  exercising  of  his  (for  them)  ill  Knight 
Errantry ;    they   sought   by   all   meanes 
possible  to  divert  him  from  so  bad  a  purpose :  but  all  was  to 
no  purpose,  to  preach  in  a  Desart,  or  to  beat  cold  iron. 
50 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Notwithstanding,  amongst   many  other   discourses   that    CHAPTER 
passed    betwixt  them,  the   old    woman  told  him;   Truely  VI 

Master,  if  you  keepe  not  your  foot  still,  and  rest  quiet  at  What  }> 
home,  and  suffer  your  M-lfe  to  he  led   thorow  mountaines  betwixt  Don 
and  valleyes,  like  a  soule  in  Purgatory,  seeking  after  those  Neece^uulS 
they  call  adventures,  which  1  call  misfortunes,  I  shall  com-  the  old 
plaine  on  you,  and  cry  out  to  God  and  the  King,  that  they  woman :  and 
remedie  it.     To   which,    Don   (Quixote  answered;    Woman,  it  is  one  of 
what  God  will  answer  to  your  complaints,  I  know  not,  nor  ^"Jhn 
what  his  Majesty  will  :  onely   I   know,  if  I  were  a  King,  I  Chaptersinall 
would  save  a  labour  in  answering  such  an  infinity  of  foolish  the  History. 
Petitions,  as  are  given   him  daily  :  for  one  of  the  greatest 
toyles  (amongst  many  others  that  Kings  have)  is  this,  to  bee 
bound  to  harken  to  all,  to  answer  all  ;  therefore  I  would  bee 
loth,  that  ought  concerning  mee,  should  trouble  him.    Then 
(quoth  the  old  woman)  tell  us  Sir,  In  his  Majesties  Court  bee 
there  not  Kni«jht>r     Ye<»  (answered  her)  and  many, and  good 
reason,  for  the  adornment  and  ^rcatnc^e  of  Princes,  and  for 
ostentation  of  the  Koyall  Majesty.     Why?  would  not  your 
Worship  (replyed  she)  bee  one  of  them  that  might  quietly 
r  the  King  your  Master  at  Court  ? 

Looke  vec,  friend  (answered  Don  Quixote)  All  Knights 
cannot  he  Courtiers,  nor  all  Courtiers  neither  can,  nor  ought 
to  be  Knights  Errant  ;  in  the  world  there  must  bee  of  all 
sorts,  and  though  wee  bee  all  Knights,  yet  the  one  and  the 
other  differ  much  :  For  your  Courtier>,  without  stirring  out 
of  their  chambers,  or  ovt-r  the  Court  thresholds,  can  travell 
all  the  world  over,  looking  upon  a  Map,  without  spending  a 
mite,  without  suffering  heat,  cold,  hunger,  or  thirst.  But 
wee,  the  true  Knights  Errant,  with  sunne,  with  cold,  with 
aire,  with  all  the  inclemencies  of  Heaven,  night  and  day,  a 
horse-backe  and  on  foot,  doe  trace  the  whole  world  thorow : 
And  wee  doe  not  know  our  enemies  by  supposition,  as  they 
are  painted,  but  in  their  reall  being,  and  at  all  times,  and 
upon  every  occasion  wee  set  upon  um,  without  standing  upon 
trifles,  or  on  the  lawes  of  Duello,  whether  a  sword  or  a  lance 
were  longer  or  shorter,  whether  either  of  the  parties  wore  a 
charme,  or  some  hidden  deceit,  if  they  shall  fight  after  the 

51 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  Sunnes  going  downe  or  no,  with  other  ceremonies  of  this 

VI  nature,  which  are  used  in  single  combates  betwixt  man  and 

What  passed  man,  that  thou  knowest  not  of,  but  I  doe.     Know  further, 

betwixt  Don  tnat  the  good  Knight  Errant  (although  he  see  ten  Gyants, 

Neece   and      that  with  their  heads>  not  onely  touch,  but  overtop  the 

the  eld  clouds,  and  that  each  of  them  hath  legs  as  big  as  two  great 

woman :  and    towres,  and  armes  like  the  masts  of  mighty  ships,  and  each 

it  is  one  of       eye  as  big  as  a  mill-wheele,  and  more  fiery  then  a  glasse-oven) 

material!         must  not  be  affrighted   in    any  wise,  rather  with  a  stayd 

Chaptersinall  Pace  and  undaunted  courage,  hee  must  set  on  them,  close 

the  History,     with  them,  and  if  possible,  overcome,  and  make  um  turne 

taile  in  an  instant ;  yea,  though  they  came  armed  with  the 

shels  of  a  certaine  fish,  which  (they  say)  are  harder  then 

Diamonds,  and  though  in  stead  of  swords,  they  had  cutting 

skeines  of  Damasco  steele,  or  iron  clubs  with  pikes  of  the 

same,  as  I  have  seene  them  more  then  once  or  twice.     All 

this  have  I  said,  woman  mine,  that  you  may  see  the  difference 

betwixt   some   Knights  and  others,  and  it  is  reason  that 

Princes  should  more  esteeme  this  second,  or  (to  say  fitter) 

this  first  Species  of  Knights  Errant  (for  as  we  read  in  their 

histories)  such  an  one  there  hath  beene  amongst  them,  that 

hath  beene  a  safe-guard  not  onely  of  one  Kingdome,  but 

many. 

Ah  Sir,  then  said  his  Neece,  beware ;  for  all  is  lies  and 
fiction  that  you  have  spoken,  touching  your  Knights  Errant, 
whose  stories,  if  they  were  not  burnt,  they  deserve  each  of 
them  at  least  to  have  a  penance  inflicted  upon  them,  or  some 
note,  by  which  they  might  bee  knowne  to  bee  infamous,  and 
ruiners  of  good  customes. 

I  assure  thee  certainely  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  if  thou  wert 
not  lineally  my  Neece,  as  daughter  to  mine  owne  Sister,  I 
would  so  punish  thee  for  the  blasphemy  thou  hast  spoken,  as 
should  resound  thorow  all  the  world.  Is  it  possible  that  a 
Pisse-kitchin,  that  scarce  knowes  how  to  make  Bone-lace, 
dares  speake  and  censure  the  histories  of  Knights  Errant  ? 
What  would  Sr.  Amadis  have  said  if  hee  should  have  heard 
this  ?  But  I  warrant  hee  would  have  forgiven  thee,  for  hee 
was  the  humblest  and  most  courteous  Knight  of  his  time ; 
52 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

and  moreover,  a  great  Protector  of  Damo/els  :  but  such  an    CHAPTKK 
one  might  have  heard  thee,  that  thou  mightst  have  repented  v  J 

thee ;  for  all  are  not  courteous,  or  pitifull,  some  are  harsh  What  j> 
and  bruitish.      Neither   are    all    that   beare   the  name   of  Betwixt  Dun 
Knights,  so,  truely  ;  for  some  are  of  gold,  others  of  Alchymy,  ff^f^ff 
yet  all  §eeme  to  be  Knights:  but  all  cannot  brooke  the  the  old 
touchstone  of  truth  :  You  have  some  base  Knaves  that  burst  woman  :  and 
againe  to  seeme  Knights,  and  some  that  are  Knights,  that  kill  st  is  OIlt?  of 
themselves  in  post-haste  till  they  become  Peasants  :  The  one  JjJJ^JJJjJ 
either  raise  themselves  by  their  ambition,  or  vertue  ;  the  chaptersinall 
others  fall,  either  by  their  negligence,  or  vice ;  and  a  man  the  History. 
had  need  be  wise  to  distinguish  betweene  these  two  sorts  of 
Knights,  so  neere  in  their  names,  so  distant  in  their  actions. 
Ilelpe  me  God  (quoth  the  Neeee)  that  you  should  know  so 
much  Unckle,  as  were  it  in  case  of  necessity,  you  might  step 
into  a  pulpit,  and  *preach  in   the  streets,  and  for  all  that  *An  usuall 
you  goe  on  so  blindely,  and  fall  into  so  eminent  a  madnesse,  ^"^"^at 
that  you  would  have  us  thinke  you  valiant,  now  you  are  old,  JfrfaQg 
that  you  are  strong,  being  so  sickly,  that  you  are  able  to  lesuite  (when 
make   crooked  things   straight,  being  crooked  with  yeeres,  a  fiery  zeale 
and  that  you  are  a  Knight  when  you  are  none  ?  for  though  takes  him) 
Gentle-men  may  bee  Knights,  yet  the  poore  cannot.  jJJjJS  J* 

You  say  well,  Neec-e,  in  that  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  and  put  of  the 
I  could  tell  thee  tilings  concerning  linages,  that  should  street,  or 
admire  thee,  but  because  I  will  not  mingle  Divinity  with  market-place. 
Humanity,  I  say  nothing :  Marke  yee  hoe,  to  foure  sorts 
of  linages  (harken  to  me)  may  all  in  the  world  be  re- 
duce!, and  they  are  these.  Some  that  from  bast  hi  ^in- 
nings have  arrived  at  the  greatest  honours.  Others  that 
had  great  beginnings,  and  so  conserve  them  till  the  end. 
Others,  that  though  they  had  great  beginnings,  yet  they 
end  pointed  like  a  Pyramis,  having  lessened  and  annihilated 
their  beginning,  till  it  ends  in  nothing.  Others  there  are 
(and  these  the  most)  that  neither  had  good  beginning,  nor 
reasonable  middle,  and  so  they  passe  away  without  mention, 
as  the  linage  of  the  common  and  ordinarie  sort  of  people. 
Let  the  house  of  the  Othomans  bee  an  example  to  thee  of 
the  first,  who  had  an  obscure  beginning,  but  rose  to  the 

53 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    greatnesse  they  now  preserve,  that  from  a  base  and  poore 

VI          shepheard  that  gave  them  their  first  beginning,  have  come 

What  passed    to  this  height,  in  which  now  we  see  them.     Many  Princes 

betwixt  Don    may  fe  an  instance   of   the   second   linage,  that  began  in 

Neece  ^nd8    greatnesse,   and    was    so    preserved,  without   augmentation 

the  old  or   diminution,   onely    kept   their    inheritance,    containing 

woman:  and    themselves    within    the   limits    of   their    own    Kingdomes, 

it  is  one  of       peacefully.     Thousands   of  examples  there  bee  of  such,  as 

materbU         began  in  greatnesse,  and  lessened  towards  their  end.     For 

Chapters  in  all  a^  your  Pharaos,  your  Ptolomies  of  ^Egypt,  your  Caesars 

the  History,     of  Rome,  with  all  the  hurrie  (if  I  may  so  terme  them,)  of 

your  infinite  Princes,  Monarchs,  Lords,  Medes,  Assyrians, 

Persians,  Grecians,  and  Barbarians,  all  these  linages,  all  these 

Lordships  ended,  pointed,  and  came  to  nought,  aswell  they, 

as  those  that  gave  them  beginning,  for  it  is  not  possible  to 

finde  any  of  their  successors,  and  if  it  were,  hee  must  bee 

in  meane  and  base  estate ;  with  the  common  sort  I  have 

nothing  to  doe,  since  they  only  live,  and  serve  to  increase 

the  number  of  men,  without  deserving  more  fame,  or  elogie 

of  their  greatnesse. 

Thus  much  (fooles)  you  may  inferre  from  all  that  hath 
beene  said,  that  the  confusion  of  linages  is  very  great ;  and 
that  those  are  the  most  great  and  glorious,  that  shew  it  in 
the  vertue,  wealth,  and  liberalitie  of  their  owners.  Vertue, 
wealth,  and  liberality  (I  say)  for  that  great  man  that  is 
vicious,  will  be  the  more  so,  by  his  greatnesse,  and  the  rich 
man  not  liberall,  is  but  a  covetous  begger,  for  he  that 
possesseth  riches,  is  not  happie  in  them,  but  in  the  spend- 
ing them,  not  only  in  spending,  but  in  well  spending  them. 
The  poore  Knight  hath  no  way  to  shew  he  is  a  Knight, 
but  that  he  is  vertuous,  affable,  well  fashioned,  courteous, 
and  well-behaved,  and  officious:  not  proud,  not  arrogant, 
not  backebiting,  and  above  all,  charitable :  for  in  a  penie 
(that  he  gives  cheerefully  to  the  poore)  he  shewes  himselfe 
as  liberall,  as  he  that  for  ostentation  gives  an  Almes  before 
a  multitude,  and  there  is  no  man  that  sees  him  adorned  with 
these  vertues,  but  although  he  know  him  not,  he  will  judge 
of  him,  and  thinke  he  is  well  descended  :  for  if  he  were  not, 
54 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

'twere   miraculous,  and  the   reward   of  vertue  hath  beene    CHAPTER 
alwaies  praise,  and  the  vertuous  must  needs  be  praised.  VI 

There  be  two  courses  for  men  to  come  to  be  wealthie  and  What  passed 
noble  by,  the  one   is  Artes,  tother  Armes.      I  have  more  J^twixt  Don 
armes  then  learning,  and  was  borne  (according  to  my  in-  j^eece  'ami1" 
clination  that  way)  under  the  influence  of  the  Planet  Mars,  the  old 
so  that  I  must  of  force  follow  his  steps,  which  I  meane  to  woman:  and 
doe  in  spight  of  all  the  world,  and  it  is  in  vaine  for  you  'li  is  one  (lf" 
to  strive  to  perswude  me,  that  I  should  nill  what  the  heavens  |jJJLer£5l 
will  me,  fortune  ordaines,  and  reason  requires,  and  above  all,  Chapteninil] 
my  affection  desires.      Well,  in   knowing  (as  I   know)  the  the  History. 
innumerable  troubles  that  are  annexed  to  Knight  Errantrie, 
so  I  know  the  infinite  goods  that  are  obtained  with  it.    And 
I  know  that  the  path  of  vertue  is  very  narrow,  and  the  way 
of  vice  large  and  spacious.     And  I  know  that  their  endes 
and  resting  places  are  different,  for  that  of  vice,  large  and 
spacious  endes  in  death,  and   that  of  vertue,  narrow  and 
cumbersome  endes  in  life,  and  not  in  a  life  that  hath  end- 
ing, but  that  is  endlesse.      And  I  know  what  *our  great  *Bosran. 
Castillian  Poet  said, 

To  the  hi^h  S.-atr  of  Immortalitu- 

Through  crahWd  paths,  we  must  our  journey  take, 

\Vhemv  he  that  falles,  can  never  climbe  so  hie. 

Woe  is  me  (saiil  the  Neeee)  my  Master  too  is  a  Poet,  he 

knowes   every  thing ;   I   hold   a  wager,  if  he   would  be  a 

Mason,  he  would  build  a  house  as   easily  as  a  cage.      I 

promise  thee,  Neece  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  if  these  knightly 

cogitations  did  not  wrap  my  senaet,  there  i>  nothing  I  could 

not  doe,  nor  no  curiositie  should  scape  me,  especially  cages, 

and   tooth-pickers.     By  this  one  knockt  at  the  doore,  and 

asking  who   was  there,  Sancho  answered,  Tis  I.     The  old 

woman,  as  soone  as  she  heard  him,  ranne  to  hide  her  selfe, 

because  she   would   not  see   him,  for  she  could   not  abide 

him.     The  Neeee  let  him  in,  and  his  Master  Don  Quixote 

went  to  receive  him  with  open  armes :  and  they  both 

locked  themselves  in,  where  they  had  another 

Dialogue  as  good  as  the  former. 

55 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER   VII 

What  passed  betwixt  Don  Quixote  and  his  Squire, 
with  other  most  famous  accidents. 

[E  olde  woman,  as  soone  as  shee  saw  her 
Master  and  Sancho  locked  together,  be- 
gan to  smell  their  drift,  and  imagining 
that  his  third  sally  would  result  from  that 
consultation,  and  taking  her  mantle,  full 
of  sorrow  and  trouble,  she  went  to  seeke 
the  Bachelour  Samson  Carrasco,  suppos- 
ing, that  as  he  was  wel  spoken,  and  a  late 
acquaintance  of  Don  Quixotes,  he  might  perswade  him  to 
leave  his  doting  purpose;  she  found  him  walking  in  the 
Court  of  his  house,  and  seeing  him,  she  fell  downe  in  a 
cold  sweate,  (all  troubled)  at  his  feete.  When  Carrasco  saw 
her  so  sorrowfull  and  affrighted,  he  asked  her :  Whats  the 
matter  ?  what  accident  is  this  ?  Me  thinkes  thy  heart  is  at 
thy  mouth.  Nothing  (said  she)  Mr.  Samson,  but  my  Master 
is  run  out,  doubtlesse,  he  is  run  out.  And  where  runs  he  ? 
said  he,  hath  he  broken  a  hole  in  any  part  of  his  body  ? 
He  runnes  not  out  (answered  she)  but  out  of  the  doore  of 
his  madnesse :  I  meane,  sweete  sir  Bachelour,  he  meanes  to 
be  a  gadding  againe,  and  this  is  his  third  time,  he  hath 
gone  a  hunting  after  those  you  call  adventures :  I  know  not 
why  they  give  um  this  name.  The  first  time  they  brought 
him  us  athwart  upon  an  Asse  beaten  to  pieces.  The  second 
time  he  came  clapt  up  in  an  Oxe- Wayne,  and  locked  in  a 
Cage,  and  he  made  us  beleeve  hee  was  enchaunted,  and  the 
poore  soule  was  so  changed,  that  his  mother  that  brought 
him  forth,  would  not  have  knowne  him,  so  leane,  so  wan, 
his  eies  so  sunke  into  his  head,  that  I  spent  above  sixe 
hundreth  egges  to  recover  him,  as  God  is  my  witnesse,  and 
all  the  world,  and  my  hennes  that  will  not  let  me  lye.  That 
56 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

I  well  beleeve  (quoth  the  Bachelor)  for  they  are  so  good,    CHAPTER 
and  so  fat,  and  so  well  nurtured,  that  they  will  not  say  one          VI l 
thing  for  another  it'  they  should  burst  for  it.     Well,  is  there  What  passed 
ought  else  ?   hath   there  any  other  ill   lucke  hapned   more  Sjjj*^  Don 
then  this  you  feare,  that  your  Master  will  abroad  ?     No  Sr.,  ^  Squire 
(-aid  she:)  Take  no  care  (quoth  he)  but  get  you  home  on  with  other 
(iods  name,  and  get  me  some  warme  thing  to  breakefast,  most  famous 
and  by  the  way  as  you  goe,  pray  me  the  Orison  of  Saint  accidents. 
Apolonia,  if  you  know  it,  and  He  go  thither  presently,  and 
hall  see  wonders. 

Wretch  that  I  am  (quoth  slice)  the  Orison  of  Saint 
Apolonia  quoth  vou,  that  were,  if  my  Master  had  the  tooth- 
ach,  but  his  paine  is  in  his  head.  I  know  what  I  say  (quoth 
hee)  and  doe  not  you  dispute  with  me,  since  you  know  I 
have  proceeded  Bachelour  at  Salamanca:  doe  yee  thinke 
there  is  no  more  then  to  take  the  degree?  (said  he.)  With 
that,  away  >he  goe* :  and  lie  went  presently  to  seeke  the 
Vicar,  and  communicate  with  him,  what  shall  be  said  here- 
after. 

At  the  time  that  Don  (Quixote  and  Sancho  were  locked 
together,  there  passed  a  discourse  betweene  them,  which  the 
historic  tels  with  much  punctualitie,  and  a  true  relation. 

Sancho  said  to  his  Master,  I  have-  now  reluc't  my  wife  to 
let  me  goe  with  you  whither  soever  you  please;  reduced  you 
would  say,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote.)  I  have  bid  you 
more  then  once  (if  I  have  not  forgotten)  said  Sancho,  that 
you  doe  not  correct  mv  words,  if  so  be  you  understand 
my  meaning,  and  when  you  doe  not  understand  them, 
cry,  Sancho,  or  Div  ell,  I  understand  thee  not :  and  if  I  doe 
not  expresse  my  selfe,  then  you  may  correct  me,  for  I  am 
so  socible. 

I  understand  thee  not,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  for  I 
know  not  the  meaning  of  your  socible.  So  socible  is  (said 
Sancho)  I  am  so,  so.  Lesse  and  lesse  doe  I  understand 
(said  Don  Quixote.)  Why  if  you  do  not  understand  (said 
Sancho)  I  cannot  do  withall,  I  know  no  more,  and  God 
be  with  me.  Thou  meanest  docible  I  beleeve,  and  that 
thou  art  so  pliant,  and  so  taking,  that  thou  wilt  appre- 

3  :  H  57 


CHAPTER 
VII 

What  passed 
betwixt  Don 
Quixote  and 
his  Squire, 
with  other 
most  famous 
accidents. 


*The  custome 
of  Spaine  is, 
to  pay  their 
servants 
wages  by  the 
moneth. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

hend  what  I  shall  tell  thee,  and  learne  what  I  shal  instruct 
thee  in. 

He  lay  a  wager  (said  Sancho)  you  searched  and  understood 
me  at  first,  but  that  you  would  put  me  out,  and  heare  me 
blunder  out  a  hundreth  or  two  of  follies.  It  may  bee  so 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  but  what  saies  Teresa  ?  Teresa  bids 
mee  make  sure  worke  with  you,  and  that  wee  may  have  lesse 
saying,  and  more  doing,  for  great  sayers  are  small  doers.  A 
bird  in  the  hand,  is  worth  two  in  the  bush.  And  I  say,  a 
womans  advice  is  but  slender,  yet  he  that  refuseth  it,  is  a 
madman.  I  say  so  too  (quoth  Don  Quixote :)  But  say  (friend 
Sancho)  proceede,  for  to  day  thou  speakest  preciously. 

The  businesse  is  (quoth  Sancho)  that  as  you  better  know 
then  I,  wee  are  all  mortall,  here  to  day,  and  gone  to  morrow, 
as  soone  goes  the  yong  lambe  to  the  roste,  as  the  olde  sheepe, 
and  no  man  can  promise  himselfe  more  daies  then  God  hath 
given  him,  for  death  is  deafe,  and  when  she  knocks  at  lifes 
doore,  she  is  in  haste,  neither  threats,  nor  entreaties,  nor 
Scepters,  nor  miters  can  stay  her,  as  the  common  voice  goes, 
and  as  they  tell  us  in  Pulpits. 

All  this  is  true  (saide  Don  Quixote)  but  I  know  not  where 
thou  meanest  to  stop.  My  stoppe  is  (quoth  Sancho)  that 
your  Worship  allow  me  some  certaine  wages  by  *the  moneth, 
for  the  time  that  I  shall  serve  you,  and  that  the  said  wages 
be  paide  me  out  of  your  substance,  for  He  trust  no  longer 
to  good  turnes,  which  come  either  slowly,  or  meanely,  or 
never,  God  give  mee  joy  of  mine  owne.  In  a  word,  I  must 
know  what  I  may  gaine,  little  or  much :  for  the  henne  layes 
aswell  upon  one  egge  as  many,  and  many  littles  make  a 
mickle,  and  whilst  something  is  gotten,  nothing  is  lost. 
Indeede,  if  it  should  so  happen  (which  I  neither  beleeve, 
nor  hope  for)  that  your  Worship  should  give  mee  the  Island 
you  promised  me,  I  am  not  so  ungratefull,  nor  would  carrie 
things  with  such  extremity,  as  not  to  have  the  rent  of  that 
Island  prized,  and  so  to  discount  for  the  wages  I  received, 
cantitie  for  cantitie.  Is  not  quantitie  as  much  worth  as 
cantitie,  friend  Sancho?  answered  Don  Quixote.  I  under- 
stand you  now,  said  Sancho,  and  dare  lay  any  thing  that  I 

58 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

should  have  said  quantitie,  and  not  cantitie:  but  that's  no    CHAPTER 
matter,  seeing  you  have  understood  mee.     I  understand  yee          VII 
very  well  (answered  Don  (Quixote)  and  have  penetrated  the  What  passed 
utmost  of  your  thoughts,  and  know  very  well,  what  marke  Betwixt  Don 

J .          -,i  i  i  e  Quixote  and 

you  ayme  at,  with   the  innumerable  arrowes  of  your  pro-  jjg  §     in, 

Wfbl  with  other 

Lookc  yee,  Sancho,  I  could  willingly  affoord  you  wages,  most  famous 
if  I  had  found  in  any  Histories  of  Knights  Errant,  any  ex-  accidents, 
ample  that  might  give  me  light,  through  the  least  chinke, 
of  any  wages  given  monethly  or  yeerely :  but  I  have  read 
all,  or  the  most  part  of  their  Histories,  and  doe  not  re- 
member that  ever  I  have  read,  that  any  Knight  Errant 
hath  allowed  any  set  wages  to  his  Squire.  Only  I  know, 
that  all  lived  upon  countenance,  and  when  they  least  dreamt 
of  it,  if  their  Masters  had  had  good  lueke,  they  were  re- 
warded, either  with  an  Island  or  some  such  thing  equivalent, 
and  at  least  they  remained  with  honour  and  title. 

If  you,  Sancho,  upon  these  hopes  and  additaments  have  a 
minde  to  returne  to  my  service,  a  (iods  name;  but  to  thinke 
that  I  will  plucke  the  old  use  of  Knight  Errantry  out  of  his 
hounds,  and  off  the  hindges,  is  a  nicere  impossibility.  So 
that,  Sancho,  you  may  goe  home,  and  tell  your  Teresa  mine 
intention;  and  if  that  shee  and  you  will  rely  upon  my 
favour,  bcnc  </n'ul<-tn  ;  and  if  not,  let's  part  friends;  for  if 
my  pigeon-hoilM  have  Comvns,  it  will  want  no  Doves.  And 
take  this  by  the  way,  A  good  expectation  is  better  then  a 
bad  possession,  and  a  good  demand  better  then  an  ill  pay. 
I  >peake  thus,  Sancho,  that  you  may  see,  I  know  as  well  as 
you,  to  sprinkle  Proverbes  like  raine-showres.  Lastly,  let 
me  tell  you,  if  you  will  not  trust  to  my  reward,  and  run 
the  same  fortune  with  me,  God  keepe  you,  and  make  you 
a  Saint,  for  I  shall  not  want  more  obedient  Squires,  and 
more  carefull,  and  not  so  irksome,  nor  so  talkative  as  you. 

When  Sancho  heard  his  Masters  firme  resolution,  hee 
waxed  clowdy,  and  the  wings  of  his  heart  began  to  stoope ; 
for  hee  thought  verily  his  Master  would  not  goe  without 
him,  for  all  the  treasure  in  the  world.  Thus  being  doubt- 
full  and  pensative,  Samson  Carrasco  entred,  and  the  Net 


CHAPTER 
VII 

What  passed 
betwixt  Don 
Quixote  and 
his  Squire, 
with  other 
most  famous 
accidents. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

desirous  to  heare  how  he  perswaded  her  Master  that  hee 
should  not  returne  to  his  adventures. 

In  came  Samson,  a  notable  Crack-rope,  and  embracing 
him  as  at  first,  began  in  this  loud  key :  Oh  flower  of  Chivalrie, 
bright  light  of  Armes,  honour  and  mirrour  of  our  Spanish 
nation :  may  it  please  almighty  God  of  his  infinite  good- 
nesse,  that  he,  or  they,  that  hinder  or  disturbe  this  thy 
third  sally,  that  they  never  finde  it  in  the  Labyrinth  of 
their  desires,  nor  let  the  ill  they  wish,  for  ever  be  accom- 
plished. And  turning  to  the  old  woman,  he  said :  You 
neede  no  longer  pray  the  Orison  of  Saint  Apolonia,  for  I 
know,  the  determination  of  the  spheres,  is,  that  Don  Quixote 
put  in  execution  his  loftie  and  new  designes,  and  I  should 
much  burden  my  conscience,  if  I  should  not  perswade  and 
intimate  unto  this  Knight,  that  hee  doe  no  longer  with- 
draw and  hold  backe  the  force  of  his  valerous  arme,  and 
the  courage  of  his  most  valiant  minde,  for  with  his  delay- 
ing he  defraudes  the  rectifying  of  wrongs,  the  protection  of 
Orphans,  the  honor  of  Damsels,  the  bulwarke  of  married 
women,  and  other  matters  of  this  qualitie,  which  concern, 
appertain,  depend,  and  are  annexed  unto  the  order  of  Knight 
Errantrie.  Go  on  then,  my  beautifull,  my  brave  Don 
Quixote,  rather  to  day  then  to  morrow,  let  your  Great- 
nesse  be  upon  the  way,  and  if  any  thing  be  wanting  to  your 
journey,  here  am  I  to  supply  with  my  wealth,  with  my 
person,  and  if  neede  be,  to  be  thy  Magnificence  his  Squire, 
which  I  shall  hold  a  most  happy  fortune.  Then  (said  Don 
Quixote)  turning  to  Sancho,  Did  not  I  tell  thee,  Sancho,  that 
I  should  want  no  Squires  ?  See  who  offers  himselfe  to  mee  : 
the  most  rare  Bachelour  Samson  Carrasco,  the  perpetuall 
darling  and  delighter  of  the  Salamancan  schooles,  sound 
and  active  of  body,  silent,  suffering  of  heates  and  coldes, 
hunger  and  thirst,  with  all  the  abilities  that  belong  to  the 
Squire  of  a  Knight  Errant :  but  heaven  forbid,  that  for  my 
pleasure,  I  hox  and  breake  off  the  Columne  of  learning,  the 
vessell  of  Sciences,  and  that  I  lop  off  the  eminent  branch  of 
the  liberall  Arts:  Remaine  thou  another  Samson  in  thy 
Countrey,  honour  it,  and  those  gray  haires  of  thine  aged 

60 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Parents,  for  I  will  content  my  selfe  with  any  Squire,  since    CHAPTER 
Sancho  daignes  not  to  attend  mee.  v  I ' 

I  doe  daigne,  said   Sancho,  (all   tender)  and   the  teares  What  i> 
standing  in  his  eyes,  and  thus  proceeds:    It  shall   not  be  |>*?twixt  Don 
sayd,  Master,  for  me,  'No  longer  pipe,  no  longer  dance';  JjaSquire 
Nor  am  I  made  of  hardest  oake,  for  all  the  world  knowes,  witi,  ,,th«-r 
and  especially  my  Towne,  who  the  Pansa's  were,  from  whom  most  famous 
I  descend  ;  besides,  I  know  and  have  searched  out,  by  many  accidents, 
good   works,  and    many   good   words,  the  desire  that  your 
Worship  hath  to  doe  me  a  kimlnesse,  and  if  I  have  beene 
too  blame  to  meddle  in  reckoning!  concerning  my  wages,  it 
was  to  please  my  wife,  who  when  slice  once  tails  into  a  vaine 
of  penwading,  there 'fl   no   hammer   that  cloth   so   fasten   the 
hoopes  of  a  Bucket   as  slice-  doth,  till  slice  obtain*.-  what  she 
would  have;  but  howsoever,  the  husband  must  be  husband, 
and   the  wife,  wife;  and   since  I  am  a  man  every  where  (I 
cannot  deny  that)  I   will  also  bee  so  at  home,  in  spite  of 
any:   so  that  there's  no   more  to  bee  done,  but  that  you 
make  your  will,  and  set  to  your  Codicill,  in  such  sort,  that 
it  may  not  bee  revolkecl,  and  let's  straight,  to  our  journey, 
that  Mr.  Samsons  soule  may  not  sutler;    for  he  saith,  his 
conscience  is  unquiet,  till  lice  have  perswaded    you  to  your 
third  sally  thorow  the  work),  and  I  afresh  ofi'er  my  service 
faithfully  and  loyally,  aswull  and  better  then  anie  Squire  that 
ever  served  Knight  Krrant  in  former  times,  or  in  present. 

The  R-ichelour  wondred  to  heare  Sanclio's  manner  and 
method  of  speaking  :  for  though  in  the  fir>t  history  he  had 
read  of  his  Master,  he  never  thought  Sancho  had  beene  so 
witty,  as  they  there  paint  him  out,  yet  hearing  him  now 
mention  will  and  Codicill,  revolking  in  stead  of  revoking, 
he  beleeved  all  that  he  had  read  of  him,  and  confirmed  him 
to  be  one  of  the  most  solenmot  Cox-combes  of  our  age, 
and  said  to  biniM-lfe,  that  two  >uch  mad  men,  as  Master  and 
man,  were  not  in  all  the  world  a_ 

Now  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  embraced,  and  remained 
friends,  and  with  the  grand  Carrasco's  approbation  and  good 
will  (who  was  then  their  Oracle)  it  was  decreed,  that  within 
three  daies  they  should  depart,  in  which  they  might  have 

61 


CHAPTER 
VII 

What  passed 
betwixt  Don 
Quixote  and 
his  Squire, 
with  other 
most  famous 
accidents. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

time  to  provide  all  things  necessary  for  their  voyage,  and 
to  get  an  helmet,  which  Don  Quixote  said,  hee  must  by  all 
meanes  carry.  Samson  offered  him  one,  for  he  knew  a  friend 
of  his  would  not  deny  it  him,  although  it  were  fowler  with 
mould  and  rust,  then  bright  with  smooth  steele. 

The  Neece  and  the  olde  woman  cursed  the  Bachelour  un- 
mercifully, they  tore  their  haire,  scratcht  their  faces,  and 
as  your  funeral!  mourners  use,  they  howled  at  their  Masters 
departure,  as  if  he  had  beene  a  dead  man.  The  designe 
that  Samson  had  to  perswade  him  to  this  third  sally,  was, 
to  doe  what  the  History  tels  us  heereafter,  all  by  the  advice 
of  the  Vicar  and  the  Barber,  to  whom  he  had  before  com- 
municated it.  Well,  in  those  three  dayes,  Don  Quixote 
and  Sancho  fitted  themselves  with  what  they  thought  they 
needed,  and  Sancho  having  set  downe  the  time  to  his 
wife,  and  Don  Quixote  to  his  Neece,  and  the  olde  woman, 
toward  night,  without  taking  leave  of  any  body,  but  the 
Bachelor,  who  would  needs  bring  them  halfe  a  league  from 
the  towne,  they  tooke  their  way  towards  Toboso.  Don 
Quixote  upon  his  good  Rozinante,  and  Sancho  on  his  old 
Dapple,  his  wallets  were  stuffed  with  provant,  and  his  purse 
with  money  that  Don  Quixote  gave  him  for  their  expences. 
Samson  embraced  him,  and  desired  him  that  he  might 
heare  of  his  good  or  ill  fortune,  to  rejoyce  for  the  one, 
or  bee  sorry  for  the  other,  as  the  law  of  friendship  did 
require ;  Don  Quixote  made  him  a  promise.  Samson 
returned  home,  and  the  two  went  on  towards 
the  famous  City  of  Toboso. 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER    VIII 

What  befell  Don  Quixote,  going  to  see  his  Mistris 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso. 

LESSED     be    the    powerfull    Ala    (saith 

Hamete  Benengeli)  at  the  beginning  of  tho  M «»"•»'*• is 
this   eighth    Chapter:    Blessed  bee  Ala,  jJiSoniet* 
which  he  thrice  repeated,  and  sayd,  that  amongst  the 
he  rendred  these  benedictions,  to  see  that  Turkes. 
now  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  were  upon 
their  inarch,  and  that  the  Readers  of  their 
delightfull  History  may  reckon,  that  from 
this  time  the  exployts  and  conceits  of  Don  Quixote  and  his 
Squire  doe  begin:  Hee  pcrswadi's  them  they  should  forget 
the  former  Chivalry  of  the  noble  Knight,  and  fix  their  eyes 
upon  his  Acts  to  come,  which  begin  now  in  his  way  towards 
Toboso,  as  the  former  did  in  the  fields  of  Montiel,  and  it  is 
a  small  request,  for  so  much  as  he  is  to  performe,  so  he  pro- 
ceeds, saying  : 

Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  were  now  all  alone,  and  Samson 
was  scarce  gone  from  them,  when  Rozinante  began  to  neigh, 
and  Dapple  to  sigh,  which,  both  by  Knight  and  Squire  w. 
held  for  lucky  signes,  and  an  happy  presaging,  though  if  the 
truth  were  tolde,  Dapples  sighs  and  brayings  were  more  then 
the  Horses  neighing  :  whereupon  Sancho  collected,  that  his 
fortune  should  exceede  and  over-top  his  Masters;  building, 
I  know  not  upon  what  judiciall  Astrologie,  that  sure  he 
knew,  although  the  History  sayes  nothing  of  it,  onely  he 
would  often  say,  when  he  fell  downe  or  stumbled,  he  would 
have  beene  glad,  not  to  have  gone  abroad  :  for  of  stumbling 
or  falling  came  nothing,  but  tearing  his  shooes,  or  breaking 
a  rib,  and  though  he  were  a  foole,  yet  he  was  not  out  in  this. 
Don  Quixote  said  unto  him  ;  Friend  Sancho,  the  night 
comes  on  us  apace,  and  it  will  grow  too  darke  for  us,  to  reach 

63 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    Toboso  ere  it  be  day,  whither  I  am  determined  to  goe,  before 

VIII         I  undertake  any  adventure,  and  there  I  meane  to  receive  a 

What  befell     benediction,  and  take  leave  of  the  Peerelesse  Dulcinea  del 

Don  Quixote,  Toboso,  after  which  I  know  and  am  assured,  I  shall  end  and 

his^istris  *      cl°se   UP  every  dangerous   adventure ;    for  nothing  makes 

Dulcinea  del    Knights  Errant  more  hardy,  then  to  see  themselves  favoured 

Toboso.  by  their  Mistresses.    I  beleeve  it  (quoth  Sancho)  but  I  doubt 

you  will  not  speake  with  her,  at  least,  not  see  her  where  you 

may  receive  her  blessing,  if  shee  give  you  it  not  from  the 

mud-wals,  where  I  saw  her  the  first  time,  when  I  carried  the 

letter  and  newes  of  your  madde  pranckes,  which  you  were 

playing  in  the  heart  of  Sierra  Morena. 

Were  those  mud-wals  in  thy  fancie,  Sancho,  (quoth  Don 
Quixote)  where  or  thorow  which  thou  sawest  that  never- 
enough-praised  gentlenesse  and  beauty  ?  They  were  not  so, 
but  galleries,  walkes,  or  goodly  stone  pavements,  or  how  call 
yee  um  ?  of  rich  and  royall  Palaces.  All  this  might  bee 
(answered  Sancho)  but  to  me  they  seemed  no  better,  as  I  re- 
member. Yet  let 's  goe  thither  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  for  so 
I  see  her  ;  let  them  be  mud-wals,  or  not,  or  windowes ;  all  is 
one,  whether  I  see  her  thorow  chincks,  or  thorow  garden- 
lettices,  for  each  ray  that  comes  from  the  sunne  of  her  bright- 
nesse  to  mine  eyes,  will  lighten  mine  understanding,  and 
strengthen  mine  heart,  and  make  me  sole  and  rare  in  my  wis- 
dome  and  valour. 

Truely  Sir  (sayd  Sancho)  when  I  saw  that  sunne,  it  was 
not  so  bright,  that  it  cast  any  rayes  from  it,  and  belike  twas, 
that  as  she  was  winnowing  the  wheat  I  told  you  of,  the  dust 
that  came  from  it,  was  like  a  cloud  upon  her  face  and  dimmed 
it.  Still  doest  thou  thinke,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  ? 
Beleeve  and  grow  obstinate,  that  my  Mistris  Dulcinea  was 
winnowing,  it  being  a  labor  so  unfit  for  persons  of  quality, 
that  use  other  manner  of  exercises  and  recreation,  which  shew 
a  slight-shoot  off  their  noblenesse  ?  Thou  doest  ill  remem- 
ber those  verses  of  our  Poet,  where  he  paints  out  unto  us,  the 
exercises  which  those  foure  Nymphes  used  in  their  christall 
*A  river  in  habitations,  when  they  advanced  their  heads  above  the 
Spaine.  loved  *Tagus,  and  sat  in  the  greene  fields  working  those  rich 

64 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

embroyderies,  which  the  ingenious  Poet  there  describes  unto    CHAPTER 
us,  all  which  were  of  gold,  of  purle,and  woven  with  embossed         V111 
pearles:  such  was  the  worke  of  my  Mistris,  when  thou  sawest  What  befell 
her,  but  that  the  envy,  which  some  base  Enchanter  beares  to  D°£  ^g  *e 
mine  affaires,  turnes  all  that  should  give  me  delight,  into  his 'Mist-rig6 
different  shapes,  and  this  makes  me  feare,  that  the  Historic  Dulcinea  del 
of  my  exploits  which  is  in  print  (if  so  be  some  Wizard  my  Toboso. 
enemie  were  the  Author)  that  he  hath  put  one  thing  for 
another,  mingling  with  one  truth  a  hundreth  lies,  diverting 
himselfe  to  tell  tales,  not  fitting  the  continuing  of  a  true 
Historic.     Oh  envie  thou  roote  of  infinite  evils,  thou  worme 
of  vertues. 

All  vices,  Sancho,  doe  bring  a  kinde  of  pleasure  with  them, 
but  envie  hath  nothing  but  distaste,  rancor  and  raving.  I 
am  of  that  minde  too  (said  Sancho)  and  I  thinke  that  in  the 
Historic-  that  Carrasco  told  us  of,  that  he  had  scene  of  us,  that 
my  credit  is  turned  topsie  turvy,  and  (as  they  say)  goes  a 
begging.  Well,  as  I  am  [an]  honest  man,  I  never  spoke  ill  of 
anv  Enchanter,  neither  am  I  so  happie  as  to  be  envied  :  true 
it  is,  that  I  am  somewhat  malicious,  and  have  certaine  knavish 
glimpses  :  but  all  is  covered  and  hid  under  the  large  cloake 
of  my  simplicitie,  alwaies  naturall  to  me,  but  never  artificiall: 
and  if  there  were  nothing  else  in  me,  but  my  beliefe  (for  I 
beleeve  in  God,  and  in  all  that  the  Romane  Church  believes, 
and  am  sworne  a  mortall  enemie  to  the  lewes)  the  Historians 
ought  to  pittie  me,  and  to  use  me  well  in  their  writings  :  but 
let  urn  say  what  they  will,  naked  was  I  borne,  naked  I  am,  I 
neither  winne  nor  lose,  and  though  they  put  me  in  bookes, 
and  carrie  me  up  and  downe  from  hand  to  hand,  I  care  not 
a  figge,  let  um  say  what  they  will/ 

'T was  just  the  same  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  that  happened 
to  a  famous  Poet  of  our  times,  who  having  made  a  malicious 
Satyre  against  all  the  Curti/ans,  he  left  out  one  amongst 
them,  as  doubting  whether  she  were  one  or  no,  who  seeing 
she  was  not  in  the  scrowle  amongst  the  rest,  tooke  it  un- 
kindly from  the  Poet,  asking  him,  what  he  had  scene  in  her, 
that  he  should  not  put  her  amongst  the  rest,  and  desired  him 
to  rnlarge  his  Satyre,  and  put  her  in  the  spare  roome:  if  not, 

«  :  I  65 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    she  would  scratch  out  his  eyes :  the  Poet  consented,  and  set 

VIII         her  downe  with  a  vengeance,  and  shee  was  satisfied,  to  see  her 

What  befell     selfe  famous,  although  indeed  infamous.    Besides,  the  tale  of 

n  Quixote,  the  shepherd  agrees  with  this,  that  set  Diana's  Temple  on 

his^istrisT      ^re>  wn^cn  was  one  °f  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world,  because, 

Dulcinea  del    ne  would  bee  talked  of  for  it ;  and  although  there  were  an 

Toboso.  Edict,  that  no  man  should  either  mention  him  by  speaking 

or  writing,  that  he  might  not  attaine  to  his  desire  ;  yet  his 

name  was  knowne  to  be  Erostratus  :  the  same  allusion  may 

be  had  out  of  an  Accident,  that  befell  the  great  Emperor 

Charles  the  fift  with  a  Knight  of  Rome. 

The  Emperour  was  desirous  to  see  the  famous  Temple  of 
the  Rotunda,  which  in  ancient  times  was  called  the  Temple 
of  all  the  Gods,  and  now  by  a  better  stile,  of  all  Saints,  and 
it  is  the  only  entire  edifice  that  hath  remained  of  all  the 
Gentiles  in  Rome,  and  that  which  doth  most  conserve  the 
Glory  and  Magnificence  of  it's  founders  :  tis  made  like  an 
halfe  Orange,  exceeding  large,  and  very  lightsome,  having 
but  one  window  that  gives  it  light,  or  to  say  truer,  but  one 
round  Loover  on  the  top  of  it :  the  Emperour  looking  on  the 
edifice,  there  was  a  Romane  Knight  with  him,  that  shewed 
him  the  devices  and  contriving  of  that  great  worke  and 
memorable  architecture  ;  and  stepping  from  the  Loover,  said 
to  the  Emperour :  a  thousand  times,  mightie  Monarch,  have 
I  desired  to  see  your  Majestic,  and  cast  my  selfe  down  from 
this  Loover,  to  leave  an  everlasting  fame  behind  me.  I 
thanke  you  (said  the  Emperour)  that  you  have  not  per- 
formed it,  and  henceforward,  I  will  give  you  no  such  occasion 
to  shew  your  loyaltie,  and  therefore  I  command  you,  that 
you  neither  speake  to  me,  nor  come  to  my  presence ;  and  for 
all  these  words,  he  rewarded  him. 

I  le  tell  you,  Sancho,  this  desire  of  honour  is  an  itching 
thing:  What  do'st  thou  thinke  cast  Horatius  from  the 
Bridge  all  arm'd  into  deepe  Tyber  ?  What  egged  Curtius 
to  lanch  himselfe  into  the  Lake  ?  What  made  Mutius  burne 
his  hand  ?  What  forced  Caesar  against  all  the  South-sayers 
to  passe  the  Rubicon  ?  And  to  give  you  more  moderne 
examples,  What  was  it  bored  those  ships,  and  left  those 
66 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

valorous  Spaniards  on  ground,  guided  by  the  most  courteous    CHAPTER 
Cortez  in  the  new  world  ?  VIII 

All  these,  and  other  great  and  severall  exploits,  are,  have  What  befell 
bin,  and  shall  be  the  workes  of  fame,  which  mortals  desire  Do.n  Quixote, 
as  a  reward,  and  part  of  the  immortalitie,  which  their  famous  fofo££f 
artes   deserve :     though    we   that   be   Christian    Catholicke  Dulcinea  del 
Knights  Errant,   must   looke   more   to   the   happinesse   of  Toboso. 
another  world  (which  is  Eternall  in  the  Ethereal!  and  Celes- 
tiall  regions)  then  to  the  vaiiitie  of  fame,  which  is  gotten  in 
this  present  fraile  age,  and  which,  let  it  last  as  long  as  it  will, 
it  must  have  ending  with  this  world  which  hath  its  limited 
time :  so  that,  oh  Sancho,  our  actions  must  not  passe  the 
bounds,  that  Christian  Religion  (which  wee  professe)  hath 
put  us  in. 

In  Gyants  we  must  kill  pride:  envie  in  generousnesse  and 
noble  brests :  anger  in  a  continent  reposed  and  quiet  minde  : 
ryot  and  drow/incsse,  in  temperance  and  vigilance  :  lascivi- 
ousnosse,  in  the  loyaltie  we  observe  to  those  that  we  have 
made  the  Mistre>>es  of  our  thoughts:  and  sloth,  by  travel- 
ling ii|)  and  downe  the  world,  seeking  occasions,  that  may 
make1  us  (besides  Christians) famous  Knights.  These, Sancho, 
are  the  meaiies,  by  which  the  extremes  of  glory  are  obtained, 
which  fame  brings  with  it. 

All  that  you  have  hitherto  spoken  (quoth  Sancho)  I  under- 
stand passing  well:  but  I  would  faine  have  you  zolve  me  of 
one  doubt,  which   even  now  comes  into  my  head.      Resolve, 
thou   would'st  say  Sancho,  (quoth  Don   Quixote)  speake  a 
Gods  name,  for  lie  answer  thee,  as  well  as  I  can.     Tell  me-, 
Sr.,  said  Sancho,   these  lulies,  or  Augusts,  and   all    these 
famous  Knights  you  talke  of,  that  are  dead,  where  are  they 
now?     The  Gentiles,  said  he,  undoubtedly  are  in  Hell:  the  *Accordimr to 
Christians,  if  they  were  good  Christians,  either  in  *Purga-  the  Romish 
torie,  or  in  Hell.     Tis  very  well,  but  the  Sepulchers  where  opinion, 
the  bodies  of  these  great  Lordlings  lye  interred,  have  they  erronious. 
*silver  lampes  burning  before  them,  or  are  their  Chappell  *Relicks  that 
walles  decked  with  Crutches,  winding  sheets,  periwigs,  legges,  J;    to ,       . 
and  waxe  eyes?   and   if  not  with  these,  with  what?     The  therapists"1 
Sepulchers  of  the  Gentiles  (saide  Don  Quixote)  were  for  the  Churches. 

67 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    most  part,  sumptuous  Temples,  the  ashes  of  lulius  Caesars 

vm         bodie  were  put  upon  a  huge  Pyramis  of  stone,  which  at  this 

What  befell     day,  is  called  Saint  Peters  needle.     The  Emperour  Adrians 

Don  Quixote,  Sepulchre  was  a  great  Castle  as  bigge  as  a  pretty  village,  it 

MsMistris66     was  called  Moles  Adriani>  and  at  this  day,  the  Castle  of 

Dulcinea  del    Saint  Angelo  in  Rome  :   Queene  Artemisia  buried  her  hus- 

Toboso.  band  Mausolus  in  a  Sepulchre,  which  was  held  to  be  one  of 

the  seven  wonders  of  the  world :  but  none  of  all  these,  nor 

many  others  the  Gentiles  had,  were  decked  with  winding 

sheetes,  nor  any  kinde  of  offrings  or  signes  that  testified, 

they  were  Saints  that  were  buried  in  them. 

That 's  it  I  come  to  (said  Sancho :)  and  tell  me  now,  which 
is  more,  to  raise  a  dead  man,  or  to  kill  a  Gyant?  The 
answer  is  at  hand  (said  Don  Quixote :)  To  raise  a  dead  man. 
There  I  caught  you  (quoth  Sancho)  then,  the  fame  of  him 
that  raiseth  the  dead,  gives  sight  to  the  blinde,  makes  the 
lame  walke,  restoreth  sicke  men,  who  hath  lampes  burning 
before  his  Sepulchre,  whose  Chappell  is  full  of  devout  people, 
which  upon  their  knees  adore  his  Relickes,  this  man  hath 
greater  renowne,  and  in  another  world,  then  ever  any  of 
your  Gentile  Emperours,  or  Knights  Errant  ever  left  behind 
them. 

I  grant  you  that  (quoth  Don  Quixote).  Wei,  answered 
Sancho,  this  fame,  these  graces,  these  prerogatives,  how  call 
ye  um  ?  have  the  bodies  and  Relikes  of  Saints,  that,  by  the 
approbation  and  license  of  our  holy  Mother  the  Church, 
have  their  lampes,  their  lights,  their  winding  sheetes,  their 
crutches,  their  pictures,  their  heads  of  haire,  their  eyes,  and 
legges,  by  which  they  increase  mens  devotions,  and  endeere 
their  Christian  fame ;  Kings  carrie  the  bodies  of  Saints,  or 
their  Reliques  upon  their  shoulders,  they  kisse  the  pieces  of 
their  bones,  and  doe  decke,  and  inrich  their  Chappels  with 
them,  and  their  most  precious  altars. 

What  will  you  have  me  inferre  from  all  this,  Sancho 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)?  I  meane  (said  Sancho)  that  we 
endevour  to  be  Saints,  and  we  shall  the  sooner  obtaine  the 
fame  we  looke  after :  and  let  me  tell  you  Sr.,  that  yesterday 
or  tother  day,  (for  so  I  may  say,  it  being  not  long  since) 
68 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

there  were  two  poore  barefoote  Friers  canonized  or  beatified,    CHAPTER 
and  now  many  thinke  themselves  happie,  to  kisse  or  touch,         VIII 
those  yron  chaines,  with  which   they  girt   and   tormented  What  befell 
their  bodies,  and  they  are  more  reverenced,  then  is  (as  I  ^on  Quixote, 
said)  Roldans  sword  in  the  Armorie  of  our  Lord  the  King,  f^^®6 
(God  save  him :)  So  that  (Master  mine)  better  it  is,  to  be  a  Dulcinea  del 
poore  Frier  of  what  order  soever,  then  a  valiant  Knight  Toboso. 
Errant :   a  doozen  or  two  of  lashes  obtaine  more  at  Gods 
hands,  then  two  thousand  blowes  with  the  launce,  whether 
they  be  given  to  Gyants,  to  Spirits,  or  Hobgoblins. 

Al  this  is  true  (answered  Don  Quixote :)  but  al  cannot  be 
Friers,  and  God  Almighty  hath  many  waies,  by  which  he 
carries  his  Elect  to  heaven :  Cavallerie  is  a  religion,  and  you 
have  many  Knights  Saints  in  heaven.  That  may  be  (said 
Sancho)  but  I  have  heard,  you  have  more  Friers  there,  then 
Knights  Errant.  That  is  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  because  the 
Religious  in  number  are  more  then  the  Knights.  Hut  there 
are  many  Knights  Errant  (said  Sancho).  Many  indeede 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  but  few  that  deserve  the  name. 

In  these  and  such  like  discourses  tliev  passed  the  whole 
night,  and  the  next  d.iv,  without  lighting  upon  any  thing, 
worth    relation,  for  which,    Don  Quixote  was   not  a  little 
sorrie  :  at  last,  the  next  clay  toward  night  they  discovered 
the  goodly  Citie  of  Toboso,  with  which  sight  Don  Quixotes 
spirits  were  revived,  but  Sanctions  dulled,  because  he  knew  not 
Dulcineas  house,  nor  ever  saw  her  in  his  life,  no  more  then  his 
Master,  so  that,  the  one  to  see  her,  and  the  other,  because  he 
had  not  seene  her,  were  at  their  wits  end,  and  Sancho  knew 
not  how  to  doe,  if  his  Master  should  send  him  to  Toboso  : 
but  Don  Quixote  resolved  to  enter  the  Citie  in  the  night,  and 
till  the  time  came,  they  staide  betweene  certaine  Okes,  that 
were  neere  Toboso ;  and  the  prefixed  moment  being 
come,  they  entred  the  citie,  where  they  lighted 
upon  things,  things  indeede. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    IX 

Where  is  set  downe  as  followeth. 

DNIGHT  was  neere  spunne  out,  when  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  left  the  mountaine, 
and  entred  the  Citie :  the  towne  was  all 
husht,  and  the  dwellers  were  asleepe,  with 
their  legges  stretcht  at  length,  (as  they 
say:)  the  night  was  brightsome,  though 
Sancho  wisht  it  had  beene  darker,  that  he 
might  not  see  his  madnesse:  the  dogges 
in  the  towne  did  nothing  but  barke  and  thunder  in  Don 
Quixotes  eares,  and  affrighted  Sancho's  heart :  now  and 
then  an  Asse  braied,  Hogs  grunted,  Cats  mewed,  whose 
different  howlings  were  augmented  with  the  silent  night: 
all  which  the  enamoured  Knight  held  to  be  ominous :  but 
yet  he  spoke  to  Sancho,  Sonne  Sancho  (said  he)  guide  to 
Dulcinea's  Palace:  it  may  be,  we  shall  finde  her  waking. 
Body  of  the  Sunne  (quoth  Sancho)  to  what  Palace  shall  I 
guide  ?  for  where  I  saw  her  Highnesse,  it  was  a  little  house. 
Belike  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  she  was  retired  into  some  corner 
of  her  Palace,  to  solace  her  selfe  in  private  with  her  Damozels, 
as  great  Ladies  and  Princesses  use  to  doe.  Sr.,  (quoth 
Sancho)  since,  whether  I  will  or  no,  you  will  have  my  Mistris 
Dulcinea's  house  to  be  a  Palace,  doe  ye  thinke  neverthelesse, 
this  to  be  a  fit  time  of  night  to  finde  the  doore  open  in  ? 
Doe  you  thinke  it  fit,  that  we  bounce,  that  they  may  heare 
and  let  us  in,  to  disquiet  the  whole  towne  ?  are  we  going  to 
a  bodie  house  thinke  yee  ?  Like  your  whoremasters,  that 
come,  and  call,  and  enter,  at  what  houre  they  list,  how  late 
soever  it  be?  First  of  all,  to  make  one  thing  sure,  let's 
finde  the  Palace,  replide  Don  Quixote,  and  then,  Sancho, 
lie  tell  thee  what's  fit  to  be  done:  and  looke,  Sancho, 
either  my  sight  failes  me,  or  that  great  Bulk  and  shadow 
that  we  see,  is  Dulcinea's  Palace. 
70 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Well,  guide  on  Sr.,  (said   Sancho)  it  may  be  it  is  so,    CHAPTER 
though  I  'le  first  see  it  with  my  eyes,  and  feele  it  with  my 
hands,  and  beleeve  it,  as  much  as  it   is  now  day.      Don  Where  is 

Quixote  led  on,  and  having  walked  about  some  two  hun-  set /!!WMe.1 

i      V    i  ,     i          7i      T>  11    i  j     J.L      L    j          as  followeth. 

dreth  paces,  he  lighted  on  the  Bulk  that  made  the  shadow, 

and  saw  a  great  steeple,  which  he  perceived  was  not  the 
Palace,  but  of  the  chiefe  Church  in  the  towne.  Then  said 
he,  Sancho,  we  are  come  to  the  Church.  I  see  it  very  well 
(quoth  Sancho)  and  I  pray  God,  wee  come  not  to  our 
graves :  for  it  is  no  good  signe  to  haunt  Church-yards  so 
late,  especially  since  I  told  you  (as  I  remember)  that  this 
Ladies  house  is  in  a  little  Allie  without  passage  thorow. 
A  poxe  on  thee  blockhead  (said  Don  Quixote)  where  hast 
thou  ever  found,  that  Kings  houses  and  Palaces  have  beene 
built  in  such  Allies?  Sr.,  (quoth  Sancho)  every  country 
hath  tlu-ir  severall  fashions:  It  may  be,  here,  in  Toboso, 
they  build  their  great  buildings  thus,  and  therefore  pray 
Sr.,  u;ive  me  leave,  to  looke  up  and  downe  the  Streets,  or 
Lanes  that  lie  in  my  way,  and  it  may  be,  that  in  some 
corner  I  may  light  upon  this  Palace  (the  Divell  take  it) 
that  thus  mockes  and  misleades  us.  Speake  mannerly,  Sr., 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  of  my  Mistrisses  tilings,  and  let's  be 
merry  and  wise,  and  cast  not  the  rope  after  the  bucket. 

I  will  torbeare  (said  Sancho)  but  how  shall  I  endure,  that 
you  will  needs  II.IM-  me  be  thorowly  acquainted  with  a  house, 
I  never  saw  but  once,  and  to  finde  it  at  midnight,  being  you 
cannot  finde  it,  that  have  scene  it  a  million  of  times  ?  Sirrah, 
I  shall  grow  desperate  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  come  hither 
hereticke.  Have  not  I  told  thee  a  thousand  times,  that  I 
never  saw  the  Peerelesse  Dulcinea,  nor  never  crossed  the 
thresholds  of  her  Palace,  and  that  I  only  am  enamoured  on 
her  by  heare-say,  and  the  great  fame  of  her  beautie  and 
discretion  ?  Why  now  I  heare  you  (said  Sancho)  and  since 
you  say,  you  have  IH-V,  her;  nor  I  neither.  That 

cannot  be  (said  Don  Quixote)  for  you  told  me  at  least,  that 
you  had  scene  her  winnowing  of  wheate,  when  you  brought 
me  the  answer  of  the  letter  I  sent  by  you.  NeVe  stand 
upon  that  (said  Sancho)  for  let  me  tell  you,  that  I  only  saw 

n 


CHAPTER 
IX 

Where  is 
set  downe 
as  followeth. 


*As  if  we 
should  have 
said  in  Eng- 
lish, Chevie 
Chase,  or 
such  like. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

her  by  heare-say  too,  and  so  was  the  answer  I  brought :  for 
I  know  her  as  well,  as  I  can  boxe  the  Moone.  Sancho, 
Sancho,  (said  Don  Quixote)  ther's  a  time  to  laugh,  and  a 
time  to  mourne.  Not  because  I  say,  I  have  neither  scene, 
nor  spoken  to  the  Mistris  of  my  soule,  shouldst  thou  say, 
thou  hast  neither  scene,  nor  spoken  to  her,  it  being  other- 
wise (as  thou  knowest.)  Being  in  this  discourse,  they  saw 
one  passing  by  um  with  two  Mules,  and  by  the  noise  the 
plough  made  which  they  drew  upon  the  ground,  they  might 
see  it  was  some  husbandman,  that  rose  by  breake  of  day,  to 
goe  to  his  tillage,  and  so  it  was :  as  he  came,  he  went  sing- 
ing that  Romante,  of  the  batell  of  Roncesvalles  with  the 
Frenchmen. 

In  hearing  of  which  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  Sancho,  hang 
me,  if  we  have  any  good  fortune  this  night.  Doe  not  you 
heare  what  this  Clowne  sings?  Yes  marry  doe  I  (said 
Sancho)  but  what  doth  the  Chase  of  Roncesvalles  concerne 
us  ?  Tis  no  more  then  if  he  had  sung  the  Romante  of 
*  Calantos,  and  all  one,  for  our  good  or  ill  lucke  in  this 
business. 

By  this  the  ploughman  came  by  them  :  and  Don  Quixote 
questioned  him :  Can  you  tell  me,  friend  (so  God  reward 
you)  which  is  the  Palace  of  the  Peerelesse  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso?  Sir  (answered  the  yong  man)  I  am  a  stranger, 
and  have  lived  but  a  while  in  this  towne,  and  serve  a  rich 
husbandman  to  till  his  ground ;  here  over-against,  the  Vicar 
and  the  Sexton  both  live,  any  of  them  will  tell  you  of  this 
Lady  Princesse,  as  having  a  List  of  all  the  inhabitants  of 
Toboso ;  although  I  thinke,  there  is  no  such  Princesse  here, 
but  many  Gentlefolkes,  each  of  which  may  be  a  Princesse  in 
her  owne  house.  Why  friend  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  it  may 
be,  that  shee  I  aske  for,  is  amongst  these.  It  may  be  so 
(said  the  fellow)  and  God  speede  you,  for  now  it  begins  to 
be  day  peepe :  and  switching  his  Mules,  he  staid  for  no 
more  questions. 

Sancho  seeing  his  Master  in  a  deepe  suspence,  and  very 
malecontent,  told  him :  Sr.,  the  day  comes  on  apace,  and  it 
will  not  be  so  fit,  that  we  Sunne  our  selves  in  the  Streete :  it 

72 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

is  better  to  go  out  of  the  Citie,  and  that  you  shade  your    CHAPTER 

selfe  in  some  Grove  here  abouts,  and  I  will  come  backe  anon, 

and  not  leave  a  by-place  in  all  this  towne,  where  I  may  \Vln-n-  i 

search  for  the  House,  Castle,  or  Palace  of  my  Lady,  and  it 

were  ill  lucke,  if  I  found   her  not:  and  if  I  doe,  I  will 

speake  with  her,  and  let  her  know,  where,  and  how  you 

doe,  expecting,  that  she  give  you  order  and  direction,  how 

you  may  see  her,  without  prejudice  to  her  honour  and  good 

name. 

Sancho,  (said  Don  Quixote)  thou  hast  spoken  a  thousand 
sentences,  inclosed  in  the  circle  of  thy  short  discourse  : 
The  advice  that  thou  hast  now  given  me,  I  hunger  after, 
and  most  lovingly  accept  of  it:  Come,  sonne,  let  us  take 
shade,  and  thou  shalt  returne  (as  thou  sayest)  to  seeke,  to 

.  and  to  speake  to  mv  Mistris,  from  whose  discretion 
and  eoiirle^ie,  I  hope  tor  a  thousand  miraculous  favours. 

i-ho  stood  upon  thornes,  till  he  had  dniwne  his  Master 
from  the  towne,  lest  he  should  verifie  the  lie  of  the  answer, 
that  he  had  carried  him  from  Dulcinea,  to  Sierra  Morena. 

he  hastned  him  to  be  gone,  which  was  presently  done, 
.some  two  mili-.s  from  the  towne,  where  they  found  a  forre 
or  wood,  where  Don  Quixote  tooke  shade:  and  Sancho 

turned  to  the  Citie  to  speake  with  Dulcinea,  in  which 
Embassie  matters  befell  him,  that  require  a  new 
attention,  and  a  new  belu 


:  K  73 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    X 

How  Sancho  cunningly  enchanted  the  Lady 

Dulcinea,  and  other  successes,  as 

ridiculous  as  true. 

HE  Authour  of  this  history  comming  to 
relate  that  which  he  doth,  in  this  Chapter 
sayes ;  That  hee  would  willingly  have 
passed  it  over  in  silence,  as  fearing  not  to 
be  beleeved ;  because  heere  Don  Quixotes 
madnesse  did  exceed,  and  was  at  least  two 
flight-shoots  beyond  his  greatest  that  ever 
was :  but  for  all  this  feare  and  suspition, 
he  set  it  downe  as  tother  acted  it,  without  adding  or 
diminishing  the  least  jot  of  truth  in  the  History,  not  caring 
for  any  thing  that  might  bee  objected  against  him  for  a  lier, 
and  hee  had  reason ;  for  truth  is  stretcht,  but  never  breakes, 
and  tramples  on  the  lie,  as  oyle  doth  upon  water ;  and  so 
prosecuting  his  History,  hee  sayes,  that  as  Don  Quixote  had 
shaded  himselfe  in  the  Forrest  or  Oake-wood  neere  the 
Grand  Toboso,  he  willed  Sancho  to  returne  to  the  City,  and 
not  to  come  to  his  presence,  without  he  had  first  spoken  to 
his  Mistris  from  him,  requesting  her,  that  she  would  please 
to  be  seene  by  her  captiv'd  Knight,  and  to  daigne  to  bestow 
her  blessing  on  him,  that  by  it,  hee  might  hope  for  many 
most  prosperous  successes,  in  all  his  onsets  and  dangerous 
enterprizes.  Sancho  tooke  on  him  to  fulfill  his  command, 
and  to  bring  him  now  as  good  an  answer  as  the  former. 

Goe,  Lad,  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  and  bee  not  daunted  when 
thou  comest  before  the  beames  of  the  Sunne  of  Beauty, 
which  thou  goest  to  discover ;  O  happy  thou,  above  all  the 
Squires  of  the  world,  be  mindfull,  and  forget  not  how  she 
entertaines  thee ;  if  she  blush  just  at  the  instant,  when 
thou  deliverest  my  Embassie ;  if  she  be  stirred  and  troubled 
74 


ous 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

when  she  heares  my  name ;  whether  IKT  cushion  cannot  hold    CHAPTER 
her ;  if  she  be  set  in  the  rich  state  of  her  Authority  :  and  if 
she  stand   up,  marke   her  whether  she  clap  somtimes  one  How  Sancho 
foot  upon  another;  if  she  repeat  the  answer  shee  gives  thee,  CUIinin^y 
twice  or  thrice  over;  or  change  it  from  milde  to  curst;  from  the  I -Id °' 
cruell  to  amorous ;  whether  shee  seeme  to  order  her  haire,  Dulcfnea, 
though  it  be  not  disordered  :  Lastly,  observe  all  her  actions  and  other 
and  gestures;  for  if  thou  relate  them,  just  as  they  were,  I  successes, 
shall  ghesse  what  is  hidden  in  her  heart,  touching  my  love  in  **  ™1C 
matter  of  fact:  For  know,  Sancho,  if  thou  knowest  it  not, 
that  the  actions  and  outward  motions  that  appeare  (when 
love  is  in   treaty)  are  the  certaine  messengers  that  bring 
newes  of  what  passeth  within.     Goe,  Friend,  and  better  for- 
tune guide  thee  then  mine,  and  send  thee  better  successe  then 
I  can  expect  twixt  hope  and  feare,  in  this  uncouth  solitude 
in  which  thou  leaves!  me. 

I  goe  (said  Sancho)  and  will  returne  ijuickely;  Enlarge  that 
little  heart  of  yours  no  bigger  then  an  Ilasell-nut,  and  con- 
sider the  saying,  *  Faint  heart  never,"  etc.,  'Sweet  meat  must 
have  sowre  sauce"1:  And  another,  4  Where  wee  least  thinke, 
there  goes  tlu  Han-  awav/  This  I  say,  because  that  if  to 
night  wee  found  not  the  Castle  or  Palace  of  my  Lady,  now 
by  day  I  doubt  not  but  to  h'nde  it,  when  I  least  dreame  of 
it,  and  so  to  linde  her.  Uelcove  me,  Sancho  (quoth  Don 
Quixote)  thou  alwayes  bringest  thy  Proverbes  so  to  the 
haire  of  the  businesse  wee  treat  of,  as  God  give  me  no  worse 
fortune  then  I  desire. 

This  sayd,  Sancho  turned  his  backe,  and  switched  his 
Dapple,  and  Don  Quixote  stayd  a  horse-backe,  easing  him- 
selfe  on  his  stirrups,  and  leaning  on  his  lance,  full  of  sorrow- 
full  and  confused  thoughts,  where  we  will  leave  him,  and 
wend  with  Sancho,  who  parted  from  his  Master  no  lesse 
troubled  and  pensative  then  he ;  insomuch,  that  hee  was 
scarce  out  of  the  wood,  when  turning  his  face,  and  seeing 
that  Don  Quixote  was  out  of  sight,  he  lighted  from  his  Asse, 
and  resting  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  hee  began  to  discourse 
thus  to  himselfe,  and  say  :  Now,  brother  Sancho,  I  pray  let's 
know  whither  is  your  Worship  going  ?  To  seeke  some  Asse 

75 


CHAPTER 
X 

How  Sancho 
cunningly 
enchanted 
the  Lady 
Dulcinea, 
and  other 
successes,  as 
ridiculous 
as  true. 

^Mistakes  of 
simplicity. 


*As  if  wee 
should  say, 
one  lone  in 
London. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

that  you  have  lost?  No  forsooth.  Well,  what  is  it  you 
seeke  for  ?  I  seeke  (a  matter  of  nothing)  a  Princesse,  and  in 
her  the  Sunne  of  Beauty,  and  all  Heaven  withall.  And 
where  doe  yee  thinke  to  finde  this  you  speake  of,  Sancho  ? 
Where  ?  Why  in  the  Grand  City  of  Toboso.  Well,  and 
from  whom  doe  yee  seeke  her?  From  the  most  famous 
Knight  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  he  that  righteth 
wrongs,  *gives  the  thirsty  meat,  and  the  hungry  drinke. 
All  this  is  well :  and  doe  you  know  her  house,  Sancho  ?  My 
Master  sayes,  It  is  a  Royall  Palace,  or  a  lofty  Towre.  And 
have  you  ever  seen  her,  trow  ?  Neither  hee  nor  I,  never. 
And  doe  you  thinke  it  were  well,  that  the  men  of  Toboso 
should  know,  that  you  were  here  to  entice  their  Princesses, 
and  to  trouble  their  wenches,  and  should  come  and  grinde 
your  ribs  with  bangs,  and  leave  you  never  a  sound  bone  ? 
Indeed,  belike  they  should  consider  that  you  are  commanded, 
friend,  but  as  a  messenger,  that  you  are  in  no  fault,  not  you. 
Trust  not  to  that,  Sancho,  for  your  Manchegan  people  are 
as  cholericke,  as  honest,  and  doe  not  love  to  be  jested  with. 
In  very  deede,  if  they  smell  you,  you  are  sure  to  pay  for  it. 
Ware  Hawke,  ware  Hawke :  No,  no,  let  me  for  anothers 
pleasure  seeke  better  bread  then's  made  of  wheat;  and  I 
may  as  well  finde  this  Dulcinea,  as  one  Mary  in  *Robena,  or 
a  Scholler  in  blacke  in  Salamanca :  The  Devill,  the  Devill, 
and  none  else  hath  clapt  me  into  this  businesse.  This 
Soliloquy  passed  Sancho  with  himselfe,  and  the  upshot 
was  this : 

All  things  (sayd  he)  have  a  remedy  but  death,  under 
whose  yoke  wee  must  all  passe  in  spite  of  our  teethes,  when 
life  ends.  This  Master  of  mine,  by  a  thousand  signes  that  I 
have  scene,  is  a  Bedlam,  fit  to  be  bound,  and  I  come  not  a 
whit  short  of  him,  and  am  the  greater  Cox-combe  of  two,  to 
serve  him,  if  the  Proverbe  be  true  that  says,  '  Like  master, 
like  man1;  and  another;  'Thou  art  knowne  by  him  that 
doth  thee  feed,  not  by  him  that  doth  thee  breed.1  Hee 
being  thus  mad  then,  and  subject,  out  of  madnesse,  to  mis- 
taking of  one  thing  for  another,  to  judge  blacke  for  white, 
and  white  for  blacke,  as  appeared,  when  he  sayd  the  winde- 

76 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

mils  were  Gyants,  and  the  Friers  mules,  Dromedaries,  and    CHAPTER 
the  flocks  of  sheepe,  armies  of  enemies,  and  much  more  to 
this  tune ;  it  will  not  be  hard  to  make  him  beleeve,  that  How  Sam-ho 
some  husband-mans  daughter,  the  first  we  meet  with,  is  the  funninidy 
Lady  Dulcinea:  and  if  he  beleeve  it  not,  Ik-  sweare;  and  if  JJjJj!1 
hee  sweare,  He  out-sweare  him  ;  and  if  he  be  obstinate,  He  be  Dulciuea, 
so  more :  and  so,  that  I  will  stand  to  my  tackling,  come  and  other 
what  will  on  it.     Perhaps  with  mine  obstinacy  I  shall  so  successes,  as 
prevaile   with   him,  that  hee  will  send  mee   no  more  upon  "diculous 

I  i  •     i         f  •  i  IT  i     T   i     •        ;1S  true. 

these  kmde  of  nu  M-cing  what  bad  dispatch  I  bring 

him  :  or  perhaps  hee  will  thinke,  that  some  wicked  Enchanter, 
one  of  those  that  he  sayes  persecute  him,  hath  changed  her 
shape,  to  vex  him. 

With  this  conceit  Sancho's  spirit  was  at  rest,  and  hee 
thought  his  busincsse  was  brought  to  a  good  passe:  and  so 
staying  there  till  it  grew  to  be  toward  the  Kvening,  that 
Don  Quixote  might  thinke  he  spent  so  much  time  in  going 
and  comming  from  Toboso,  all  fell  out  happily  for  him :  for 
when  hee  got  up  to  mount  upon  Dapple,  he  might  see  three 
Countrey-wenches  comming  towards  him  from  Toboso,  upon 
three  Asse- Colts,  whether  male  or  female,  the  Author 
declares  not,  though  it  be  likely  they  were  shee-asses,  they 
being  the  ordinary  beasts  that  those  Countrey-people  ride 
on  :  but  because  it  is  not  very  pertinent  to  the  story,  we 
neede  not  stand  much  upon  deciding  that.  In  fine,  when 
Sancho  saw  the  three  Countrey-wenehes,  he  turned  back 
apace  to  finde  out  his  Master  Don  Quixote,  and  found  him 
sighing,  and  uttering  a  thousand  amorous  lamentations. 

As  soone  as  Don  Quixote  saw  him,  he  sayd ;  How  now, 
Sancho,  what  is  the  matter  ?  May  I  marke  this  day  with  a 
white  or  a  blacke  stone  ?  Twere  fitter  (quoth  Sancho)  you 
would  marke  it  with  red  Oker,  as  the  Inscriptions  are  upon 
Professours  chaires,  that  they  may  plainely  read  that  see 
them.  Belike  then  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  thou  bringest  good 
newes.  So  good  (sayd  Sancho)  that  you  need  no  more  but 
spurre  Rozinante,  and  straight  discover  the  Lady  Dulcinea 
ael  Toboso,  with  two  Damozels  waiting  on  her,  comming 
to  see  your  Worship.  Blessed  God  !  friend  Sancho,  what 

77 


CHAPTER 
X 

How  Sancho 
cunningly 
enchanted 
the  Lady 
Dulcinea, 
and  other 
successes,  as 
ridiculous 
as  true. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

sayest  thou  (quoth  Don  Quixote)?  See  thou  deceive  mee 
not  with  thy  false  mirth  to  glad  my  true  sorrow. 

What  should  I  get  by  deceiving  you  (quoth  Sancho)  the 
rather  your  selfe  being  so  neere  to  discover  the  truth? 
Spurre,  Sir,  ride  on,  and  you  shall  see  our  Mistris  the 
Princesse  comming,  clad  indeede  and  adorned  like  her  selfe : 
She  and  her  Damozels  are  a  very  sparke  of  gold  :  They  are 
all  ropes  of  pearle,  all  Diamonds,  all  Rubies,  all  cloth  of 
gold,  ten  stories  high  at  least :  Their  haires  hung  loose  over 
their  shoulders,  that  were  like  so  many  Sun-beames  playing 
with  the  winde,  and  besides  all  this,  they  are  mounted 
upon  three  flea-bitten  Nackneyes,  the  finest  sight  that  can 
be.  Hackneyes  thou  wouldYt  say,  Sancho.  Hackney  or 
Nackney  (quoth  Sancho)  there  is  little  difference:  but  let 
them  come  upon  what  they  will,  they  are  the  bravest  Ladies, 
that  can  be  imagined,  especially,  My  Ladie  the  Princesse 
Dulcinea  that  dazels  the  sences. 

Let's  go,  sonne  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  and  for  a 
reward  for  this  unlookt  for  good  newes,  I  bequeath  thee  the 
best  spoile  I  get  in  our  first  adventure  next,  and  if  this  con- 
tent thee  not,  I  give  thee  my  this  yeeres  Coltes  by  my  three 
Mares  thou  knowest  I  have  to  foale  in  our  towne  Common. 
The  Colts  I  like  (quoth  Sancho :)  but  for  the  goodnesse  of 
the  spoile  of  the  first  adventure  I  have  no  minde  to  that. 
By  this  they  came  out  of  the  wood,  and  saw  the  three 
Country  wenches  neere  them.  Don  Quixote  stretcht  his 
eyes,  all  over  Toboso  way,  and  seeing  none  but  the  three 
wenches,  he  was  somewhat  troubled,  and  demanded  of  Sancho, 
if  he  had  left  them  comming  out  of  the  Citie.  How,  out  of 
the  Citie  (quoth  Sancho :)  are  your  eyes  in  your  noddle,  that 
you  see  them  not  comming  here,  shining  as  bright  as  the 
Sunne  at  noone  ?  I  see  none,  said  he,  but  three  Wenches 
upon  three  Asses. 

Now  God  keepe  me  from  the  Devill  (quoth  Sancho :)  and 
is  it  possible  that  three  Hackneyes,  or  how  call  ye  um,  as 
white  as  a  flake  of  snow,  should  appeare  to  you  to  be  Asses  ? 
As  sure  as  may  be,  you  shall  pull  off  my  beard  if  that  be  so. 
Well,  I  tell  you,  friend  Sancho,  tis  as  sure  that  they  are 

78 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Hee,  or  Shee  Asses,  as  I  am  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,    CHAPTER 
and  thou  Sancho  Pansa ;  at  least  to  me  they  seeme  so. 

Peace,  sir  (quoth  Sancho)  and  say  not  so,  but  snuffe  your  How  Sancho 
eves,  and  reverence  the  Mistris  of  your  thoughts,  for  now  cunningly 
she  drawes  neere :  and  so  saving,  he  advanced  to  meet  the  *£*  ^j^,'1 
three  Countrey-wenches,  and  alighting  from  Dapple,  tooke  Dulcinea, 
one  of  their  Asses  by  the  halter,  and  fastning  both  his  knees  and  other 
to  the  ground,  sayd,  Queene,  and  Princesse,  and  Dutchesse  su<1<> 
of  beauty,  let  your  Haughtinesse  and  Greatnesse  be  pleased, 
to  receive  into  your  grace  and  good  liking,  your  captiv'd 
Knight  that  stands  yonder  turned  into  marble,  all-amazed 
and  without  his  pulse,  to  see  himselfe  before  your  Magni- 
ficent Presence.  I  am  Sancho  Pansa  his  Squire,  and  he  is 
the  Wav-lu'aten  Knight  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  other- 
w/ise  called  The  Knight  of  the  Sorrowfull  Countenance. 
I  And  now  Don  Quixote  was  on  his  knees  by  Sancho,  and 
beheld  with  unglad,  but  troubled  eyes,  her  that  Sancho 
called  Queene  and  Lady;  but  seeing  he  discovered  nothing 
in  her  but  a  Countrey-wench,  and  not  very  well-favoured, 
for  shee  was  blub-fac'd,  and  flat-nosed  ;  he  was  in  some 
siispi'iuv,  and  durst  not  once  open  his  lipy  The  wenches 
too  were  a^tonishf,  to  see  those  two  so  different  men  upon 
their  knees,  and  that  they  would  not  let  their  companion 
•joe  forward.  Hut  she  that  was  stayed,  angry  to  heare  her 
>elfe  mis-used,  broke  silence  first,  saying:  Get  you  out  of 
the  way  with  a  niischk-fe,  and  let's  be  gone,  for  wee  are  in 
haste. 

To  which  (quoth  Sancho)  Oh  Princesse  and  universall 
Lady  of  Toboso,  why  doth  not  your  magnanimous  heart 
relent,  seeing  the  Pillar  and  Prop  of  Knight  Errantry  pro- 
strated before  your  sublimated  presence  ?  Which  when  one 
of  the  other  two  heard,  after  she  had  cryed  out  to  her  Asse, 
that  was  turning  aside,  shee  said  :  Look  how  these  Yonkers 
come  to  mocke  at  poore  Countrey-folke,  as  if  wee  knew  not 
how  to  returne  their  flouts  upon  them :  get  you  gone  your 
way,  and  leave  us,  you  had  best.  Rise,  Sancho  (quoth  Don 
Quixote)  at  this  instant,  for  I  perceive  now,  that  mine  ill 
fortune,  not  satisfied,  hath  shut  up  all  the  passages  by  which 

79 


CHAPTER 
X 

How  Sancho 
cunningly 
enchanted 
the  Lady 
Dulcinea, 
and  other 
successes,  as 
ridiculous 
as  true. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

any  content  might  come  to  this  my  wretched  soule  within 
my  flesh.  Oh  thou,  the  extreme  of  all  worth  to  bee  desired, 
the  bound  of  all  humane  gentlenesse,  the  only  remedy  of 
this  mine  afflicted  heart  that  adores  thee,  now  that  the 
wicked  Enchanter  persecutes  me,  and  hath  put  clouds  and 
Cataracts  in  mine  eyes,  and  for  them  onely,  and  none  else, 
hath  transformed  and  changed  thy  peerelesse  beauty  and 
face,  into  the  face  of  a  poore  Countrey-wench,  if  so  be  now 
hee  have  not  turned  mine  too  into  some  Hobgoblin,  to 
make  it  lothsome  in  thy  sight,  look  on  mee  gently  and 
amorously,  perceiving,  by  this  submission  and  kneeling, 
which  I  use  to  thy  counterfet  beauty,  the  humility  with 
which  my  soule  adores  thee. 

Marry-muffe  (quoth  the  Countrey-wench)  I  care  much  for 
your  courtings :  Get  you  gone,  and  let  us  goe ;  and  wee  shall 
be  beholding  to  you.  Sancho  let  her  passe  by  him,  most 
glad  that  he  had  sped  so  well  with  his  device.  The 
Countrey-wench  that  played  Dulcinea's  part,  was  no  sooner 
free,  when  spurring  her  Hackney  with  a  prickle  she  had  at 
the  end  of  her  cudgell,  she  began  to  run  apace ;  and  the 
Asse  feeling  the  smart  of  it  more  then  ordinary,  began  to 
wince  so  fast,  that  downe  came  my  Lady  Dulcinea :  which 
when  Don  Quixote  saw,  hee  came  to  help  her  up,  and  Sancho 
went  to  order  and  gird  her  pack-saddle,  that  hung  at  the 
Asses  belly ;  which  being  fitted,  and  Don  Quixote  about  to 
lift  his  enchanted  Mistris  in  his  armes  to  her  Asse,  shee 
being  now  got  upon  her  legs,  saved  him  that  labour ;  for 
stepping  a  little  backe,  shee  fetcht  a  rise,  and  clapping  both 
her  hands  upon  the  Asses  crupper,  shee  lighted  as  swift 
as  an  Hawke  upon  the  pack-saddle,  and  sate  astride  like 
a  man. 

Then  sayd  Sancho:  By  Saint  Roque  our  Mistris  is  as 
light  as  a  Robin-ruddocke,  and  may  teach  the  cunningst 
Cordovan  or  Mexicanian  to  ride  on  their  Ginets:  At  one 
spring  shee  hath  leapt  over  the  crupper,  and  without  spurres 
makes  the  Hackney  run  like  a  Muske-Cat,  and  her  Damozels 
come  not  short  of  her ;  for  they  flie  like  the  winde.  And  he 
said  true :  for  when  Dulcinea  was  once  on  horse-backe,  they 

80 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

all  made  after  her,  and  set  a  running  for  two  miles,  without    CHAPTER 
looking  bchinde  tlic-in. 

Don  Quixote  still  looked  after  them,  but  when  they  were  How  Sancho 
out  of  sight,   turning  to  Sancho,    he    savd  ;    Sancho,   how  cunningly 
thinkest    thou?       How    much     Knchantcrs    doe    hate    nicer  ^  j"^, 
And  see   how  farrc  their   malice   extends,  and   their  aime  at  Duldntt, 
mee,  since  they  have  deprived  me  of  the  happinesse  I  should  and  other 
have  received,  to  have   MOM   mv  Mistris  in  her  true  being. 
Indeed  I  was  borne  to  be  an  example  of  unfortunate  men, 
to  be  the  Marke  and    Hutt,  at   which   Ill-Fortunes  arrov 
should   be  sent.      And   thou   must   note,  Sancho,  that  these 
Enchanters  were  not  content  to  have  changed  and   trans- 
formed my  Dulcinea  :   but  they  have  done  it  into  a  shape, 
so  base  and   uglv.  a->  «»f  a  Country- wench   thou  sawest,  and 
withall,  they  have   taken  from   her,  that  which   is  so  proper 
to   her  and   great    Ladies,    to   wit,   her   .sweet   sent   of  llowr 
and  Amber:    for  let  me  tell   thee,  Sancho,  that  when   I  went 
to   helpe    Dulcinea   to   her   Hackney  (which  as  thou   sayest, 
seemed  to  me  to  be  a  shee-Assc)  she  gave  me  Mich  a  breath 
of  raw  garlicke,  as  piercM  and  intoxicated  mv  braine. 

()  base  rowt,  cried  out  Sancho  instanllv.  Oh  dismall  and 
ill  minded  Knchanters.  I  would  1  might  see  you  all  strung 
up  together  like  (ialls,  or  like  Pilchers  in  sholes  :  cunning 
you  are,  much  you  can,  and  much  von  doe  :  it  had  bin 
enough  for  you,  Rascals,  to  have  turned  the  pearles  of  my 
Ladies  eve.s,  into  Corky  galls,  and  her  most  pure  golden 
haire,  into  Bristles  of  a  red  Oxes  taile,  and  finally,  all  her 
feature  from  good  to  bad,  without  medling  with  her  breath, 
for  only  by  that,  we  might  have  ghessed,  what  was  concealed 
under  that  course  rinde,  though  to  say  true,  I  never  saw  her 
coursenesse,  but  her  bcautie,  which  was  infinitely  increased 
by  a  Moale  she  had  upon  her  lippe,  like  a  Mostacho,  with 
seven  or  eight  red  haires  like  threeds  of  gold,  and  above  a 
handfull  long.  To  this  Moale  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  accord- 
ing to  the  correspondence  that  those  of  the  face  have,  with 
those  of  the  body,  shee  hath  another  in  the  Table  of  her 
thigh,  that  correspondes  to  the  side,  where  that  of  her  face 
is:  but  haires  of  that  length  thou  speakest  of,  are  verv 

3  :  L  81  ^ 


CHAPTER 
X 

How  Sancho 
cunningly 
enchanted 
the  Lady 
Dulcinea, 
and  other 
successes,  as 
ridiculous 
as  true. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

much  for  Moales.  Well,  I  can  tell  you  (quoth  Sancho)  that 
there  they  appeared,  as  if  they  had  beene  borne  with  her. 
I  beleeve  it,  friend,  replide  Don  Quixote  :  for  nature  could 
forme  nothing  in  Dulcinea  that  was  not  perfect  and  com- 
plete ;  and  so,  though  she  had  a  hundreth  Moales,  as  well 
as  that  one  thou  sawest  in  her,  they  were  not  Moales,  but 
Moones  and  bright  starres. 

But  tell  me,  Sancho,  that  which  thou  didst  set  on,  which 
seemed  to  me,  to  be  a  packe-saddle,  was  it  a  plaine  saddle, 
or  a  saddle  with  a  backe  ?  It  was  (said  Sancho)  a  Ginet 
saddle,  with  a  field  covering,  worth  halfe  a  Kingdome,  for 
the  richnesse  of  it.  And  could  not  I  see  all  this  ?  Well, 
now  I  say  againe,  and  will  say  it  a  thousand  times,  I  am  the 
unhappiest  man  alive.  The  crack-rope  Sancho  had  enough 
to  doe  to  hold  laughter,  hearing  his  Masters  madnesse,  that 
was  so  delicately  gulled. 

Finally,  after  many  other  reasons  that  passed  betwixt 

them  both,  they  gate  up  on  their  beasts,  and  held  on  the 

way  to  Saragosa,  where  they  thought  to  be  fitly,  to  see  the 

solemnities   that  are  performed  once   every  yeere  in  that 

famous   Citie.      But   before    they   came   thither,   things 

befell  them,  that  because  they  are  many,  famous  and 

strange,  they  deserve  to  be  written  and  read, 

as  shall  be  scene  here  following. 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER  XI 

Of  the  strange  Adventure  that  befell  Don 

Quixote,  with  the  Cart  or  Waggon  of 

the  Parliament  of  Death. 

ON  QUIXOTE  went  on,  wonderfull  pensa- 
tive,  to  thinke  what  a  shrewd  tricke  the 
Enchanters  had  played  him,  in  changing 
his  Mistris  Dulcinea  into  the  Rusticke 
shape  of  a  Country  Wench,  and  could 
not  imagine  what  meanes  he  might  use 
to  bring  her  to  her  Pristine  being;  and 
these  thoughts  so  distracted  him,  that 
carelesly  he  gn\v  Ko/iiuinte  the  Heines,  who  perceiving  the 
libert.ir  he  liad,  stayed  every  stitch-while  to  feede  upon  the 
greene  grasse,  of  which  those  fields  were  full;  but  Sancho 
put  him  out  of  his  Maze,  saying:  Sr.,  Sorrow  was  not 
ordained  for  beasts,  but  men  :  yet  if  men  doe  exceede  in  it, 
they  become  beasts,  pray  Sr.,  recollect  and  come  to  your 
selfe,  and  plucke  up  Ro/inantes  Reines,  revive  and  cheere 
your  selfe,  shew  the  courage  that  befits  a  Knight  Errant. 
What  a  Devil  "s  the  matter  ?  What  faintnesse  is  this  ?  are 
we  dreaming  on  a  dry  Summer  ?  Now  Satan  take  all  the 
Dulcineas  in  the  world,  since  the  well-fare  of  one  only 
Knight  Errant,  is  more  worth  then  all  the  Enchantments 
and  transformations  in  the  world. 

Peace,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  with  a  voice  now  not 
very  faint :  peace,  I  say,  and  speake  no  blasphemies  against 
that  Enchanted  Lady,  for  I  only  am  in  fault  for  her  mis- 
fortune and  unhappinesse :  her  ill  plight  springs  from  the 
en  vie  that  Enchanters  beare  me.  So  say  I  too  (quoth 
Sancho)  for  what  heart  sees  her  now,  that  saw  her  before, 
and  doth  not  deplore  ?  Thou  mayst  well  say  so,  Sancho, 
replied  Don  Quixote,  since  thou  sawest  her,  in  her  just  entire 

83 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    beautie,  and  the  Enchantment  dimmed  not  thy  sight,  nor 
concealed   her   fairenesse  :    against   me    only,  only  against 
Of  the  strange  mine  eyes  the  force  of  it's  venome  is  directed, 
^venture  gut  for  all  thatj  Sancho,  I  have  falne  upon  one  thing, 

Don  Quixote  wnicn  ^  that  thou  didst  ill  describe  her  beautie  to  me :  for 
with  the  Cart  if  I  forget  not,  thou  saydst  she  had  eyes  of  Pearles,  and  such 
or  Waggon  eyes  are  rather  the  eies  of  a  Sea-Breame  then  a  faire  Dames : 
of  the  Par-  buj.  as  j  thinke,  Dulcineas  eyes  are  like  two  greene  Emeralds 

Death1*  rared  with  two  Celestia11  Arkes,  that  serve  them  for  Eye- 

browes.  And  therefore  for  your  pearles,  take  them  from 
her  eyes,  and  put  them  to  her  teeth  :  for  doubtlesse,  Sancho, 
thou  mistook'st  eyes  for  teeth.  All  this  may  be,  said  Sancho, 
for  her  beauty  troubled  me,  as  much  as  her  foulenesse  since 
hath  done  you  ;  but  leave  we  all  to  God,  who  is  the  knower 
of  all  things  that  befall  us  in  this  Vale  of  teares,  in  this 
wicked  world,  where  there  is  scarce  any  thing  without  mix- 
ture of  mischiefe,  Impostorship,  or  villanie. 

One  thing  (Master  mine)  troubles  me  more  then  all  the 
rest ;  to  thinke  what  meanes  there  will  be,  when  you  over- 
come any  Gyant  or  other  Knight,  and  command  him  to 
present  himselfe  before  the  beautie  of  the  Lady  Dulcinea, 
where  this  poore  Gyant,  or  miserable  vanquisht  Knight  shall 
finde  her.  Me  thinkes  I  see  um  goe  staring  up  and  downe 
Toboso,  to  finde  my  Lady  Dulcinea,  and  though  they  should 
meete  her  in  the  midst  of  the  streete,  yet  they  would  no 
more  know  her  then  my  father. 

It  may  be,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  her  Enchantment 
will  not  extend  to  take  from  vanquished  and  presented 
Gyants  and  Knights,  the  knowledge  of  Dulcinea :  and 
therefore  in  one  or  two  of  the  first  I  conquer  and  send,  we 
will  make  triall,  whether  they  see  her  or  no,  commanding 
them,  that  they  returne  to  relate  unto  me  what  hath  befalne 
them. 

I  say  Sr.,  (quoth  Sancho)  I  like  what  you  have  said  very 
well,  and  by  this  device  we  shall  know  what  we  desire ;  and 
if  so  be  she  be  only  hidden  to  you,  your  misfortune  is 
beyond  hers:  but  so  my  Lady  Dulcinea  have  health  and 
content,  we  will  beare  and  passe  it  over  here  aswell  as  we 

84 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

may,  seeking  our  adventures,  and  let  time  alone,  who  is  the    CHAPTER 
best  Phisician  for  these  and  other  infirmities. 

Don  Quixote  would  have  answered  Sancho  Pansa:  but  he  Of  the  strange 
was  interrupted   by  a  waggon  that  came  crosse  the  way,  ^^befelU 
loaden  with  the  most  different  and  strange  personages  and  D*n geu|x0tej 
shapes,  that  might  be  imagined.    He  that  guided  the  Mules,  with  the  (  art 
and  served  for  Wagoner,  was  an  ugly  Devill.     The  Wagons  or  \\  a^.,n 
selfe  was  open  without  Tilt  or  Boughes.     The  first  shape  «f  the  1>;ir; 
that  presented  it  selfe  to  Don  Quixotes  eyes,  was  of  Death  * 

her  selfe,  with  a  humane  face,  and  next  her  an  Angel  with 
large  painted  wings.  On  one  side  stood  an  Emperour,  with 
a  crowne  upon  his  head,  to  see  to  of  gold.  At  Deaths  feet 
was  the  god  called  Cupid,  not  blind-folded,  but  with  his 
How,  his  quiver,  and  arrowes.  There  was  also  a  Knight 
eompleatly  Arm'd,  onlv  he  had  no  Murrion  or  headpeece, 
but  a  hat  full  of  divers  coloured  plumes :  with  these  there 
were  other  personages  of  different  fashions  and  faces. 

All  which  M-ene  on  a  smldaine,  in  some  sort  troubled  Don 
Quixote,  and  affrighted  Sancho's  heart,  but  straight  Don 
Quixote  was  jocund,  beleeving,  that  some  rare  and  dangerous 
Adventure  was  offred  unto  him,  and  with  this  thought,  and 
a  minde  disposed  to  give  the  onset  to  any  peril  1,  he  got 
himselfe  before  the  Wagon,  and  with  a  loud  and  threatning 
voice,  cried  out:  Carter,  Coach-man,  or  Devill,  or  whatso- 
eVe  thou  art,  be  not  slow  to  tell  me,  who  thou  art,  whither 
thou  goest,  and  what  people  these  are  thou  earnest  in  thv 
Cart-coach,  rather  like  Charons  boate,  then  Waggons  now 
in  use. 

To  which,  the  Devill  staying  the  Cart,  gently  replicle, 
Sr.,  we  are  Players  of  Thomas  Angulo'fl  Companie,  we  have 
playd  a  play  called  the  Parliament  nf  Death,  against  this 
Corpus  Christi  tyde,  in  a  towne  behind  the  ridge  of  yonder 
mountainc,  and  this  afternoone  we  are  to  plav  it  againe  at  the 
towne  you  see  before  us,  which  because  it  is  so  neere,  to  save 
a  labour  of  new  attiring  us,  we  goe  in  the  same  cloathes  in 
which  we  are  to  Act.  That  yong  man  playes  Death  :  that 
other  an  An^el  :  that  woman  our  Authors  wife,  the  Queene, 
.1  fourth  there,  a  Souldier,  a  fift  the  Kmperour,  and  I  the 

85 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    Devill,  which  is  one  of  the  chiefest  Actors  in  the  play,  for 

X!          I  have  the  best  part.     If  you  desire  to  know  any  thing 

Of  the  strange  else  of  us,  aske  me,  and  I  shall  answer  you  most  punctually, 

Adventure       for  as  I  am  a  Devill,  nothing  is  unknowne  to  me. 

Doan  Quixote,     W  the  faith  of  a  Anight  Errant  (said  Don  Quixote)  as 

with  the  Cart  soone  as  ever  I  saw  this  Waggon,  I  imagined  some  strange 

or  Waggon      Adventure  towards,  and  now  I  say  it  is  fit   to  be  fully 

of  the  Par-       satisfied  of  these  apparitions,  by  touching  them  with  our 

DeTtlT*  hands./  God  be  with  you,  honest  people :  Act  your  play, 

and  see  whether  you  will  command  any  thing  wherein  I 

may  be  serviceable  to  you,  for  I  will  be  so  most  cheerefully 

and  willingly :  for  since  I  was  a  boy,  I  have  loved  Maske- 

shewes,  and  in  my  youth,  I  have  beene  ravished  with  Stage- 

playes. 

Whilst  they  were  thus  discoursing,  it  fell  out,  that  one  of 
the  company  came  toward  them,  clad  for  the  Foole  in  the 
Play,  with  Morrice-bels,  and  at  the  end  of  sticke,  he  had 
three  Cowes  bladders  full-blowne,  who  thus  masked,  running 
toward  Don  Quixote,  began  to  fence  with  his  cudgell,  and 
to  thwacke  the  bladders  upon  the  ground,  and  to  friske 
with  his  bels  in  the  aire :  which  dreadfull  sight  so  troubled 
Rozinante,  that  Don  Quixote  not  able  to  hold  him  in  (for 
hee  had  gotten  the  bridle  betwixt  his  teeth)  he  fell  a  running 
up  and  down  the  field,  much  swifter  then  his  anatomized 
bones  made  shew  for. 

Sancho,  that  considered  in  what  danger  of  being  throwne 
downe  his  Master  might  bee,  leapt  from  Dapple,  and  with 
all  speed  ran  to  help  him ;  but  by  that  time  he  came  to 
him,  he  was  upon  the  ground,  and  Rozinante  by  him,  for 
they  both  tumbled  together.  This  was  the  common  passe 
Rozinantes  trickes  and  boldnesse  came  to.  But  no  sooner 
had  Sancho  left  his  horseback-ship  to  come  to  Don  Quixote, 
when  the  damning  Devill  with  the  bladders  leapt  on  Dapple, 
and  clapping  him  with  them,  the  feare  and  noyse,  more  then 
the  blowes,  made  him  fly  thorow  the  field,  towards  the  place 
where  they  were  to  play.  Sancho  beheld  Dapples  careere 
and  his  Masters  fall,  and  knew  not  to  which  of  the  ill 
chances  hee  might  first  repaire  :  But  yet  like  a  good  Squire 
86 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

and  faithfull  servant,  his  Masters  love  prevailed  more  with    CHAPTER 
him,  then  the  cockering  of  his  Asse :  though  every  hoyst-  * ' 

ing  of  the  bladders,  and  falling  on  Dapples  buttocks,  were  Of  the  strange 
to  him  trances  and  tydings  of  death,  and  rather  had  hee  Adventure 
those  blowes  had  lighted  on  his  eye-bals,  then  on  the  least  i^nQuixoto, 
haire  of  his  Asses  tailc.  with  UK- Cart 

In  this  perplexity  hee  came  to  Don  Quixote,  who  was  in  or  Wa^on 
a  great  deale  worse  plight  then  he  was  willing  to  see  him :  ot  tlu>  1>ar~ 
and  helping  him  on  Ro/inante,  sayd  ;  Sir,  the  Devill  hath 
carried  away  Dapple.  What  Devill  (quoth  Don  Quixote)? 
Hee  with  the  bladders,  replied  Sancho.  Well,  I  will  recover 
him  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  though  he  should  locke  him  up 
with  him  in  the  darkest  and  deepest  dungeons  of  Hell : 
Follow  me,  Sancho,  for  the  waggon  goes  but  slowly,  and  the 
Mules  shall  satisfie  Dapples  losse.  There  is  no  neede  (sayd 
Sancho  :)  temper  your  choller,  for  now  I  see  the  Devill  hath 
left  Dapple,  and  hee  returnes  to  his  home,  and  he  sayd  true, 
for  the  Devill  having  falne  with  Dapple,  to  imitate  Don 
Quixote  and  Rozinante,  he  went  on  foot  to  the  towne,  and 
the  Asse  came  backe  to  his  Master. 

1  \>r  all  that  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  it  were  fit  to  take  revenge 
of  the  Devils  unmannerlinesse  upon  some  of  those  in  the 
waggon,  even  of  the  Emperour  himselfe.  Oh  never  thinke 
of  any  such  matter  (sayd  Sancho)  and  take  my  counsell, 
that  is,  never  to  meddle  with  Players,  for  they  are  a  people 
mightily  beloved :  I  have  knowne  one  of  um  in  prison  for 
two  murders,  and  yet  scap'd  Scot-free :  Know  this,  Sir, 
that  as  they  are  merry  loviall  Lads,  all  men  love,  esteeme, 
and  helpe  them,  especially  if  they  be  the  Kings  Player-, 
and  all  of  them  in  their  fashion  and  garbe  are  Gentle- 
man-like. 

For  all  that  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  the  Devill-Player  shall 
not  scape  from  me  and  brag  of  it,  though  all  mankind  help 
him :  and  so  saying,  he  gat  to  the  waggon,  that  was  now 
somewhat  neere  the  towne,  and  crying  aloud,  sayd ;  Hold, 
stay,  merry  Greekes,  for  He  make  yee  know  what  belongs 
to  the  Asses  and  furniture,  belonging  to  the  Squires  of 
Knights  Errant.  Don  Quixotes  noyse  was  such,  that  those 

87 


CHAPTER 
XI 

Of  the  strange 
Adventure 
that  befell 
Don  Quixote, 
with  the  Cart 
or  Waggon 
of  the  Par- 
liament of 
Death. 


^Meaning 
the  stones. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

of  the  waggon  heard  it,  and  ghessing  at  his  intention  by 
his  speeches,  in  an  instant  Mistris  Death  leapt  out  of  the 
waggon,  and  after  her  the  Emperor,  the  Devill- Waggoner, 
and  the  Angell,  and  the  Queene  too  with  little  Cupid,  all 
of  them  were  straight  loaded  with  stones,  and  put  them- 
selves in  order,  expecting  Don  Quixote  with  their  Peebles 
poynts. 

Don  Quixote,  that  saw  them  in  so  gallant  a  Squadron, 
ready  to  discharge  strongly  their  stones,  held  in  Rozinantes 
reines,  and  began  to  consider  how  he  should  set  upon  them, 
with  least  hazard  to  his  person.  Whilst  he  thus  stayd, 
Sancho  came  to  him,  and  seeing  him  ready  to  give  the 
on-set,  sayd ;  Tis  a  meere  madnesse,  Sir,  to  attempt  this 
enterprise:  I  pray  consider,  that  for  your  *  river-sops,  there 
are  no  defensive  weapons  in  the  world,  but  to  be  shut 
up  and  inlay d  under  a  brazen- bell :  and  consider  likewise, 
tis  rather  rashness  then  valour,  for  one  man  alone  to  set 
upon  an  Army,  wherein  Death  is,  and  where  Emperors 
fight  in  person,  and  where  good  and  bad  Angels  help : 
and  if  the  consideration  of  this  be  not  sufficient,  may  this 
moove  you  to  know,  that  amongst  all  these  (though  they 
seeme  to  be  Kings,  Princes  and  Emperours)  there  is  no 
Knight  Errant. 

Thou  hast  hit  upon  the  right,  Sancho  (sayd  Don  Quixote) 
the  very  poynt  that  may  alter  my  determination :  I  neither 
can  nor  must  draw  my  sword,  as  I  have  often  told  thee, 
against  any  that  be  not  Knights  Errant.  It  concernes 
thee,  Sancho,  if  thou  meanest  to  bee  revenged  for  the  wrong 
done  thine  Asse,  and  He  encourage  thee,  and  from  hence 
give  thee  wholesome  instructions.  There  needs  no  being 
revenged  of  any  body  (said  Sancho)  for  there  is  no  Chris- 
tianity in  it ;  besides,  mine  Asse  shall  be  contented  to  put 
his  cause  to  me,  and  to  my  will,  which  is,  to  live  quietly  as 
long  as  Heaven  shall  afford  me  life. 

Since  this  is  thy  determination  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  honest, 
wise,  discreet,  Christian-like,  pure  Sancho,  let  us  leave  these 
dreams,  and  seek  other  better  and  more  reall  adventures : 
for  I  see,  this  Countrey  is  like  to  afford  us  many  miraculous 

88 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

ones.     So  he  turned  Rozinantes  reines,  and  Sancho  tooke    CHAPTER 
his   Dapple,  Death  with  all  the  flying  Squadron  returned 
to  the  wagon,  and  went  on  their  voyage:   And  this  was  Of  the  strange 
the  happy  end  of  the  wagon  of  Deaths  adventure :  thankes  ^dve^lt)l!if 
to  the  good  advice  that  Sancho  Pansa  gave  his  Master :     D  *n  Qeufxote 
to  whom  there  happened  the  day  after  another  Ad-         etc. 
venture,  no  lesse  pleasant,  with  an  enamoured 
Knight  Errant  as  well  as  he. 


CHAPTER    XII 

Of  the  rare  Adventure  that  befell  Don  Quixote, 
with  the  Knight  of  the  Looking-Glasses. 

ON  QUIXOTE  and  his  Squire  passed  the 
ensuing  night,  after  their  Deaths  en- 
eounter,  under  certaine  high  and  shadie 
trees, Don  Quixote  having  first(l>ySancho's 
entreaty)  eaten  somewhat  of  tin-  Provision 
that  came  upon  Dapple,  and  as  they  were 
at  supper,  Sancho  sayd  to  his  Master ;  Sir, 
what  an  Asse  had  I  beene,  had  I  chosen 
for  a  reward,  the  spoyles  of  the  first  adventure  which  you 
might  end,  rather  then  the  breede  of  the  three  Mares  ? 
Indeed,  indeed,  a  bird  in  the  hand  is  better  then  two  in 
the  bush. 

For  all  that  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  if  thou,  Sancho,  hadst 
let  me  give  the  on-set  (as  I  desired)  thou  hadst  had  to  thy 
share,  at  least,  the  Empress  golden  crowne,  and  Cupids 
painted  wings,  for  I  haa  taken  um  away  against  the  haire, 
and  given  um  tluv.  Your  Players  scepters  and  Emperours 
erou  nes  (sayd  Sancho)  are  never  of  pure  golde,  but  leafe  and 
Tinne. 

Tis  true  (answered  Don  Quixote)  for  it  is  very  necessary, 
that  your  Play-ornaments  bee  not  fine,  but  counterfet  and 
3  :  M  89 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    seeming,  as  the  Play  it  selfe  is,  which  I  would  have  thee, 

Sancho,  to  esteeme  of,  and  consequently  the  Actors  too,  and 

Of  the  rare      the  Authors,  because  they  are  the  Instruments  of  much  good 

Adventure       ^o  a  Commonwealth,  being  like  Looking-glasses,  where  the 

,    actions  of  humane  life  are  lively  represented,  and  there  is  no 

LSUll  \<£ ULXUtCj  .  ,  ,         ,  •> -  - 

with  the  comparison,  that  doth  more  truely  present  to  us,  what  we  are, 

Knight  of        or  what  we  should  be,  then  the  Comedy  and  Comedians  :  If 

the  Looking-    no^  tell  mee,  hast  not  thou  seene  a  Play  acted,  where  Kings, 

Emperours,  Bishops,  Knights,  Dames,  and  other  personages 

are  introduced  ?    One  playes  a  Ruffian,  another  the  Cheater, 

this   a   Merchant,  t'other  a   Souldier,  one  a  crafty  Foole, 

another  a  foolish  Lover :  And  the  Comedy  ended,  and  the 

apparrell  taken  away,  all  the  rehearsers  are  the  same  they 

were. 

Yes  marry  have  I,  quoth  Sancho.  Why,  the  same  thing 
(sayd  Don  Quixote)  happens  in  the  Comedy  and  Theater  of 
this  world, where  some  play  the  Emperours,  other  the  Bishops; 
and  lastly,  all  the  parts  that  may  be  in  a  Comedy :  but  in  the 
end,  that  is,  the  end  of  our  life,  Death  takes  away  all  the 
robes  that  made  them  differ,  and  at  their  buriall  they  are 
equall.  A  brave  comparison  (quoth  Sancho)  but  not  so 
strange  to  me,  that  have  heard  it  often,  as  that  of  the  Chesse- 
play,  that  while  the  game  lasts,  every  Peere  hath  it's  par- 
ticular motion,  and  the  game  ended,  all  are  mingled  and 
shuffled  together,  and  cast  into  a  lethern  bag,  which  is  a 
kinde  of  buriall. 

Every  day,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  thou  growest 
wiser  and  wiser.  It  must  needs  bee  (sayd  Sancho)  that  some 
of  your  wisdome  must  cleave  to  me ;  for  grounds  that  are 
dry  and  barren,  by  mucking  and  tilling  them,  give  good  fruit: 
I  meane,  your  conversation  hath  beene  the  mucke,  that  hath 
beene  cast  upon  the  sterill  ground  of  my  barren  wit ;  and 
the  time  that  I  have  served  you,  the  tillage,  with  which  I 
hope  to  render  happy  fruit,  and  such  as  may  not  gaine-say 
or  slide  out  of  the  paths  of  good  manners,  which  you  have 
made  in  my  withered  understanding. 

Don  Quixote  laughed  at  Sancho's  affected  reasons,  and  it 
seemed  true  to  him,  what  hee  had  sayd  touching  his  reforma- 
90 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

tion  :  for  now  and  then  his  talke  admired  him,  although  for    CHAPTER 
the  most  part,  when  Sancho  spoke  by  way  of  contradiction, 
or  like  a  Courtier,  he  ended   his  discourse  with  a  downefall,  Of  tin-  i 
from  the  mount  of  his  simplicity,  to  the  profundity  of  his  ^J^SX? 
ignorance:    but   that,    wherein    he    shewed    himselfe   most  Don  (JuLxote 
elegant  and  memorable,  was  in   urging  of  Proverbs,  though  with  the 
they  were  never  so  much  aguinst  the  haire  of  the  present  Knight  of 
businesse,  as  hath  been  scene,  and  noted  in  all  this  History.    tfie  ^'" 

A  great  part  of  the  night  they  passed  in  these  and  such 
like  discourses,  but  Sancho  had  a  great  desire  to  let  fall  the 
Pott-cullices (as  lie  called  them)  of  his  eyes, and  sleepe  ;  and 
so  undressing  his  Dapple,  he  turned  him  freely  to  graze: 
with  Rozinantes  saddle  lie  medled  not,  for  it  was  his  Masters 
exprcsse  command,  that  whilst  they  were  in  field,  or  slept  not 
within  doores.  hee  should  not  unsaddle  him,  it  being  an 
ancient  cu>tome  observed  by  Knights  Errant,  to  take  the 
bridle  and  hang  it  at  the  saddle-pummell  :  but  beware  taking 
a\vay  the  saddle,  which  Sancho  observed,  and  gave  him  the 
same  liberty,  as  to  his  Dapple,  whose  friendship  and  Ho/in- 
antes  was  so  sole  and  united,  that  the  report  goes  by  tradition 
from  father  to  sonne,  that  the  Author  of  this  true  History 
made  particular  chapters  of  it,  onely  to  keepe  the  decency 
and  decorum  due  to  so  heroike  a  Story:  he  omitted  it, 
although  sometimes  he  forgets  his  purpose  herein,  and  writ> 
that  as  the  two  beasts  were  together,  they  would  scratch  one 
another,  and  being  wearied  and  satisfied,  Ho/inante  would 
crosse  his  throte  over  Dapples  necke,  at  least  halfe  a  yard  over 
the  other  side  :  and  both  of  them  looking  wistly  on  the 
ground,  they  would  stand  thus  three  dayes  together,  at  least 
as  long  as  they  were  let  alone,  or  that  hunger  compelled  them 
not  to  looke  after  their  provander. 

Tis  sayd  (I  say)  that  the  Author  in  his  Story,  compared 
them  in  their  friendship,  to  Nisus  and  Eurialus,  to  Pilades 
and  Orestes,  which,  if  it  were  so,  it  may  be  scene  (to  the 
generall  admiration)  how  firme  and  stedfast  the  friendship 
was  of  these  two  pacificke  beasts,  to  the  shame  of  men,  that 
so  ill  know  the  rules  of  friendship  one  to  another.  For  this, 
it  was  sayd,  No  falling  out,  like  to  that  of  friends.  And  let 

91 


CHAPTER 
XII 

Of  the  rare 
Adventure 
that  befell 
Don  Quixote, 
with  the 
Knight  of 
the  Looking- 
Glasses. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

no  man  think  the  Author  was  unreasonable,  in  having  com- 
pared the  friendship  of  these  beasts,  to  the  friendship  of  men ; 
for  men  have  received  many  Items  from  beasts,  and  learnt 
many  things  of  importance,  as  the  Storks  dung,  the  Dogs 
vomit  and  faithfulnesse,  the  Cranes  watchfulnesse,  the  Ants 
providence,  the  Elephants  honesty,  and  the  Horse  his  loyalty. 

At  length  Sancho  fell  fast  asleepe  at  the  foote  of  a  Cork- 
tree, and  Don  Quixote  reposed  himselfe  under  an  Oke.  But 
not  long  after,  a  noise  behind  wakned  him,  and  rising  sud- 
dainly,  he  looked  and  hearkned  from  whence  the  noise  came, 
and  he  saw  two  men  on  horsebacke,  and  the  one  tumbling 
from  his  saddle,  said  to  the  other ;  Alight,  friend,  and  un- 
bridle our  horses,  for  me  thinkes  this  place  hath  pasture 
enough  for  them,  and  befits  the  silence  and  solitude  of  my 
amorous  thoughts  :  thus  he  spoke,  and  stretcht  himselfe 
upon  the  ground  in  an  instant,  but  casting  himselfe  down, 
his  Armour  wherwith  he  was  armed,  made  a  noise  :  a  mani- 
fest token  that  made  Don  Quixote,  thinke  hee  was  some 
Knight  Errant,  and  comming  to  Sancho,  who  was  fast  asleepe, 
hee  pluck't  him  by  the  Arme,  and  tolde  him  softly.  Brother 
Sancho,  wee  have  an  Adventure.  God  grant  it  bee  good 
(quoth  Sancho  :)  and  where  is  this  Masters  Adventures  Wor- 
ship ?  Where,  Sancho,  replide  Don  Quixote,  looke  on  one 
side,  looke,  and  there  thou  shalt  see  a  Knight  Errant  stretcht, 
who  (as  it  appeares  to  me)  is  not  overmuch  joyed,  for  I  saw 
him  cast  himselfe  from  his  horse,  and  stretch  on  the  ground, 
with  some  shewes  of  griefe,  and  as  he  fell,  he  crossed  his 
Armes.  Why,  in  what  doe  you  perceive  that  this  is  an  Adven- 
ture (quoth  Sancho)  ?  I  will  not  say  (answered  Don  Quixote) 
that  this  is  altogether  an  Adventure,  but  an  introduction  to 
it,  for  thus  Adventures  begin. 

But  harke,  it  seemes  he  is  tuning  a  Lute,  or  Viall,  and  by 
his  spitting  and  cleering  his  brest,  he  prepares  himselfe  to 
sing.  In  good  faith  you  say  right  (quoth  Sancho)  and  tis 
some  enamoured  Knight.  There  is  no  Knight  Errant  (said 
Don  Quixote)  that  is  not  so  :  let  us  give  eare,  and  by  the 
circumstance,  we  shall  search  the  Laberynth  of  his  thoughts, 
if  so  be  he  sing,  for  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart,  the 

92 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

tongue  spcakcth.  Sancho  would  have  replied  to  his  Master : 
But  the  Knight  of  the  woods  voice  (which  was  but  so  so) 
hindered  him,  and  whilst  the  two  were  astonisht,  he  sung  as 
followeth. 

Sonet. 

IVrniit  nif,  Mi>tris,  that  I  follow  may 

Tlii-  Imuml,  out  out  just  to  your  hearts  desire  : 
To  the  which,  in  mint'  1  shall  esteeme  for  aye, 

So  that  1  never  from  it  will  retire. 
If  you  he  pleas'd,  my  griefe  (I  silent)  stay, 

And  die  make  reekning  that  I  straight  expire, 
If  I  may  tell  it  you  ;    the  unusuall  way 

1  will,  and  make  loves  selt'e  he  my  supplier, 
l-'a-hion'd  1  am  to  proofe  of  contrar 

As  soft  as  \\a.\e.  a-  hard  as  Diamond  too, 
And  to  Loves  laues.  my  smile  her  selt'e  applies, 

Or  hard,  or  >oft,  my  hrest  I  oH'er  you 
ven,  imprint  in 't  what  your  pleasure 
v  it  never" to  forgoe. 

With  a  deep-fetcht,  heigh,  ho  :  even  from  the  bottome  of 
his  In-art,  the  Knight  of  the  wood  ended  his  song  :  and  after 
sonic  pause,  with  a  grieved  and  sorrowfull  voice  uttered  these 
words  :  Oh  the  fairest  and  most  ungratefull  woman  in  the 
world.  And  shall  it  be  possible,  most  excellent  Casildea  de 
Yandalia,  that  thou  suffer  this  thy  captive  Knight  to  pine 
and  perish,  with  continuall  peregrinations,  with  hard  and 
painefull  labours  ?  Sufliceth  not,  that  I  have  made  all  the 
Knights  of  Navarre,  of  Leon,  all  the  Tartesians,  all  the  Cas- 
tillians  confesse  thee  to  be  the  fairest  Lady  of  the  world  ?  I, 
and  all  the  Knights  of  Mancha  too  ?  Not  so,  (quoth  Don 
Quixote  straight)  for  I  am  of  the  Mancha,  but  never  yeelded 
to  that,  for  I  neither  could  nor  ought  confesse  a  thing  so  pre- 
judiciall  to  the  beautie  of  my  Mistris:  and  thou  seest,  Sancho, 
how  much  this  Knight  is  wide  :  but  let  us  heare  him,  it  may 
he,  he  will  unfold  himselfe  more.  Marry  will  he  (quoth 
Sancho)  for  he  talkes,  as  if  he  would  lament  a  moneth  to- 
gether. But  it  fell  out  otherwise;  for  the  Knight  of  the 
wood,  having  over-heard  that  they  talked  somewhat  neere 


CHAPTER 

XII 

Of  the  rare 
Adventure 
that  befell 
Don  Quixote, 
with  the 
Knight  of 
the  Looking- 
glasses. 


CHAPTER 
XII 

Of  the  rare 
Adventure 
that  befell 
Don  Quixote, 
with  the 
Knight  of 
the  Looking- 
Glasses. 


*Sereno,  the 
night-dew 
that  falles. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

him,  ceasing  his  complaints,  he  stood  up,  and  with  a  cleere, 
but  familiar  voice  thus  spake,  Who 's  there,  who  is  it  ?  Is 
it  haply  some  of  the  number  of  the  contented,  or  of  the 
afflicted  ?  Of  the  afflicted  (answered  Don  Quixote.)  Come 
to  me  then  (said  he  of  the  wood)  and  make  account,  you  come 
to  sadnesse  it  selfe,  and  to  afflictions  selfe.  Don  Quixote, 
when  he  saw  himselfe  answered  so  tenderly,  and  so  modestly, 
drew  neere,  and  Sancho  likewise.  The  wailefull  Knight  laid 
hold  on  Don  Quixotes  arme,  saying,  Sit  downe,  Sr.  Knight : 
for  to  know  that  you  are  so,  and  one  that  professeth  Knight 
Errantrie,  it  is  enough  that  I  have  found  you  in  this  place, 
where  solitarines,  and  the  *Sereno  beare  you  companie,  the 
naturall  beds,  and  proper  beings  for  Knights  Errant. 

To  which  Don  Quixote  replide,  A  Knight  I  am,  and  of  the 
profession  you  speake  of,  and  though  disgraces,  misfortunes, 
and  sorrowes  have  their  proper  seate  in  my  minde  :  notwith- 
standing, the  compassion  I  have  to  other  mens  griefs,  hath 
not  left  it :  by  your  complaints  I  ghesse  you  are  enamoured, 
I  meane,  that  you  love  that  ungratefull  faire  one,  mentioned 
in  your  laments.  Whilst  they  were  thus  discoursing,  they 
sat  together  lovingly  upon  the  cold  ground,  as  if  by  day- 
breake,  their  heads  also  would  not  breake. 

The  Knight  of  the  wood  demanded,  Are  you  happily 
enamoured,  Sr.  Knight  ?  Unhappily  I  am  (quoth  Don 
Quixote)  although  the  unhappines  that  ariseth  from  wel- 
placed  thoughts,  ought  rather  to  be  estemed  a  happinesse 
then  otherwise.  True  it  is  (replide  he  of  the  wood)  if  dis- 
daines  did  not  vexe  our  reason  and  understanding,  which 
being  unmercifull,  come  neerer  to  revenge.  I  was  never 
(said  Don  Quixote)  disdained  of  my  Mistris.  No  indeed 
(quoth  Sancho)  who  was  neere  them  :  for  my  Lady  is  as 
gentle  as  a  lambe,  and  as  soft  as  butter.  Is  this  your  Squire 
(said  he  of  the  wood)  ?  He  is  (said  Don  Quixote.)  I  neVe 
saw  Squire  (replide  he  of  the  wood)  that  durst  prate  so  boldly 
before  his  Master,  at  least  yonder  is  mine,  as  bigge  as  his 
father,  and  I  can  proove  he  never  unfolded  his  lippes,  when- 
soever I  spake. 

Well  yfaith  (quoth  Sancho)  I  have  spoken,  and  may  speake 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

before,  as,  and  perhaps  :  but  let  it  alone,  the  more  it  is  stirred,    CHAPTER 
the   more   it  will  stinke.     The  Squire  of  the  wood  tooke          XI1 
Sancho  by  the  hand,  saying :  Let  us  goe  and  talke  what  we  Of  the  ran- 
list  Squirelike,  and  let  us  leave  these  our  Masters,  Let  them 
fall  from  their  laumvs  ami  tell  of  their  Loves  :  for  I  warrant 
you,  the  morning  wil  overtake  them,  before  they  have  done.  etc. 
A  Gods  name  (quoth  Sancho)  and  He  tell  you  who  I  am,  that 
you  may  see  whether  I  may  be  admitted  into  the  number  of 
your  talking  Squires.     So  the  two  Squires  went  apart, 
betweene  whom  there  passed  as  wittie  a  Dialogue, 
as  their  Masters  was  serious. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

Where  the  Adventure  of  the  Knight  of  the  Wood 

is  prosecuted,   with   the  discreete,  rare,  and 

sweete  Coloquie,  that  passed  betwixt 

the  two  Squires. 

IHE  Knights  and  their  Squires  weredevided; 
these  tolling  their  lives,  they  their  loves: 
and  thus  sayth  the  Stone,  that  the  Squire 
of  the  wood  said  to  Sancho,  It  is  a  cum- 
bersome life  that  we  leade,  Sr.,  we,  I  say, 
that  are  Squires  to  Knights  Errant :  for 
truly  we  eate  our  bread  with  the  sweat  of 
our  browes,  which  is  one  of  the  curses, 
that  God  laid  upon  our  first  parents.  You  may  say  also 
(added  Sancho)  that  we  eate  it  in  the  frost  of  our  bodies  : 
for  who  endure  more  heates  and  colds,  then  your  miserable 
Squires  to  Knights  Errant  ?  and  yet  not  so  bad  if  we  might 
eate  at  all,  for  good  fare  lessens  care  :  but  sometimes  it 
happens,  that  we  are  two  daies  without  eating,  except  it  be 
the  ayre  that  blowes  on  us.  All  this  may  be  borne  (quoth 

95 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  he  of  the  wood)  with  the  hope  we  have  of  reward  :  for  if  the 
XI11  Knight  Errant  whom  a  Squire  serves,  be  not  too  unfortunate, 
Where  the  he  shall,  with  a  little  good  hap,  see  himselfe  rewarded  with 
Adventure  of  £}ie  government  of  some  Island,  or  with  a  reasonable  Earle- 
the  Wood  is  dome-  l  (said  Sancho)  have  often  told  my  Master,  that  I 
prosecuted,  would  content  my  selfe  with  the  government  of  any  Island, 
with  the  dis-  and  he  is  so  Noble  and  Liberall,  that  he  hath  often  promised 
creete,  rare,  ft  me<  I  (said  he  of  the  Wood)  for  my  services  would  be 
Colo8  uie^that  satisfied>  witn  some  Canonrie,  which  my  Master  too  hath 
passedUbe-  **  promised  me. 

twixt  the  two       Your  Master  indeed  (said  Sancho)  belike  is  an  Ecclesiasti- 
Squires.  call  Knight,  and  may  doe  his  good  Squires  these  kindnesses: 

but  my  Master  is  meerely  Lay,  though  I  remember,  that 
some  persons  of  good  discretion  (though  out  of  bad  inten- 
tion) counselled  him,  that  he  should  be  an  Archbishop: 
which  he  would  not  be,  but  an  Emperour :  and  I  was  in  a 
bodily  feare,  lest  he  might  have  a  minde  to  the  Church,  be- 
cause I  held  my  selfe  uncapable  of  benefits  by  it :  for  let  me 
tell  you,  though  to  you  I  seeme  a  man,  yet  in  Church  matters 
I  am  a  very  beast.  Indeed,  Sr.,  (said  he  of  the  Wood) 
You  are  in  the  wrong :  for  your  Hand-Governments  are  not 
al  so  special,  but  that  some  are  crabbed,  some  poore,  some 
distastefull ;  and  lastly,  the  stateliest  and  best  of  all  brings 
with  it  a  heavy  burden  of  cares  and  inconveniences,  which 
hee  (to  whom  it  falls  to  his  lot)  undergoes.  Farre  better 
it  were,  that  we,  who  professe  this  cursed  slavery,  retire 
home,  and  there  entertaine  ourselves  with  more  delightfull 
exercises,  to  wit,  hunting  and  fishing  ;  for  what  Squire  is 
there  in  the  world  so  poore,  that  wants  his  Nag,  his  brace 
of  Grey-hounds,  or  his  Angle-rod,  to  passe  his  time  with,  at 
his  Village  ? 

I  want  none  of  this  (sayd  Sancho  :)  true  it  is,  I  have 
no  Nag,  but  I  have  an  Asse  worth  two  of  my  Masters 
Horse :  An  ill  Christmas  God  send  mee,  (and  let  it  be  the 
next  ensuing)  if  I  would  change  for  him,  though  I  had  foure 
bushels  of  barley  to  boot :  you  laugh  at  the  price  of  my 
Dapple,  for  dapple  is  the  colour  of  mine  Asse  :  well,  Grey- 
hounds I  shall  not  want  neither,  there  being  enow  to  spare 
96 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

in  our  towne;  besides,  the  sport  is  best  at  another  mans    CHAPTER 
charge.  Mil 

Indeed,  indeed,  Sr.  Squire  (sayd  he  of  the  Wood)  I  have  Where  the 
proposed  and  determined  with  my  sclfe,  to  leave  these  be/el-  Adventwre  <»t 
ings  of  these  Knights,  and  returne  to  my  Village,  and  bring  ™J  (voSd  ^ 
up  my  children,  for  I  have  three,  like  three  Orient-pearles.  prosecuted, 
Tuo  have  I  (sayd  Sancho)  that  may  bee  presented  to  the  Pope  with  tin- 
in  person,  especially  one,  a  wench,  which  I  bring  up  to  bee  creete,  i 
a  Countesse  (God  we  her)  although  it  grieve  her  mother.  "I",1  MV?ete 
And  how  olde  (asked  he  of  the  Wood)  is  this  Lady-Coun-  JESS'S. 
tesse  that  you  bring  up  so  ?  t\\  i.\t  the  two 

Fifteene,  somewhat  under  or  over  (sayd  Sancho)  hut  she  is  Squires, 
as  long  as  a  lance,  and  as  fresh  as  an  Aprill- morning,  and  as 
sturdy  as  a  Porter.  These  are  parts  (sayd  he  of  the  Woe  >d )  not 
onely  for  her  to  be  a  Countesse,  but  a  Nymph  of  the  Greeny 
Grove:  Ah  whoreson,  whore,  and  what  a  sting  the  Queane 
hath  ?  To  which  (quoth  Sancho  somewhat  mustv)  Shee  is  no 
whore,  neither  was  her  mother  before  her,  and  none  of  them 
(God  willing)  shall  be,  as  long  as  I  live:  and  I  prav,  Sir,  speake 
more  mannerly:  for  these  speeches  are  not  consonant  from  you, 
that  have  becne  brought  up  amongst  Knights  Krrant,"  the 
flowers  of  courtesie.  Oh  (sayd  he  of  the  Wood)Sr.  Squire,  how 
you  mistake,  and  how  little  you  know  what  belongs  to  prais- 
ing: what?  haveyee  never  observed,  that  when  any  Knight  in 
the  market-place  gives  the  Bui  a  sure  thrust  with  his  Ian 
or  when  any  body  doth  a  thing  well,  the  common  people 
use  to  say;  Ah  whoreson  whoremaster,  how  bravely  he  did 
it?  so  that,  that  which  seemes  to  be  a  dispraise,  in  that 
sence  is  a  notable  commendation,  and  renounce  you  those 
sonnes  and  daughters,  that  doe  not  the  workes,  that  may 
make  their  parents  deserve  such  like  praises.  I  doe  re- 
nounce (sayd  Sancho)  and  if  you  meant  no  otherwise ;  I 
pray  you  clap  a  whole  whore-house  at  once  upon  my  wife 
and  children ;  for  all  they  doe  or  say,  are  extremes  worthy 
of  such  praises,  and  so  I  may  see  them,  God  deliver  me 
out  of  this  mortall  sinne,  that  is,  out  of  this  dangerous 
profession  of  being  a  Squire,  into  which  I  have  this  second 
time  incurred,  being  inticed  and  deceived  with  the  purse 

3  :  N  97 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    of  the  hundred  duckats,  which  I  found   one   day  in  the 

heart  of  Sierra  Morena,  and  the  Devill  cast  that  bag  of 

Where  the       Pistolets  before  mine  eyes:  (me  thinkes)  every  foot  I  touch 

Adventure  of  ^  hugge  it,  and  carry  it  to  mine  house,  set  leases,  and 

the  Wood  is  rents>  and  live  like  a  Pi>ince>  and  sti11  when  l  thinke  of  this> 

prosecuted,  all  the  toyle  that  I  passe  with  this  Block-head  my  Master, 

with  the  dis-  seems  easie  and  tolerable  to  me,  who  (I  know)  is  more  mad- 

creete,  rare,  man  then  Knight. 

and  sweete  Heereupon  (sayd  he  of  the  Wood)  it  is  sayd ;  that,  <  All 

Coloquie,that  ..  \       r    1    j  ,    n         /»         j  T  ,1  •   i 

passed  be-        covet,  all  lose   :  And  now  you  talke  ot  mad-men,  I  thinke, 

twixt  the  two    my  Master  is  the  greatest  in  the  world,  he  is  one  of  them 
Squires.  that  cries,  'Hang  sorrow';  and  that  another  Knight  may 

recover  his  wits,  hee'l  make  himselfe  mad,  and  will  seeke 
after  that,  which  perhaps  once  found,  will  tumble  him  upon 
his  snowt.  And  is  hee  amorous  haply  ?  Yes  (sayd  hee  of 
the  Wood)  hee  loves  one  Casildea  de  Vandalia,  the  most 
raw  and  most  rosted  Lady  in  the  world ;  but  she  halts  not 
on  that  foot  of  her  rawnesse,  for  other  manner  of  impos- 
tures doe  grunt  in  those  entrailes  of  hers,  which  ere  long  will 
be  knowne. 

There  is  no  way  so  plaine  (quoth  Sancho)  that  hath 
not  some  rubbe,  or  pit,  or  as  the  Proverbe  goes,  In  some 
houses  they  seethe  beanes,  and  in  mine  whole  kettles  full. 
So  madnesse  hath  more  companions,  and  more  needie  ones 
then  wisedome.  But  if  that  which  is  commonly  spoken  be 
true,  that  to  have  companions  in  misery  is  a  lightner  of  it, 
you  may  comfort  me,  that  serve  as  sottish  a  Master  as 
I  doe.  Sottish  but  valiant,  (answered  he  of  the  wood)  but 
more  knave  then  foole  or  then  valiant.  It  is  not  so  with 
my  Master,  said  Sancho :  for  he  is  neVe  a  whit  knave ; 
rather  he  is  as  dull  as  a  Beetle,  hurts  no-body,  does  good 
to  all,  he  hath  no  malice,  a  childe  will  make  him  beleeve  tis 
night  at  noone  day :  and  for  his  simplicitie,  I  love  him  as 
my  heart-strings,  and  cannot  finde  in  my  heart,  to  leave 
him  for  all  his  fopperies.  For  all  that,  Brother  and  friend 
(said  he  of  the  wood),  if  the  blinde  guide  the  blinde,  both 
will  be  in  danger  to  fall  into  the  pit. 

Tis  better  to  retire  faire  and  softly,  and  returne  to  our 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

loved  homes  :  for  they  that  hunt  after  Adventures,  doe  not    CHAPTER 
alwaies   light  upon   good.      Sancho  spit  often,  and    as   it 
seemed,  a  kinde  of  glewy  and  dry  matter :  which  noted  by  Where  the 
the  charitable  wooddy  Squire,  he  said,  Me  thinkes,  with  our  ^'^^1° 
talking,  our  tongues  cleave  to  our  roofes  :  but  I  have  suppler  th®  ^o^j  ig° 
hangs  at  the  pummell  of  my  horse,  as  good  as  touch  :  and  prosecuted, 
rising  up,  he  returned  presently  with  a  Borracha  of  wine,  with  the  dis- 
and  a  bak^t  meate,  at  least  halfe  a  yard  long,  and  it  is  no  creete,  rare, 
lye,  for  it  was  of  a  Parboiled  Cony  so  large,  that  Sancho,  Colo^e^ha 
when  he  felt  it,  thought  it  had  beene  of  a  Goate,  and  not  a  passed  be- 
Kid:  which  being  scene  by  Sancho,  he  said,  And  had  yee  twixtthetwo 
this  with  you  too,  Sr.  ?     Why,  what  did  yiv  thinke  (said  Squires. 
the  other)  doe  you  take  me  to  be  some  hungry  Squire  ?     I 
have  better  provision  at  my  horses  crupper,  then  a  Generall 
carries  with  him  upon  a  March.     Sancho  fell  to,  without 
invitation,  and  champed  his  bits  in  the  darke,  as  if  he  had 
scraunched  knotted  cordes,  and  said,  I  marry,  Sr.,  you  are  a 
true  Legall  Squire,  round  and  sound,  Itoyall  and  Liberall 
(as  appeares  by  your  feast)  which  if  it  came  not  hither  by 
way  of  Enchantment,  yet  it  seemes  so  at  least,  not  like  me 
unfortunate  wretch,  that  only  carry  in  my  wallets,  a  little 
Cheese,  so  hard,  that  you  may  breake  a  Gyants  head  with 
it,  and  only  some  doozens  of  Saint  lohns  Weed  leaves,  and 
some  few  Walnuts,  and  small  nuts,  (plentie  in  the  strictnesse 
of  my  Master,  and  the  opinion  he  hath)  and  the  method 
he  observes,  that  Knights  Errant  must  only  be  maintained 
and  sustained  onely  with  a  little  dry  fruit,  and  sallets.     By 
my  faith  (Brother)  replide  he  of  the  wood,  my  stomacke  is 
not  made  to  your  thistles,  nor  your  stalkes,  nor  your  moun- 
taine  roots :  let  our  Masters  deale  with  their  opinions,  and 
their  Knightly  statutes,  and  eate  what  they  will,  I  have  my 
cold  meates,  and  this  bottle  hanging   at  the   pummel   of 
my  saddle,  will  he,  or  nill  he  :   which   I  reverence  and  love 
so   much,  that   a   minute   scarce   passeth    me,  in  which    I 
give  it  not  a  thousand  kisses  and  embraces.     Which  said, 
lu>  gave  it  to  Sancho,  who  rearing  it  on  end  at  his  mouth, 
looked  a  quarter  of  an  houre  together  upon  the  Starres : 
and  when  he  had  ended  his  draught,  he  held  his  necke  on 

91) 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  one  side,  and  fetching  a  great  sigh,  cryes,  Oh  whoresoone 
XIII  raskal,  how  Catholike  it  is.  Law  yee  there  (said  he  of  the 
Where  the  wood)  in  hearing  Sancho's  whoresoone,  how  you  have  praised 
Adventure  of  fae  wme5  in  calling  it  whoresoone  ?  I  say  (quoth  Sancho) 
the  Wood  is  tha1:  l  confesse,  that  I  know  it  is  no  dishonour  to  call  any 
prosecuted,  bodie  whoresoone,  when  there  is  a  meaning  to  praise  him. 
with  the  dis-  But  tell  me,  Sr.,  by  the  remembrance  of  her  you  love  best, 
creete,  rare,  is  this  wine  of  *  Ciuidad  Reall  ?  A  brave  taste  (said  he 
and  sweete  Q£  ^e  woocj .)  ft  js  no  lessej  and  ft  is  of  some  yeeres  standing 
prasecUife-  *  too.  Let  me  alone  (said  Sancho)  you  could  not  but  think e 
twixtthetwo  I  must  know  it  to  the  height.  Doe  not  you  thinke  it 
Squires.  strange,  Sr.  Squire,  that  I  should  have  so  great,  and  so 

*A  place  in      natural!  an  instinct,  in  distinguishing  betwixt  wines,  that 
Spainethat      comming  to   smell   any  wine,  I   hit  upon  the   place,  the 
iath  excellent  grape,  the  savour,  the  lasting,  the  strength,  with  all  cir- 
cumstances  belonging  to  wine?      But  no   marveile,  if  in 
my  linage   by  my  fathers   side,   I   had  two   of  the   most 
excellent   tasters   that   were    knowne    in    a   long   time    in 
Mancha:  for  proofe  of  which,  you  shall  know  what  befell 
them. 

They  gave  to  these  two  some  wine  to  taste  out  of  a 
Hogshead,  asking  their  opinions,  of  the  state,  qualitie, 
goodnesse  or  badnesse  of  the  wine :  the  one  of  them 
prooved  it  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  the  other  only 
smelt  to  it.  The  first  said,  that  that  wine  savoured  of 
yron.  The  second  said,  Rather  of  goats  leather.  The 
owner  protested,  the  Hogshead  was  cleane,  and  that  the 
wine  had  no  kinde  of  mixture,  by  which  it  should  receive 
any  savour  of  yron  or  leather.  Notwithstanding,  the  two 
famous  tasters  stood  to  what  they  had  said.  Time  ran 
on,  the  wine  was  sold,  and  when  the  vessell  was  cleansed, 
there  was  found  in  it  a  little  key,  with  a  leatherne  thong 
hanging  at  it.  Now  you  may  see,  whether  he  that  comes 
from  such  a  race,  may  give  his  opinion  in  these  matters. 

Therefore  I  say  to  you  (quoth  he  of  the  wood)  let  us 

leave  looking  after  these  Adventures,  and  since  we  have 

content,  let  us  not  seeke  after  dainties,  but  returne  to  our 

cottages,  for  there   God  will   finde   us,  if  it  be  his  will. 

100 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Till  my  Master  come  to  Saragosa,  I  meaiie  (quoth  Sancho)    CHAPTER 
to  serve  him,  and  then   weele  all  take  a  new  course.     In 
fine,  the  two   good    Squires   talked   and    dranke   so  much,  Where  the 
that  it  was  fit  sleepe   should   lay  their  tongues,  and   slake  ^v^lt-ur}et°f 
their  thirst,  but  to  extinguish,  it  was  impossible;  so  both  of  t}"j  ^"'^V' 
them  fastned  to  the  nigh  emptie  bottle,  and  their  meate     prosecutf.1, 
scarce  out  of  their  mouthes,  fell  asleepe  :  where  for  the         rtr. 
present  wee  will  leave  them,  and  tell  what 
passed  betweene  the  two  Knights. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

How  the  Adventure  of  the  Knight  of  the  Wood 
is  prosecuted. 

V1ONGST  many  discourses  that  passed  be- 
tweene Don  Quixote,  and  the  Knight  of 
the  Wood,  the  History  saies,  that  he  of 
the  wood  said  to  Don  Quixote,  In  briefe, 
Sr.  Knight,  I  would  have  you  know,  that 
my  destinie,  or  to  say  better,  my  election 
enamoured  me  upon  the  peerelesse  Casildea 
de  Vandalia,  Peerelesse  I  call  her,  as  being 
so  in  the  greatnesse  of  her  Stature,  and  in  the  extreme  of 
her  being  and  beautie.  This  Casildea  (I  tell  you  of)  repaide 
my  good  and  vertuous  desires,  in  employing  me  (as  did  the 
stepmother  of  Hercules)  in  many  and  different  perils,  pro- 
mising me  at  the  accomplishing  of  each  one,  in  performing 
another,  I  should  enjoy  my  wishes :  but  my  labours  have 
beene  so  linked  one  upon  another,  that  they  are  number- 
.  neither  know  I  which  may  be  the  last  to  give  an 
accomplishment  to  my  lawfull  desires. 

Once  she  commanded  me  to  give  defiance  to  that  famous 
Gyantesse  of  Sevil,  called  the  Giralda,  who  is  so  valiant  and 
so  strong  (as  being  made  of  brasse,  and  without  changing 

101 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  place)  is  the  most  mooveable  and  turning  woman  in  the 
XIV  world.  I  came,  I  saw,  and  conquered  her,  and  made  her 
How  the  stand  still,  and  keepe  distance  ;  for  a  whole  weeke  together, 
Adventure  of  no  windes  blew,  but  the  North  :  Otherwhiles  she  commanded 
the  Woodis  me  to  lift  UP  the  ancient  *  stones  of  the  fierce  Buls  of  Gui- 
prosecuted.  sando :  an  enterprize  fitter  for  Porters,  then  Knights :  an- 
*As  if  w  other  time  she  commanded  me  to  go  downe  and  dive  in  the 
should  say,  to  Vault  of  Cabra  (a  fearefull  and  unheard  of  attempt)  and  to 
remove  the  bring  her  relation  of  all  that  was  inclosed  in  that  darke  pro- 
stones  at  funditie.  I  staide  the  motion  of  the  Giralda,  I  waied  the 
11  Buls  of  Guisando,  I  cast  my  selfe  downe  the  steep  Cave,  and 
brought  to  light  the  secrets  of  that  bottome,  but  my  hopes 
were  dead,  how  dead  ?  her  disdaines  still  living,  how  living  ? 
Lastly,  she  hath  now  commanded  me,  that  I  run  over  all 
the  Provinces  of  Spaine,  and  make  all  the  Knights  Errant, 
that  wander  in  them,  confesse,  that  she  alone  goes  beyond 
all  other  women  in  beauty,  and  that  I  am  the  valiantest, 
and  most  enamoured  Knight  of  the  world  :  in  which  demand 
I  have  travelled  the  greatest  part  of  Spaine,  and  have  over- 
come many  Knights,  that  durst  contradict  me.  But  that 
which  I  prize  and  esteeme  most  is,  that  I  have  conquered,  in 
single  combate,  that  so  famous  Knight  Don  Quixote  de  la 
Mancha,  and  made  him  confesse  that  my  Casildea  is  fairer 
then  his  Dulcinea,  and  in  this  conquest  only  I  make  account, 
that  I  have  conquered  all  the  Knights  in  the  world,  because 
the  aforesaid  Don  Quixote  hath  conquered  them  all,  and  I 
having  overcome  him,  his  fame,  his  glorie,  and  his  honour 
hath  beene  transferred  and  passed  over  to  my  person,  and 
the  Conquerour  is  so  much  the  more  esteemed,  by  how 
much  the  conquered  was  reputed  :  so  that  the  innumerable 
exploits  of  Don  Quixote  now  mentioned,  are  mine,  and  passe 
upon  my  account. 

Don  Quixote  admired  to  heare  the  Knight  of  the  wood, 
and  was  a  thousand  times  about  to  have  given  him  the  lye, 
and  had  his  Thou  lyest,  upon  the  point  of  his  tongue :  but 
hee  defer'd  it  as  well  as  he  could,  to  make  him  confesse  with 
his  owne  mouth  that  he  lyed,  and  so  he  told  him  calmely. 
That  you  may  have  overcome  (Sr.  Knight)  all  the  Knights 
102 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Errant  of  Spaine,  and  the  whole  world,  I  grant  yce :   but    CHAPTER 
that  you  have  overcome  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  I  doubt          X1V 
it,  it  might  be  some  other  like  him,  though  few  there  be  so  How  tin- 
like.     Why  not?  replide  he  of  the  Wood:  I  can  assure  you,  £*Vg|2?t 
x    Sir,   I    fought  witli   him,  overcame,  and   made  him    yeeld.  th*  JifaS  is* 
Hee  is  a  tall  fellow,  withred  faced,  lanke  and   dry  in  his  prosecuted. 
limbes,   somewhat    hoary,  sharpe-nosed   and    crooked ;    his 
mustachoes  long,  blacke,  and   falne ;    hee   marchcth   under 
the  name  of  Tin-  Knight  of  the  Sorrowfull  Countenance  : 
he  presses  the  loine,  and   rules  the  bridle  of  a  famous  horse 
called  Ko/inante,  and  hath  for  the  Mistris  of  his  thoughts, 
one  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  sometimes  called  Aldonsa  Lorenso, 
just  as  mine,  that  because  her  name  was  Casilda,  and  of 
Andaluzia,  I  call  her  Casildea  de  Vandalia :  and  if  all  these 
tokens  be  not  enough  to  countenance  the  truth,  heere  is  my 
sword  that  shall  make  incredulity  it  selfe  believe  it.     Have 
patience,  Sr.  Knight  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  and  heare  what  I 
shall  say.     Know,  that  this  Don  Quixote  you  speake  of,  is 
the  greatest  friend  I  have  in  this  world,  and  so  much  that  I 
may  tell  you,  I  love  him  as  well  as  my  selfe,  and  by  the 
signes  that  you  have  given  of  him,  so  punctuall  and  certaine, 
I  cannot  but  thinke  it  is  he  whom  you  have  overcome.     On 
the  other  side,  I  see  with  mine  eyes,  and  feele  with  my  hands, 
that  it  is  not  possible  it  should  be  he,  if  it  be  not,  that, 
as  he  hath  many  Enchanters  that  be  his  enemies,  especially 
one,  that  doth  ordinarily  persecute  him,  there  be  some  one 
that  hath  taken  his  shape  on  him,  and  suffered  himselfe  to 
be  overcome,  to  defraud  him  of  the  glory  which  his  noble 
chivalry  hath  gotten  and  layd  up  for  him  thorowout  the 
whole  earth.     And  for  confirmation  of  this,  I  would  have 
you  know,  that  these  Enchanters  mine  enemies  (not  two 
daies  since)  transformed  the  shape  and  person  of  the  faire 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  into  a  foule  and  base  country  wench, 
and  in  this  sort  belike  they  have  transformed  Don  Quixote : 
and  if  all  this  be  not  sufficient  to  direct  you  in  the  truth, 
here  is  Don  Quixote  himselfe,  that  will  maintaine  it  with  his 
Armes  on  foot  or  on  horse-back,  or  in  what  manner  you 
please :  and  he  grasped  his  sword,  expecting  what  resolution 

103 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    the  Knight  of  the  Wood  would  take,  who  with  a  stayed 
XIV         voyce,  answered  and  sayd  :  A  good  Pay-master  needs  no 
How  the          surety :   hee  that  could  once,  Don  Quixote,  overcom  you 
Adventure  of  wnen  you  were  transformed,  may  very  well  hope  to  restore 
the  Wood  is*    vou  ^°  vour  Pr°Per  being.     But  because  it  becomes  not 
prosecuted.       Knights   to   doe   their  feats   in  the  darke  like  high-way- 
robbers  and  Ruffians,  let  us  stay  for  the  day,  that  the  Sunne 
may  behold  our  actions ;  and  the  condition  of  our  combate 
shall  be,  that  he  that  is  overcome,  shall  stand  to  the  mercy 
of  the  Conquerour,  to  do  with  him  according  to  his  will,  so 
farre  as  what  he  ordaineth  shall  be  fitting  for  a  Knight. 

I  am  over-joyed  with  this  condition  and  agreement  (quoth 
Don  Quixote).  And  (this  sayd)  they  went  where  their 
Squires  were,  whom  they  found  snorting,  and  just  as  they 
were,  when  sleep  first  stole  upon  them.  They  wakened 
them,  and  commanded  they  should  make  their  horses  ready : 
for  by  sun  rising,  they  meant  to  have  a  bloudy  and  unequall 
single  combate.  At  which  newes  Sancho  was  astonisht  and 
amazed,  as  fearing  his  Masters  safety,  by  reason  of  the 
Knight  of  the  Woods  valour,  which  he  had  heard  from  his 
Squire :  but  without  any  reply,  the  two  Squires  went  to 
seeke  their  cattel :  for  by  this  the  three  horses  and  Dapple 
had  smelt  out  one  another,  and  were  together. 

By  the  way,  he  of  the  Wood  sayd  to  Sancho,  You  must 
understand,  Brother,  that  your  Combatants  of  Andaluzia 
use,  when  they  are  Sticklers  in  any  quarrell,  not  to  stand 
idlely  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  whilst  their  friends 
are  fighting.  I  tell  you  this,  because  you  may  know,  that 
whilst  our  Masters  are  at  it,  we  must  skirmish  too,  and 
breake  our  lances  to  shivers.  This  custome,  Sr.  Squire 
(answered  Sancho)  may  be  currant  there,  and  passe  amongst 
your  Ruffians  and  Combatants  you  talke  of:  but  with  your 
Squires  that  belong  to  Knights  Errant,  not  so  much  as  a 
thought  of  it.  At  least,  I  have  not  heard  my  Master  so 
much  as  speake  a  word  of  any  such  custome,  and  hee  knowes 
without  booke  all  the  ordinances  of  Knight  Errantry.  But 
let  mee  grant  yee,  that  tis  an  expresse  ordinance  that  the 
Squires  fight,  whilst  their  Masters  doe  so:  yet  I  will  not 
104 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

fulfill  that,  but  pay  the  *  penalty  that  shall  be  imposed  upon    CHAPTER 
such  peaceable  Squires:   for  I  doe  not  thinke,  it  will  be 
above  two  pound  of  wax,  and  I  had  rather  pay  them,  for  I  How  the 
know  they  will  cost  me  lesse,  then  the  lint  that  I  shall  spend  Adventure  of 
in  making  tents  to  cure  my  head,  which  already  I  make  th®  ^vJJ^i^ 
account  is  cut  and  divided  in  two :  besides,  tis  impossible  I  prosecuted, 
should  fight,  having  never  a  sword,  and  I  never  wore  any. 

For  that  (quoth  he  of  the  Wood)  He  tell  you  a  good  *          JJ* 
remedy,  I  have  heere  two  linnen  bags  of  one  bignesse,  you  en^oyned'bv68 
shall    have  one,  and    I    the   other,   and  with   these  equall  Confessors,  to 
weapons,  wee  11  fight  at  bag-blowes.    Let  us  doe  so  and  you  pay  to  burne 
will  (sayd  Sancho)  for  this  kinde  of  fight  will  rather  serve  to  ^  candles  in 
dust,  then  to  wound  us.     Not  so  (sayd  the  other)  for  within  U 
the  bags  (that  the  winde  may  not  carry  them  to  and  fro) 
wee  will  put  halfe  a  doozen  of  delicate  smooth  pebbles,  of 
c'cjuall  waight,  and  so  we  may  bag-baste  one  another,  without 
doing  any  great  hurt.     Looke  ye,  body  of  my  father  (quoth 
Sancho)  what  Martins  or  Sables  furre,  or  what  fine-carded 
wooll  he  puts  in  the  bags,  not  to  beat  out  our  brains,  or 
make  Privet  of  our  bones :  but  know,  Sir,  if  they  were  silke 
bals,  I  would  not  fight :  let  our  Masters  fight,  and  heare  on 
it  in  another  world,  let  us  drinke  and  live,  for  time  will  bee 
carefull  to  take  away  our  lives,  without  our  striving  to  end 
them  before  their  time  and  season,  and  that  they  drop  before 
they  are  ripe.     For  all  that  (sayd  he  of  the  Wood)  we  must 
fight  halfe  an  hourc.  /No,  no  (sayd  Sancho)  I  will  not  be  so 
discourteous  and  ungratefull,  as  to  wrangle  with  whom  I 
have  eaten  and  drunke,  let  the  occasion  bee  never  so  small, 
how  much  more  I  being  without  choller  or  anger,  who  the 
Devill  can  barely  without  those  fight  ?/ 

For  this  (sayd  he  of  the  Wood)  lie  give  you  a  sufficient 
cause,  which  is,  that  before  wee  begin  the  combate,  I  will 
come  mee  finely  to  you,  and  give  you  three  or  foure  boxes, 
and  strike  you  to  my  feet,  with  which  I  shall  awake  your 
choller,  although  it  sleepe  like  a  Dormouse.  Against  this 
cut  I  have  another  (quoth  Sancho)  that  comes  not  short  of 
it,  I  will  take  me  a  good  cudgell,  and  before  you  waken  my 
choller,  I  will  make  you  sleepe  so  soundly  with  bastinadoing 

3:0  105 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    you,  that  it  shall  not  wake  but  in  another  world,  in  which  it 
XIV         shall  be  knowne,  that  I  am  not  hee  that  will  let  any  man 
How  the          handle  my  face ;  and  every  man  looke  to  the  shaft  he  snoots  : 
Adventure  of   And  the  best  way  were  to  let  every  mans  choller  sleepe  with 
the  Wood  is°   ^m'  f°r  no  man  knowes  what 's  in  another,  and  many  come 
prosecuted.       f°r  wooll,  that  returne  shorne,  and  God  blessed  the  Peace- 
makers, and  cursed  the  Quarreller ;  for  if  a  Cat  shut  into  a 
roome,  much  baited  and  straightned,  turne  to  be  a  Lyon, 
God  knowes  what  I  that  am  a  man,  may  turne  to :  There- 
fore, from  henceforward,  Sr.  Squire,  let  mee  intimate  to  you, 
that  all  the  evill  and  mischiefe  that  shall  arise  from  our 
quarrell,  bee  upon  your  head.     Tis  well  (quoth  he  of  the 
Wood)  let  it  be  day,  and  we  shall  thrive  by  this. 

And  now  a  thousand  sorts  of  painted  birds  began  to  chirp 
in  the  trees,  and  in  their  different  delightfull  tones,  it  seemed 
they  bad  good  morrow,  and  saluted  the  fresh  Aurora,  that 
now  discovered  the  beauty  of  her  face,  thorow  the  gates  and 
bay-windowes  of  the  East,  shaking  from  her  lockes  an  in- 
finite number  of  liquid  pearles,  bathing  the  hearbes  in  her 
sweet  liquour,  that  it  seemed  they  also  sprouted,  and  rained 
white  and  small  pearles:  the  willowes  did  distill  their  savoury 
Manna,  the  fountaines  laughed,  the  brookes  murmured,  the 
woods  were  cheered,  and  the  fields  were  enriched  with  her 
comming. 

But  the  brightnesse  of  the  day  scarce  gave  time  to  dis- 
tinguish things,  when  the  first  thing  that  offered  it  selfe  to 
Sancho's  sight,  was  the  Squire  of  the  Woods  nose,  which 
was  so  huge,  that  it  did  as  it  were  shadow  his  whole  body. 
It  is  sayd  indeed,  that  it  was  of  an  extraordinary  bignesse, 
crooked  in  the  middest,  and  all  full  of  warts  of  a  darkish- 
greene  colour,  like  a  Berengene,  and  hung  some  two  fingers 
over  his  mouth  :  this  hugenesse,  colour,  warts,  and  crooked- 
nesse,  did  so  dis-figure  his  face,  that  Sancho  in  seeing  him, 
began  to  lay  about  him  back-ward  and  forward,  like  a  young 
raw  Ancient,  and  resolved  with  himselfe  to  endure  two 
hundred  boxes,  before  his  choller  should  waken  to  fight 
with  that  Hobgoblin. 

Don  Quixote  beheld  his  opposite,  and  perceived  that  his 
106 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

helmet  was  on  and  drawne,  so  that  he  could  not  see  his  face,    CHAPTER 
but  he  saw  that  he  was  well  set  in  his  body,  though  not         ^1V 
tall;  upon  his  armour  he  wore  an  upper  garment  or  cassocke,  How  the 
to  see  to,  of  pure  cloth  of  gold,  with  many  Moones  of  shining  '/Vlv£lt-ur^  off 
Looking-glasses  spred  about  it,  which  made   him  appeare  J{[|;  {pjjjjjfc 
very  brave  and  gorgeous,  a  great  plume  of  greene  feathers  prosecuted, 
waved  about  his  Helnu-t,  \\ith  others  white  and  yellow,  his 
Lance  which  he  had  reared  up  against  a  tree,  was  very  long 
and  thicke,  and  with  a  steele  pike  above  a  handfull  long. 
Don  Quixote  observed  and  noted  all^  and  by  what  he  had 
scene  and  marked,  judged  that  the  sayd  Knight  must  needs 
be  of  great   strength:    But  yet   he  was   not  afrayd  (like 
Sancho)  and  with  a  bold  courage  thus  spoke  to  the  Knight 
of  the  Looking-glasses  :    If  your   eagernesse  to  fight,  Sir 
Knight,  have  not  spent  your  courtesie,  for  it,  I  desire  you 
to  lift  up  your  Visor  a  little,  that  I  may  behold  whether  the 
livelinesse  of  your  face  be  answerable  to  that  of  your  dis- 
position, whether  vanquisht  or  Vanquisher  you   be  in  this 
enter] >ri/e.    Sir  Knight  (answered  he  of  the  Looking-glassi 
you  shall  have  time  and  leisure  enough  to  see  me,  and  it' 
I  doe  not  now  satisfie  your  desire,  it  is  because  I  thinkc  I 
shall  doe  a  great  deale  of  wrong  to  the  faire  Casildea  de 
Vandalia,  to  delay  so  much  time  as  to  lift  up  my  Visor,  till 
I  have  first  made  you  confesse  what  I  know  you  goe  about. 
Well,  yet  while  we  get  a  horse-backe  (Don  Quixote  sayd) 
you  may  resolve  me  whether  I  be  that  Don  Quixote  whom 
you  sayd,  you  had  vanquished. 

To  this  I  answer  you  (said  he  of  the  Looking-glasses) 
You  are  as  like  the  Knight  I  conquered,  as  one  egge  is  to 
another :  But,  as  you  say,  Enchanters  persecute  you,  and 
therefore  I  dare  not  affirme  whether  you  bee  hee  or  no.  It 
sufficeth  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  for  mee,  that  you  belei 
your  being  deceived :  but  that  I  may  entirely  satisfie  you, 
let  "s  to  horse,  for  in  lesse  time  then  you  should  have  spent 
in  lifting  up  your  Visor  (if  God,  my  Mistrisse,  and  mine 
Arme  defend  me)  will  I  see  your  face,  and  you  shall  see  that 
I  am  not  the  vanquisht  Don  Quixote  you  speake  of. 

And  heere  cutting  off  discourse,  to  horse  they  goe,  and 

107 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    Don  Quixote  turned  Rozinante  about,  to  take  so  much  of 
XIV         the  field  (as  was  fit  for  him)  to  returne  to  encounter  his 

How  the          enemie,  and  the  Knight  of  the  Looking-glasses  did  the  like. 

Adventure  of  guj.  j)On  Quixote  was  not  gone  twenty  paces  from  him, 

the  Wood.  is°    wnen   ne  heard  that  he  of  the  looking-glasses  called  him. 

prosecuted.  So  the  two  parting  the  way,  he  of  the  Glasses  sayd,  Be 
mindefull,  Sr.  Knight,  that  the  condition  of  our  combate 
is,  that  the  vanquished  (as  I  have  told  you  before)  must 
stand  to  the  discretion  of  the  Vanquisher.  I  know  it  (sayd 
Don  Quixote)  so  that  what  is  imposed  and  commanded  the 
vanquished,  be  within  the  bounds  and  limits  of  Cavallery. 
So  it  is  meant,  sayd  he  of  the  Glasses. 

Heere  Don  Quixote  saw  the  strange  nose  of  the  Squire, 
and  he  did  not  lesse  wonder  at  the  sight  of  it,  then  Sancho ; 
insomuch  that  he  deemed  him  a  monster,  or  some  new  kinde 
of  man  not  usuall  in  the  world.  Sancho,  that  saw  his 
Master  goe  to  fetch  his  Careere,  would  not  tarry  alone  with 
Nose-autem,  fearing  that  at  one  snap  with  tothers  Nose  upon 
his,  their  fray  would  bee  ended,  that  either  with  the  blow, 
or  it,  hee  should  come  to  the  ground.  So  he  ran  after  his 
Master,  laying  hold  upon  one  of  Rozinantes  stirrup  leathers, 
and  when  hee  thought  it  time  for  his  Master  to  turne  backe, 
he  sayd ;  I  beseech  your  Worship,  Master  mine,  that  before 
you  fall  to  your  encounter,  you  helpe  mee  to  climbe  up  yon 
Cork-tree,  from  whence  I  may  better,  and  with  more  delight, 
then  from  the  ground,  see  the  gallant  encounter  you  shall 
make  with  this  Knight. 

Rather,  Sancho  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  thou  wouldest  get 
aloft,  as  into  a  scaffold,  to  see  the  Buls  without  danger. 
Let  mee  deale  truely  (sayd  Sancho)  the  ugly  nose  of  that 
Squire  hath  astonisht  me,  and  I  dare  not  come  neere  him. 
Such  an  one  it  is  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  that  any  other  but 
I,  might  very  well  be  afrayd  of  it,  and  therefore  come,  and 
lie  helpe  thee  up. 

Whilst  Don  Quixote  was   helping  Sancho   up  into  the 

Cork-tree,  he  of  the  Looking-glasses  tooke  up  roome  for 

his  Careere,  and  thinking  that  Don  Quixote  would  have 

done  the  like,  without  looking  for  trumpets  sound,  or  any 

108 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

other  warning-signe,  he  turned  his  horses  reines  (no  better  to    CHAPTKR 

see  to,  nor  swifter  then  Kozinante)  and  with  his  full  speede          X1V 

(which  was  a  reasonable  trot)  hee  went  to  encounter  his  How  the 

enemy :  but  seeing  him  busied  in  the  mounting  of  Sancho, 

hee  held  in  his  reines,  and   stopped   in   the   midst  of  his 

Careere,  for  which  his  horse  was  most  thankefull,  as  being  prosecuted. 

unable  to   moovc.     Don  Quixote,  who  thought  his  enemy 

by  this  came  Hying,  set  spurres  lustily  to  Ko/inaiites  hinder- 

flancke,  and  made  him  post  in  such  manner,  that  the  Story 

sayes,  now  onely  he  seemed  to  run,  for  all  the  rest  was 

plaine  trotting   heeretofore.      And   with  this    unspeakable 

fury,  he  came  where  he  of  the  Looking-glasses  was  gagging 

his  spurres  into  his  horse,  to  the  very  hoopes,  without  being 

able  to  remoove  him  ;i  finders  length  from  the-  place,  where 

he  had  set  up  his  rot  tor  the  Careeiv. 

In  this  good  time  and  conjuncture,  Don  Quixote  found 
his  contrary  pu//led  with  his  horse,  and  troubled  with  his 
lance ;  for  either  he  could  not,  or  else  wanted  time  to  set 
it  in  his  rest.  Don  Quixote  that  never  looked  into  th« 
inconveniencies,  safely  and  without  danger,  encountred  him 
of  the  Looking-.  i  furiously,  that  in  spight  of  his 

teeth  hee  made  him  come  to  the  ground  from  his  horse- 
crupper,  with  such  a  fall,  that  stirring  neither  hand  nor 
foot,  hee  made  .shew  as  if  hee  had  beene  dead.  Sancho 
scarce  saw  him  downe,  when  hee  slid  from  the  Cork-tree, 
and  came  in  all  haste  to  hi.s  Master,  who  dismounted  from 
Ko/inante,  got  upon  him  of  the  Looking-glanet,  and  un- 
lacing his  helmet,  to  see  if  he  were  dead,  or  if  he  were  alive, 
to  give  him  aire,  he  saw:  (Who  can  tell  without  great  ad- 
miration, wonder  and  amaze  to  him  that  shall  hcare  it?)  he 
saw  (sayes  the  History)  the  selfesame  face,  the  same  visage, 
the  same  aspect,  the  same  phisiognomy,  the  same  shape,  the 
same  perspective  of  the  Bachelor  Samson  Carrasco,  and  as 
he  saw  it,  hee  cryed  aloud,  Come  Sancho,  and  behold  what 
thou  mavest  see,  and  not  beleeve,  runne  whore-sonne,  and 
observe  the  power  of  Magicke,  what  Witches  and  Enchanters 
can  doe. 

Sancho  drew  neere,  and  saw  the  Bachelour  Samson  Car- 

109 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    rasco's  face,  and  so  began  to  make  a  thousand  crosses,  and 

XIV         to  blesse  himselfe  as  oft.     In  all  this  while  the  overthrowne 

How  the          Knight  made  no  shew  of  living.     And  Sancho  sayd  to  Don 

Adventure  of   Quixote,  I  am  of  opinion,  Sir,  that  by  all  means  you  thrust 

the  Wood  is°   y°UT  sword  down  this  fellowes  throte,  that  is  so  like  the 

prosecuted.      Bachelour  Samson  Carrasco,  and   so  perhaps  in  him,  you 

shall  kill  some  of  your  enemies  the  Enchanters.     Tis  not 

ill  advised  (quoth  Don  Quixote.)    So  drawing  out  his  sword, 

to  put  Sancho's  counsell  in  execution,  the  Knights  Squire 

came  in,  his  nose  being  off,  that  had  so  dis-figured  him,  and 

sayd  aloud :  Take  heede,  Sr.  Don  Quixote,  what  you  doe ; 

for  hee  that  is  now  at  your  mercy,  is  the  Bachelor  Samson 

Carrasco  your  friend,  and  I  his  Squire. 

Now  Sancho  seeing  him  without  his  former  deformity,  said 
to  him,  And  your  nose  ?  To  which  he  answered,  Here  it  is 
in  my  pocket :  and  putting  his  hand  to  his  right  side,  hee 
pulled  out  a  pasted  nose,  and  a  varnisht  vizard,  of  the  mani- 
facture  described.  And  Sancho  more  and  more  beholding 
him,  with  a  loud  and  admiring  voyce  said,  Saint  Mary  de- 
fend me  :  and  is  not  this  Thomas  Cecial  my  neighbour  and 
my  Gossip  ?  And  how  say  you  by  that  ?  (quoth  the  un-nosed 
Squire.)  Thomas  Cecial  I  am,  Gossip  and  friend  Sancho, 
and  streight  I  will  tell  you,  the  conveyances,  sleights  and 
trickes  that  brought  mee  hither  :  in  the  meane  time  request 
and  intreat  your  Master,  that  he  touch  not,  misuse,  wound 
or  kil  the  Knight  of  the  Looking-glasses,  now  at  his  mercy ; 
for  doubtlesse  it  is  the  bold  and  ill-advized  Bachelor  Samson 
Carrasco  our  Countryman. 

By  this  time  the  Knight  of  the  Looking-glasses  came  to 
himselfe,  which  Don  Quixote  seeing,  hee  clapt  the  bare  point 
of  his  sword  upon  his  face,  and  said,  Thou  diest,  Knight,  if 
thou  confesse  not,  that  the  peerelesse  Dulcinea  del  Toboso 
excells  your  Casildea  de  Vandalia  in  beauty :  and  moreover, 
you  shall  promise  (if  from  this  battell  and  fall  you  remaine 
with  life)  to  goe  to  the  Citie  of  Toboso,  and  present  your 
selfe  from  me  before  her,  that  she  may  dispose  of  you  as  she 
pleaseth :  and  if  she  pardon  you,  you  shall  returne  to  me ;  for 
the  tracke  of  my  exploits  will  bee  your  guide,  and  bring  you 
110 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

where  I  am,  to  tell  mee  what  hath  passed  with  her.     These    CHAPTER 
conditions  (according  to  those  wee  agreed  on  before  the         XIV 
battell)  exceed  not  the  limits  of  Knight  Errantrie.  How  the 

I  confesse,  said  the  fain  Knight,  that  the  Lady  Dulcinea  Adventure  of 
del  Toboso's  torne  and  foule  shooe,  is  more  worth  then  the  gj  Wood  b 
ill-combed  haire  (though  cleane)  of  Casildea :  and  here  I  pr0secuted.S 
promise  to  goe  and  come  from  her  presence  to  yours,  and 
give  you  entire  and  particular  relation  of  all  you  require. 
You  shall  also  confesse  and  believe  (added  Don  Quixote) 
that  the  Knight  whom  you  overcame,  neyther  was,  nor  could 
be  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  but  some  other  like  him,  as 
I  confesse  and  believe,  that  you,  although  you  seeme  to  be 
the  Bachelor  Samson  Carrasco,  are  not  he,  but  one  like  him, 
and  that  my  enemies  have  cast  you  into  his  shape,  that  I 
may  with-hold  and  temper  the  force  of  my  choller,  and  use 
moderately  the  glory  of  my  conquest.  I  confesse,  judge,  and 
allow  of  all  as  you  confesse,  judge,  and  allow  (answered  the 
backe-broken  Knight.)  Let  me  rise,  I  pray  you,  if  the  blow 
of  my  fall  will  let  mee;  for  it  hath  left  me  in  ill  case.  Don 
Quixoto  hi-lpcd  him  to  rise,  and  Thomas  Cecial  his  Squire, 
on  whom  Sancho  still  cast  his  eyes,  asking  him  questions, 
whose  answeres  gave  him  manifest  signes,  that  hee  was 
Thomas  Cecial  indeed,  as  hee  said,  but  the  apprehension 
that  was  made  in  Sancho,  by  what  his  Master  had  said,  that 
the  Enchanters  had  changed  the  forme  of  the  Knight  of  the 
glasses  into  Samson  Carrasco's,  made  him  not  beleeve  what 
he  saw  with  his  eyes.  To  conclude,  the  Master  and  Man 
remained  still  in  their  errour:  and  he  of  the  glasses  and 
his  Squire  very  moody  and  ill  Errants,  left  Don  Quixote, 
purposing  to  seeke  some  towne  where  hee  might  seare- 
cloth  himselfe,  and  settle  his  ribbes.  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  held  on  their  way  to  Saragosa,  where  the  story 
leaves  them,  to  tell  who  was  the  Knight  of  the 
Glasses  and  his  Nosie  Squire. 


Ill 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    XV 

Who  the  Knight  of  the  looking-glasses  and 
his  Squire  were. 

|ON  QUIXOTE  was  extremely  contented, 
glad,  and  vaine-glorious,  that  hee  had  sub- 
dued so  valiant  a  Knight,  as  hee  imagined 
hee  of  the  Looking-glasses  was,  from  whose 
knightly  word  he  hoped  to  know  if  the 
Enchantment  of  his  Mistris  were  certaine, 
since  of  necessity  the  said  vanquished 
Knight  was  to  returne,  (on  paine  of  not 
being  so)  to  relate  what  had  happened  unto  him :  but  Don 
Quixote  thought  one  thing,  and  he  of  the  Glasses  another, 
though  for  the  present  he  minded  nothing,  but  to  seeke 
where  hee  might  seare-cloth  himselfe.  The  history  then 
tels  us,  that  when  the  Bachelor  Samson  Carrasco  advised 
Don  Quixote  that  he  should  prosecute  his  forsaken  Cavallery, 
hee  entred  first  of  all  into  counsell  with  the  Vicar  and  the 
Barber,  to  know  what  meanes  they  should  use,  that  Don 
Quixote  might  bee  perswaded  to  stay  at  home  peaceably  and 
quietly,  without  troubling  himselfe  with  his  unlucky  adven- 
tures :  from  which  counsaile  by  the  common  consent  of  all, 
and  particular  opinion  of  Carrasco,  it  was  agreed,  that  Don 
Quixote  should  abroad  againe,  since  it  was  impossible  to 
stay  him,  and  that  Samson  should  meet  him  upon  the  way 
like  a  Knight  Errant,  and  should  fight  with  him,  since  an 
occasion  would  not  be  wanting,  and  so  to  overcome  him, 
which  would  not  be  difficult,  and  that  there  should  be  a 
covenant  and  agreement,  that  the  vanquished  should  stand 
to  the  courtesie  of  the  vanquisher,  so  that  Don  Quixote 
being  vanquished,  the  Bachelor  Knight  should  command 
him  to  get  him  home  to  his  towne  and  house,  and  not  to 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

stirre  from  thence  in  two  yeeres  after,  or  till  hee  should    CHAPTER 

command  him  to  the  contrary :  the  which  in  all  likelihood          XV 

Don  Quixote  once  vanquished  would  infallibly  accomplish,  Who  the 

as  unwilling  to  contradict  or  bee  defective  in  the  Lawes  of  Knight  of 

Knighthood,  and  it  might  so  be,  that  in  this  time  of  seques-  SjjJJ^f 

tring,  he  might  forget  all  his  vanities,  or  they  might  finde  his  Squiw 

out  some  convenient  remedy  for  his  madnesse.      Carrasco  were. 

accepted  of  it,  and  Thomas  Cccial  offered  himselfe  to  be 

his  Squire,  Sancho  Pansa's  neighbour  and  Gossip,  a  merry 

knave  and  a  wittie.     Samson  armed  himselfe  (as  you  have 

heard)  and  Thomas  Cccial  fitted  the  false  nose  to  his  owne, 

and  clapt  on  his  vi/ard,  that  he  might  not  be  known  by  his 

Gossip,  when  they  should  meete.     So  they  held  on  the  same 

voyage  with  Don  Quixote,  and  they  came  even  just  as  hee 

was  in  the  adventure  of  Deaths  Wagon.     And  at  last  they 

lighted  on  them  in  the  Wood,  where  what  befell  them,  the 

discreet  Reader  hath  seem-,  and  if  it  had  not  beene  for  the 

strange  opinion  that  Don  Quixote  had,  that  the  Bachelor 

was  not  the  selfe-snine  man,  he  had  berne  spoyled  for  ever 

for  taking  another  Degree,  since  he  mist  his  markc. 

Thomas  Cecial  that  saw  what  ill  use  hee  had  made  of  his 
hopes,  and  the  bad  effect  that  his  journey  tooke,  sayd  to  the 
Hachelor,  Truely,  Mr.  Samson,  we  have  our  deserts :  things 
are  easily  conceived,  and  enterprizes  easily  undertaken,  but 
very  hardly  performed.  Don  Quixote  mad,  we  wise,  but  lice 
is  gone  away  sound  and  merry,  you  are  heere  bruised  and 
sorrowfull.  Let  us  know  then  who  is  the  greatest  mad-man, 
hee  that  is  so  and  cannot  doe  withall,  or  hee  that  is  so  for 
his  pleasure  ?  To  which  (quoth  Samson)  The  difference  be- 
tweene  these  madde  men  is,  that  hee  that  of  necessity  is  so, 
will  alwaies  remaine  so,  and  he  that  accidentally  is  so,  may 
leave  it  when  he  will.  Since  it  is  so  (said  Thomas  Cecial) 
I  that  for  my  pleasure  was  madde,  when  I  would  needes  be 
your  Squire ;  for  the  same  reason  I  will  leave  the  office,  and 
returne  home  to  my  owne  house.  Tis  fit  you  should  (said 
Samson)  yet  to  thinke  that  I  will  doe  so,  till  I  have  soundly 
banged  Don  Quixote,  is  vaine,  and  now  I  goe  not  about  to 
restore  him  to  his  wits,  but  to  revenge  my  selfe  on  him :  for 

3  :  P  113 


CHAPTER 
XV 

Who  the 
Knight  of 
the  looking- 
glasses  and 
his  Squire 
were. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

the  intolerable  paine  I  feele  in  my  ribbes,  will  not  permit  mee 
a  more  charitable  discourse.     Thus  they  two  went  on  parly- 
ing  till  they  came  to  a  Towne,  where  by  chance  they  lighted 
upon  a  Bone-setter,  who  cured  the  unfortunate  Samson. 
Thomas  Cecial  went  home  and  left  him,  and  hee  stayed 
musing  upon  his  revenge:  and  the  History  heereafter 
will  returne  to  him,  which  at  present  must 
make  merry  with  Don  Quixote. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

What  befell  Don  Quixote  with  a  discreet 
Gentleman  of  Mancha. 

JON  QUIXOTE  went  on  his  journey  with 
the  joy,  content,  and  gladnesse,  as  hath 
beene  mentioned,  imagining  that  for  the 
late  victory,  he  was  the  most  valiant 
Knight  that  that  age  had  in  the  world, 
he  made  account  that  all  adventures  that 
should  from  thence  forward  befall  him, 
were  brought  to  a  happy  and  prosperous 
end :  he  cared  not  now  for  any  enchantments,  or  enchanters  : 
he  forgot  the  innumerable  bangs  that  in  the  prosecution  of 
his  Chivalrie  had  been  given  him,  and  the  stones  cast,  that 
strooke  out  halfe  his  teeth,  and  the  unthankefulnesse  of  the 
Galli  slaves,  and  the  boldnesse  and  showres  of  stakes  of  the 
Yangueses. 

In  conclusion,  he  said  to  himselfe,  that  if  hee  could  finde 
any  Art,  manner,  or  meanes  how  to  dis-enchant  his  Mistresse 
Dulcinea,  hee  would  not  envy  the  greatest  happinesse  or 
prosperity  that  ever  any  Knight  Errant  of  former  times  had 
obtained. 

Hee  was  altogether  busied  in  these  imaginations,  when 
Sancho  told  him :  How  say  you  Sir,  that  I  have  still  before 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

mine  eyes  that  ill-favoured,  more  then  ordinary  nose  of  my  CHAPTER 
Gossip  Thomas  Cecial  ?  And  doe  you  happily,  Sancho,  XVI 
thinke  that  the  Knight  of  the  Looking-glasses  was  the  What  befell 
Bachelor  Samson  Carrasco,  and  his  Squire  Thomas  Cecial  Don  Quixote 
your  Gossip  ?  I  know  not  what  to  say  to  it  (quoth  Sancho)  SjJjJ—111 
onely  I  know,  that  the  tokens  he  gave  me,  of  my  house,  wife,  Of  Mallcha. 
and  children,  no  other  could  give  um  mee  but  he,  and  his 
face,  (his  nose  being  off)  was  the  same  that  Thomas  Cecials, 
as  I  have  scene  him  many  times  in  our  Towne,  and  next 
house  to  mine,  and  his  voyce  was  the  same.  Let  us  bee 
reasonable,  Sancho,  (said  Don  Quixote:)  Come  hither; 
How  can  any  man  imagine  that  the  Bachelor  Samson  Car- 
rasco, should  come  like  a  Knight  Errant,  arnTd  with  Armes 
offensive  and  defensive,  to  fight  with  me?  Have  I  ever 
given  him  occasion,  that  he  should  dogge  mee  ?  Am  I  his 
Rival,  or  is  he  a  Professor  of  Armes,  to  envy  the  glory  that 
I  have  gotten  by  them  ?  Why  what  should  I  say  (answered 
Sancho)  when  I  saw  that  Knight  (be  he  who  he  will)  looke 
so  like  the  Bachelor  Carrasco,  and  his  Squire  to  Thomas 
Cecial  my  gossip  ?  and  if  it  were  an  Enchantment  (as  you 
say)  were  there  no  other  two  in  the  world,  they  might  look 
like.  All  is  juggling  and  cunning  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  of 
the  wicked  Magicians  that  persecute  me,  who  fore-seeing 
that  I  should  remaine  Victor  in  this  combat,  had  provided 
that  the  vanquisht  Knight  should  put  on  the  shape  of  my 
friend  Carrasco,  that  the  friendship  I  beare  him  might 
mediate  betwixt  the  edge  of  my  sword,  and  the  rigor  of  my 
arme,  and  temper  my  hearts  just  indignation ;  and  so,  that 
he  might  escape  with  his  life,  that  with  trickes  and  devices 
sought  to  take  away  mine.  For  proofe  of  which,  oh  Sancho, 
thou  knowest  by  experience,  that  will  not  let  thee  lye  or  be 
deceived,  how  easie  it  is  for  Enchanters  to  change  one  face 
into  another,  making  the  beautifull  deformed,  and  the  de- 
formed beautifull :  and  it  is  not  two  dayes,  since  with  thine 
owne  eyes  thou  sawest  the  beauty  and  Irrelinene  of  the  peere- 
lesse  Dulcinea  in  ifs  perfection,  and  naturall  conformity, 
and  I  saw  her  in  the  foulenesse  and  meanenesse  of  a  course 
milke-maide,  with  bleare  eyes,  and  stinking  breath,  so  that 

115 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


of  Mancha. 


CHAPTER  the  perverse  Enchanter,  that  durst  cause  so  wicked  a  Meta- 
XVI  morphosis,  'tis  not  much  that  hee  hath  done  the  like  in  the 
What  befell  shapes  of  Samson  Carrasco  and  Thomas  Cecial,  to  rob  me  of 
Don  Quixote  the  glory  of  my  conquest.  Notwithstanding  I  am  of  good 
comfort  5  for  *n  what  snaPe  soever  it  were,  I  have  vanquished 
mme  enemy.  God  knowes  all  (said  Sancho)  and  whereas  hee 
knew  the  transformation  of  Dulcinea  had  beene  a  tricke  of 
his,  his  Masters  Chimera's  gave  him  no  satisfaction  :  but 
hee  durst  not  reply  a  word,  for  feare  of  discovering  his 
cozenage. 

Whilest  they  were  thus  reasoning,  one  overtooke  them 
that  came  their  way,  upon  a  faire  flea-bitten  Mare,  upon 
his  backe  a  riding  coate  of  fine  greene  cloth,  welted  with 
tawny  Velvet,  with  a  Hunters  cap  of  the  same  ;  his  Mares 
furniture  was  for  the  field,  and  after  the  Genet  fashion,  of 
the  said  tawny  and  greene,  he  wore  a  Moorish  Semiter, 
hanging  at  a  broad  Belt  of  greene  and  gold,  his  buskins 
were  wrought  with  the  same  that  his  belt  was,  his  spurs 
were  not  gilt,  but  layd  on  with  a  greene  varnish,  so  smooth 
and  burnisht,  that  they  were  more  sutable  to  the  rest  of  his 
clothes,  then  if  they  had  beene  of  beaten  gold.  Comming 
neere,  he  saluted  them  courteously,  and  spurring  his  Mare, 
rode  on  :  But  Don  Quixote  said  to  him,  Gallant,  if  you  goe 
our  way,  and  your  haste  be  not  great,  I  should  take  it  for  a 
favour  that  wee  might  ride  together.  Truly  Sir,  said  he 
with  the  Mare,  I  should  not  ride  from  you,  but  that  I  feare 
your  horse  will  bee  unruly  with  the  company  of  my  Mare. 
You  may  wel,  Sir  (said  Sancho)  you  may  well  reyne  in  your 
Mare  :  for  our  horse  is  the  honestest  and  manerliest  horse  in 
the  world;  he  is  never  unruly  upon  these  occasions;  and 
once  when  hee  flew  out,  my  Master  and  I  payd  for  it  with 
a  witnesse.  I  say  againe,  you  may  stay  if  you  please,  for 
although  your  Mare  were  given  him  betweene  two  dishes,  he 
would  not  looke  at  her. 

The  Passenger  held  in  his  reines,  wondring  at  Don  Quixotes 
countenance  and  posture,  who  was  now  without  his  helmet, 
for  Sancho  carried  it  in  a  Cloke-bag  at  the  pummell  of 
Dapples  pack-saddle  :  and  if  hee  in  the  Greene  did  much 

116 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

looke  at  Don  Quixote,  Don  Quixote  did  much  more  eye    CHAPTER 
him,  taking  him  to  be  a  man  of  worth;   his  age  shewed          XVI 
him  to  bee  about  fifty,  having  few  gray  haires,  his  face  was  What  befell 
somewhat   sharp,   his   countenance   of    an   equall   temper:  1)o11  Q1 
Lastly,  in  his  fashion  and  posture,  hee  seemed  to  be  a  man  ^nJ^J^8* 
of  <j;ood  quality.     His  opinion  of  Don  Quixote  was,  that  Of  M:nu-h;i. 
hee  had  never  scene  such  a  kinde  of  man  before ;  the  lank- 
nesse  of  his  horse,  the  talnesse  of  his  owne  body,  the  spare- 
nesse  and   palenesse   of  his   face  made   him   admire ;    his 
armes,  his  gesture  and  composition,  a  shape  and  picture,  as 
it  were,  had  not  beene  scene  (many  ages  before)  in  that 
Countrey. 

Don  Quixote  noted  well  with  what  attention  the  Traveller 
beheld  him,  and  in  his  suspence  read  his  desire,  and  being 
so  courteous  and  so  great  a  friend,  to  give  all  men  content, 
before  he  demanded  him  any  thing,  to  prevent  him,  he  sayd  : 
This  outside  of  mine  that  you  have  scene,  Sir,  because  it  is 
so  rare  and  different  from  others  now  in  use,  may  (no  doubt) 
have  bred  some  wonder  in  you :  which  you  will  cease,  when 
I  shall  tell  you,  as  now  I  doe,  that  I  am  a  Knight,  one  of 
those  (as  you  would  say)  that  seeke  their  fortunes.  I  went 
out  of  my  Countrey,  engaged  mine  estate,  left  my  pleasure, 
committed  my  selfe  to  the  Armes  of  Fortune,  to  carry  me 
whither  she  pleased.  My  desire  was  to  raise  againe  the 
dead  Knight  Errantry,  and  long  agoe  stumbling  heere,  and 
falling  there,  casting  my  selfe  headlong  in  one  place,  and 
rising  up  in  another,  I  have  accomplished  a  great  part 
of  my  desire,  succouring  Widdowes,  defending  Damozels, 
favouring  married  women,  Orphans,  and  distressed  children 
(the  proper  and  naturall  office  of  Knights  Errant)  so  that  by 
my  many  valiant  and  Christian  exployts,  I  have  merited  to 
be  in  the  Presse,  in  all  or  most  nations  of  the  world  :  thirty 
thousand  volumes  of  my  History  have  beene  printed,  and 
thirty  thousand  millions  more  are  like  to  be,  if  Heaven 
permit.  Lastly,  to  shut  up  all  in  a  word,  I  am  Don  Quixote 
de  la  Mancha,  otherwise  called,  The  Knight  of  the  Sorrow- 
full  Countenance :  And  though  one  should  not  praise  him- 
selfe,  yet  I  must  needs  doe  it,  that  is,  there  being  none 

117 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  present  that  may  doe  it  for  me :  so  that,  kinde  Gentle-man, 
XVI  neither  this  horse,  this  lance,  nor  this  shield,  nor  this  Squire, 
What  befell  nor  all  these  armes  together,  nor  the  palenesse  of  my  face, 
with adiscr*6!  nor  m^  s^en(^er  macilency>  ought  henceforward  to  admire 
Gentleman66  you»  you  knowing  now  who  I  am,  and  the  profession  I 
of  Mancha.  maintains 

This  sayd,  Don  Quixote  was  silent,  and  hee  with  the 
greene  Coat  was  a  great  while  ere  he  could  answer,  as  if 
hee  could  not  hit  upon 't :  but  after  some  pause,  hee  sayd : 
You  were  in  the  right,  Sir  Knight,  in  knowing,  by  my  sus- 
pension, my  desire :  but  yet  you  have  not  quite  remooved 
my  admiration,  which  was  caused  with  seeing  you,  for 
although  that,  as  you  say,  Sir,  that  to  know  who  you  are, 
might  make  me  leave  wondring,  it  is  otherwise,  rather  since 
now  I  know  it,  I  am  in  more  suspence  and  wonderment. 
And  is  it  possible,  that  at  this  day  there  bee  Knights  Errant 
in  the  world  ?  And  that  there  bee  true  Histories  of  Knight- 
hood printed  ?  I  cannot  perswade  my  selfe,  that  there  are 
any  now  that  favour  widowes,  defend  Damozels,  honour 
married  women,  or  succor  Orphans,  and  I  should  never  have 
beleeved  it,  if  I  had  not  in  you  beheld  it  with  mine  eyes : 
Blessed  be  Heavens ;  for  with  this  History  you  speake  of, 
which  is  printed  of  your  true  and  lofty  Chivalry,  those 
innumerable  falsities  of  fained  Knights  Errant  will  be  for- 
gotten, which  the  world  was  full  of;  so  hurtfull  to  good 
education,  and  prejudiciall  to  true  Stories. 

There  is  much  to  be  spoken  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  whether 
the  Histories  of  Knights  Errant  were  fained  or  true.  Why, 
is  there  any  that  doubts  (sayd  he  in  the  Greene)  that  they 
bee  not  false  ?  I  doe  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  and  let  it  suffice, 
for  if  our  journey  last,  I  hope  in  God  to  let  you  see,  that 
you  have  done  ill,  to  bee  led  with  the  streame  of  them  that 
hold  they  are  not  true.  At  this  last  speech  of  Don  Quixote, 
the  Traveller  suspected  hee  was  some  Ideot,  and  expected 
when  some  others  of  his  might  confirme  it :  but  before  they 
should  be  diverted  with  any  other  discourse,  Don  Quixote 
desired  to  know  who  he  was,  since  hee  had  imparted  to 
him  his  condition  and  life :  Hee  in  the  Greene  made 
118 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

answer  ;  I,  Sir  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful!  Countenance,  am  a    CHAPTER 
Gentle-man  borne  in  a  towne,  where  (God  willing)  wee  shall 
dine  to  day :  I  am  well  to  live,  my  name  is  Don  Diego  de  What  ln-tVll 
Miranda,  I  spend  my  life  with  my  wife,  and  children,  and  J^Jft" 
friends:    my  sports  are  hunting  and   fishing:    but  I  have  Gentleman 
neither  Hawke  nor  Grey-hounds,  onely  a  tame  Cock-Partridge,  Of  Maiicha. 
or  a  murdering   Ferret,  some  six   doozen  of  bookes,  some 
Spanish,  some  Latine,  some  History,  others  Devotion  :  your 
books  of  Knighthood  have  not  yet  entred  the  threshold  of 
my  doore,  I  do  more  turne  over  your  prophane  bookes  then 
religious,  if  they  be  for  honest  recreation,  such  as  may  delight 
for  their  language,  and  admire,  and  suspend  for  their  inven- 
tion, although  in  Spaine  there  be  few  of  these.     Sometimes 
I  dine  with  my  neighbors  and  friends,  and  otlierwhiles  invite 
them  :    my  meales   are    neat   and    handsome,   and   nothing 
scarce  :  I  neither  love  to  back-bite  my  self'e,  nor  to  heare 
others  doe  it:    I  -earcli  not  into  other  inens  lives,  or  am  a 
Lynce  to  other  inens  actions,   I   lu-aiv  every  day  a  Masse, 
part  my  goods  with  the  poore,  without  making  a  muster  of 
my  good  deeds,  that  I   may  not  give  way  to  hypocrisie  and 
vaine-glory  to  enter  into  my  heart,  enemies  that  easily  cea 
upon  the  wariest  brest :    I  strive  to  make  peace  bebveene 
such  as  are  at  ods.     I  am  devoted  to  our  blessed  Lady,  and 
alwayes  trust  in  Gods  infinite  mercy. 

Sancho  was  most  attentive  to  this  relation  of  the  life  and 
cntertainements  of  this  Gentle-man,  which  seeming  to  him  to 
bee  good  and  holy,  and  that  he  that  led  it,  worked  miracles, 
he  QUDg  himselfe  from  Dapple,  and  in  great  haste  layd  hold 
of  his  right  stirrup,  and  with  the  teares  in  his  eyes  often 
kissed  his  feet :  which  being  scene  by  the  Gentle-man,  hee 
asked  him  ;  What  doe  ye,  Brother  ?  Wherefore  be  these 
kisses  ? 

Let  me  kisse  (quoth  Sancho :)  for  (me  thinkes)  your  Wor- 
ship is  the  first  Saint,  that  in  all  the  dayes  of  my  life,  I  ever 
saw  a  horse-backe.  I  am  no  Saint  (sayd  he)  but  a  great 
sinner,  you  indeed,  Brother,  are,  and  a  good  soule,  as  your 
simplicity  shewes  you  to  be.  Sancho  went  againe  to  recover 
his  pack-saddle,  having  (as  it  were)  brought  into  the  market- 

119 


CHAPTER 
XVI 

What  befell 
Don  Quixote 


of  Mancha. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

place  his  Masters  laughter  out  of  a  profound  melancholy, 
and  caused  a  new  admiration  in  Don  Diego. 

Don  Quixote  asked  him  how  many  sonnes  hee  had  :  who 
io\^  hjm>  that  one  of  the  things  in  which  the  Philosophers 
^ummum  Bonum  did  consist  (who  wanted  the  true  know- 
ledge  of  God)  was  in  the  goods  of  Nature,  in  those  of 
Fortune,  in  having  many  friends,  and  many  .vertuous  chil- 
dren. I,  Sir  Don  Quixote  (answered  the  Gentle-man)  have 
a  sonne,  whom  if  I  had  not,  perhaps  you  would  judge  mee 
more  happy  then  I  am,  not  that  he  is  so  bad,  but  because  not 
so  good  as  I  would  have  him  :  he  is  about  eighteen  yeers  of 
age,  six  of  which  he  hath  spent  in  Salamanca,  learning  the 
tongues  Greeke  and  Latin,  and  when  I  had  a  purpose  that 
he  should  fall  to  other  Sciences,  I  found  him  so  besotted  with 
Poesie,  and  that  Science  (if  so  it  may  bee  called)  that  it  is 
not  possible  to  make  him  looke  upon  the  Law  (which  I  would 
have  him  study)  nor  Divinity  the  Queene  of  all  Sciences.  I 
would  he  were  the  crowne  of  all  his  linage,  since  wee  live  in 
an  age,  wherein  our  King  doth  highly  reward  good  learning  : 
for  learning  without  goodnesse,  is  like  a  pearle  cast  in  a 
Swines  snowt  :  all  the  day  long  hee  spends  in  his  Criticismes, 
whether  Homer  sayd  well  or  ill  in  such  a  verse  of  his  Iliads, 
whether  Martial  were  bawdy  or  no  in  such  an  Epigram, 
whether  such  or  such  a  verse  in  Virgil  ought  to  be  under- 
stood this  way  or  that  way.  Indeed,  all  his  delight  is  in 
these  aforesayd  Poets,  and  in  Horace,  Persius,  luvenal,  and 
Tibullus  ;  but  of  your  moderne  writers  he  makes  small 
account  :  yet  for  all  the  grudge  he  beares  to  moderne  Poesie, 
hee  is  mad  upon  your  catches,  and  your  glossing  upon  foure 
verses,  which  were  sent  him  from  Salamanca,  and  that  I 
thinke  is  his  true  study. 

To  all  which,  Don  Quixote  answered  ;  Children,  Sir,  are 
pieces  of  the  very  entrailes  of  their  Parents,  so  let  them  bee 
good  or  bad,  they  must  love  them,  as  wee  must  love  our  spirits 
that  give  us  life  :  It  concernes  their  Parents  to  direct  them 
from  their  infancie  in  the  paths  of  vertue,  of  good  manners, 
and  good  and  Christian  exercises,  that  when  they  come  to 
yeeres,  they  may  be  the  staffe  of  their  age,  and  the  glory  of 

120 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

their  posterity  :  and  I  hold  it  not  so  proper,  to  force  them  to    CHAPTER 
study  this  or  that  Science,  though  to  perswade  them  were  not         XVI 
nniisse,  and  though  it  be  not  to  study  to  get  his  bread  (the  What  befell 
Student  being  so  happy,  that  God  hath  given  him  Parents  Don  Quixote 
able  to  leave  him  well)  mine  opinion  should  bee,  that  they  ^SSUn 
let  him  follow  that  kinde  of  study  hee  is  most  inclined  to,  of  Mancha, 
and  though  that  of  Poetry  be  lesse  profitable  then  delight- 
full,  yet  it  is  none  of  those,  that  will  dishonour  the  Pro- 
fessour. 

Poetry,  Signior,  in  my  opinion,  is  like  a  tender  virgin, 
young  and  most  beautifull,  whom  many  other  virgins,  to  wit, 
all  the  other  Sciences,  are  to  enrich,  polish,  and  adorne,  she 
is  to  be  served  by  them  all,  and  all  are  to  bee  authorized  by 
her :  but  this  Virgin  will  not  bee  handled  and  hurried  up 
and  downe  the  streets,  nor  published  in  every  market-nooke, 
nor  Court-corners.  Shee  is  made  of  a  kind  of  Alchymie,  that 
he  that  knowes  how  to  handle  her,  will  quickly  turne  her  into 
the  purest  gold  of  inestimable  value,  he  that  enjoyeth  her, 
must  hold  her  at  distance,  not  letting  her  lash  out  in  un- 
cleane  Satyrs,  nor  in  dull  Sonnets,  she  must  not  by  any 
meanes  bee  vendible,  except  in  Heroyke  Poems,  in  lamentable 
Tragedies,  or  pleasant  and  artificiall  Comedies :  Shee  must 
not  be  meddled  with  by  Testers,  nor  by  the  Ignorant  vulgar, 
imeapable  of  knowing  or  esteeming  the  treasures  that  are 
locked  up  in  her ;  and  think  not,  Sir,  that  I  call  here  only 
the  common  people  vulgar,  for  whosoever  is  ignorant,  be 
he  Potentate  or  Prince,  he  may  and  must  enter  into  the 
number  of  the  vulgar  :  so  that  hee  who  shall  handle  and 
esteeme  of  Poetry  with  these  Requisites  I  have  declared,  he 
shall  be  famous,  and  his  name  shall  be  extolled  in  all  the 
Politique  nations  of  the  world. 

And  wheras,  Sir,  you  say  your  sonne  neglects  moderne 
Poesie,  I  perswade  my  selfe  he  doth  not  well  in  it,  and  the 
reason  is  this :  Great  Homer  never  wrote  in  Latine,  because 
he  was  a  Grecian  ;  nor  Virgil  in  Greeke,  because  he  was  a 
Latine :  Indeed  all  your  ancient  Poets  wrote  in  the  tongue 
which  they  learnt  from  their  cradle,  and  sought  not  after 
>t range  languages  to  declare  their  lofty  conceits.  Which 

3  : V  121 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  being  so,  it  were  reason  this  custom  should  extend  it  selfe 

XVI  thorow  all  nations,  and  that  your  German  Poet  should  not 

What  befell  be  under-valued,  because  hee  writes  in  his  language,  nor  the 

Don  Quixote  Castilian,  or  Biscayner,  because  they  write  in  theirs.     But 

with  a  discreet  Sonne  (as  I  suppose)  doth  not  mislike  moderne  Poesie, 

Gentleman  j       _.                            rr       ',                            .,,                      i    -i           £ 

of  Mancha.  but  Poets  that  are  meerely  moderne,  without  knowledge  ot 

other  tongues,  or  Sciences,  that  may  adorne,  rowze  up,  and 
strengthen  their  natural  impulse,  and  yet  in  this  there  may 
be  an  errour.  For  it  is  a  true  opinion,  that  a  Poet  is  borne 
so,  the  meaning  is,  a  Poet  is  naturally  borne  a  Poet  from  his 
mothers  wombe,  and  with  that  inclination  that  Heaven  hath 
given  him,  without  further  study  or  Art,  he  composeth 
things,  that  verifie  his  saying  that  sayd,  Est  Deus  in  nobis, 
etc. 

Let  mee  also  say,  that  the  naturall  Poet,  that  helps  him- 
selfe  with  Art,  shall  bee  much  better,  and  have  the  advantage 
of  that  Poet,  that  onely  out  of  his  Art  strives  to  be  so  :  the 
reason  is,  because  Art  goes  not  beyond  Nature,  but  onely  per- 
fects it,  so  that  Nature  and  Art  mixt  together,  and  Art  with 
Nature,  make  an  excellent  Poet.  Let  this  then  be  the  scope 
of  my  discourse,  Sir,  let  your  sonne  proceede  whither  his 
Starre  cals  him :  for  if  he  be  so  good  a  Student,  as  he  ought 
to  be,  and  have  happily  mounted  the  first  step  of  the  Sciences, 
which  is  the  languages,  with  them  (by  himselfe)  hee  will 
ascend  to  the  top  of  humane  learning,  which  appeares  as  well 
in  a  Gentle-man,  and  doth  as  much  adorne,  honour,  and  en- 
noble him,  as  a  Miter  doth  a  Bishop,  or  a  loose  Cassocke  a 
Civilian.  Chide  your  sonne,  if  he  write  Satyrs  that  may  pre- 
judice honest  men,  punish  him,  and  teare  them :  but  if  he 
make  Sermones,  like  those  of  Horace,  to  the  reprehension  of 
vice  in  generall,  as  he  so  elegantly  did,  then  cherish  him,  for 
it  is  lawfull  for  a  Poet  to  write  against  envy,  and  to  inveigh 
against  envious  persons  in  his  verse,  and  so  against  other 
vices,  if  so  be  he  aime  at  no  particular  person  :  But  you  have 
Poets,  that  in  stead  of  uttering  a  jerke  of  wit,  they  will  venter 
a  being  banished  to  the  Hands  of  Pontus.  If  a  Poet  live 
honestly,  he  will  bee  so  in  his  verses,  the  pen  is  the  mindes 
tongue  ;  as  the  conceits  are,  which  be  ingendred  in  it,  such 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

will  the  writings  be,  and  when  Kings  and  Princes  see  the    CHAPTER 
miraculous  Science  of  Poesie,  in  wise,  virtuous,  and  grave 
Subjects,  they  honour,  esteeme,  and  enrich  them,  and  even  What  ln>fVll 
crowne  them  with  the  leaves  of  that  *Tree,  which  the  thunder-  I).('11  Q"'*"^ 
bolt  offends  not,  in  token  that  none  shall  offend  them,  that  Q^ttemlS* 
have  their  temples  honoured  and  adorned  with  such  crownes.  of  Alam-ha. 
The  Gentle-man  admired   Don   Quixotes  discourse,  and  so  *The  Lawrell. 
much,  that  now  he  forsooke  his  opinion  he  had  of  him,  that  he 
was  a  Coxcombe.     But  in  the  midst  of  this  discourse,  Sancho, 
(that  was  weary  of  it)  went  out  of  the  way  to  beg  a  little 
milke  of  some  shcpheards  not  farre  off,  curing  of  their  sheepe : 
so  the  Gentleman  still  maintained  talke  with  Don  Quixote, 
beeing  wonderfully  taken  and  satisfied  with  his  wise  discourse. 
But  Don  Quixote  lifting  up  sodainly  his  eyes,  saw  that  in 
the  way  toward  them,  there  came  a  Cart  full  of  the  Kings 
Colours,  and  taking  it  to  be  some  rare  adventure,  hec  called 
to  Sancho  for  his  Helmet.    Sancho  hearing  himselfe  called 
on,  left  the  shepheards,  and  spurM   Dapple  apace, 
and  came  to  his  Master,  to  whom  a  rash  and 
stupendious  adventure  happened. 


123 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    XVII 

Where  is  shewed  the  last  and  extremest  hazard,  to 
which  the  unheard  of  courage  of  Don  Quixote 
did  or  could  arrive,  with  the  prosperous 
accomplishment  of  the  adven- 
ture of  the  Lyons. 

HE  Historie  sayes,  that  when  Don  Quixote 
called  to  Sancho,  to  bring  him  his  Helmet, 
he  was  buying  curds  which  the  Shepheards 
sold  him  ;  and  being  hastily  layd  at  by  his 
Master,  he  knew  not  what  to  doe  with 
them,  or  how  to  bestow  them  without 
losing  them,  for  hee  had  payed  for  them ; 
so  hee  bethought  himselfe,  and  clapt 
them  into  his  Masters  Helmet,  and  this  good  order  taken, 
hee  went  to  see  what  he  would  have :  who,  when  he  came, 
sayd,  Give  mee,  friend,  that  same  Helmet,  for  eyther  I  know 
not  what  belongs  to  adventures,  or  that  I  see  yonder  is  one 
that  will  force  mee  to  take  Armes.  Hee  of  the  greene  coat 
that  heard  this,  turned  his  eyes  every  way,  and  saw  nothing 
but  a  Cart  that  came  toward  them,  with  two  or  three  small 
flags,  which  made  him  thinke  that  the  said  Cart  carried  the 
Kings  money,  and  so  he  told  Don  Quixote  :  but  he  beleeved 
him  not,  alwaies  thinking  that  every  thing  hee  saw,  was 
adventure  upon  adventure  :  so  hee  answered  the  Gentleman, 
He  that  is  warned,  is  halfe  arm'd :  there  is  nothing  lost  in 
being  provided  ;  for  I  know  by  experience,  that  I  have 
enemies  visible  and  invisible,  and  I  know  not  when,  nor  where, 
nor  at  what  time,  or  in  what  shape  they  will  set  upon  me  : 
and  turning  to  Sancho,  hee  demanded  his  Helmet,  who  want- 
ing leysure  to  take  the  Curds  out,  was  forced  to  give  it  him 
as  it  was.  Don  Quixote  tooke  it,  and  not  perceiving  what 
124 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

was  in  it,  clapt  it  sodainly  upon  his  head  ;  and  as  the  Curds    CHAPTER 
were  squeazed  and  thrust  together,  the  wliay  began  to  runne         X\  11 
downe  Don  Quixotes  face  and  beard ;  at  which  he  was  in  Where  is 
such  a  fright,  that  he  cryed  out  to  Sancho,  What  ailes  me,  j.^f/116 
Sancho  ?  for  me-thinkes  my  skull  is  softned,  or  my  braines  e'xtremest 
melt,  or  that  I  sweat  from  top  to  toe ;  and  if  it  be  sweat,  I  hazard,  to 
assure  thee  it  is  not  for  feaiv,  I  beleeve  eertainely  that  I  am  which  the 
like  to  have  a  terrible  adventure  of  this  ;  give  mee  something  nnhatrd  of 
(if  thou  hast  it)  to  wipe  on,  for  this  abundance  of  sweat  DonlSuixata 
blindes  me.     Sancho  was  silent  and  gave  him  a  cloth,  and  (ii<j  or  could 
with  it  thankes  to  God,  that  his  Master  fell  not  into  the  arrive,  etc. 
businesse.     Don  Quixote  wiped   himselfe,  and  tooke  off  his 
Helmet  to  see  what  it  was,  that  (as  hee  thought)  did  be- 
numnie  his  head,  and  >eeing  those   white  splatches  in  his 
helmet,  hee  put  um  to  his  nose,  and  smelling  to  them,  said, 
By  my  Mistresse  Dulcinea  del  Toboso's  life,  they  are  Curds 
that  thou  hast  brought  me  heere,  thou  base  traitor,  and  un- 
mannerly  Squire.     To   which   Sancho  very  cunningly,  and 
with  a  great  deale  of  pawse,  answered.     If  they  be  curds, 
give  them  me,  pray,  ana  lie  eate  um  :    but  let  the  Devill  eat 
um,  for  he  put  um  there.     Should  I  be  so  bold  as  to  foule 
your  worships  Helmet  ?  and  there  you  have  found  (as  I  told 
you)  who  did  it.     In  faith  Sir,  as  sure  as  God  lives,  I  have 
my  Enchanters  too  that  persecute  me  as  a  creature  and  part 
of  you,  and  I  warrant  have  put  that  filth  there,  to  stirre  you 
up  to  choller,  and  to  make  you  bang  my  sides  (as  you  use  to 
doe.)     Well,  I  hope  this  time  they  have  lost  their  labour, 
for  I  trust  in  my  Masters  discretion,  that  he  will  consider, 
that  I  have  neyther  Curds,  nor  milke,  nor  any  such  thing  ; 
for  if  I  had,  I  had  rather  put  it  in  my  stomacke,  then  in  the 
Helmet :  All  this  may  be  (said  Don  Quixote.) 

The  Gentleman  observed  all,  and  wondred,  especially  when 
Don  Quixote,  after  hee  had  wiped  his  head,  face,  beard,  and 
helmet,  clapt  it  on  againe,  settling  himselfe  well  in  his 
stirrops,  searching  for  his  sword,  and  grasping  his  Launce, 
he  cried  out :  Now  come  on't  what  will,  for  here  I  am,  with 
a  courage  to  meet  Satan  himselfe  in  person. 

By  this,  the  Cart  with  the  flags  drew  neere,  in  which 

125 


CHAPTER 
XVII 

Where  is 
shewed  the 
last  and 
extremest 
hazard,  to 
which  the 
unheard  of 
courage  of 
Don  Quixote 
did  or  could 
arrive,  etc. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

there  came  no  man  but  the  Carter  with  his  Mules,  and 
another  upon  the  formost  of  them.  Don  Quixote  put  him- 
selfe  forward,  and  asked;  Whither  goe  ye,  my  masters? 
what  Cart  is  this  ?  what  doe  you  carry  in  it  ?  and  what 
colours  be  these?  To  which  the  Carter  answered,  The 
Cart  is  mine,  the  Carriage  is  two  fierce  Lyons  caged  up, 
which  the  Generall  of  Oran  sends  to  the  King  at  Court 
for  a  Present :  these  Colours  be  his  Majesties,  in  signe 
that  what  goes  here  is  his.  And  are  the  Lyons  bigge  ? 
sayd  Don  Quixote.  So  bigge  (said  he  that  went  toward 
the  Cart  doore)  that  there  never  came  bigger  out  of  Africa 
into  Spaine,  and  I  am  their  keeper,  and  have  carried  others, 
but  never  any  so  big :  they  are  Male  and  Female,  the  Male 
is  in  this  first  grate,  the  Female  in  the  hindermost,  and 
now  they  are  hungry,  for  they  have  not  eat  to  day,  and 
therefore  I  pray  Sir  give  us  way ;  for  we  had  neede  come 
quickly  where  wee  may  meate  them.  To  which  (quoth  Don 
Quixote  smiling  a  little)  Your  Lyon  whelps  to  me  ?  to  me 
your  Lyon  whelps  ?  and  at  this  time  of  day  ?  Well,  I  vow 
to  God,  your  Generall  that  sends  um  this  way  shall  know, 
whether  I  be  one  that  am  afraid  of  Lyons.  Alight,  honest 
fellow,  and  if  you  be  the  Keeper,  open  their  Cages,  and 
let  me  your  beasts  forth ;  for  Tie  make  um  know  in  the 
middest  of  this  Champian,  who  Don  Quixote  is,  in  spight 
of  those  Enchanters  that  sent  um.  Fye,  fye,  (said  the 
Gentleman  at  this  instant  to  himselfe)  our  Knight  shewes 
very  well  what  he  is,  the  Curds  have  softned  his  skull,  and 
ripened  his  braines.  By  this  Sancho  came  to  him  and  sayd  ; 
for  Gods  love  handle  the  matter  so,  Sir,  that  my  Master 
meddle  not  with  these  Lyons ;  for  if  he  doe,  they  '1  worry 
us  all.  Why,  is  your  Master  so  madde  (quoth  the  Gentle- 
man) that  you  feare,  or  beleeve  hee  will  fight  with  wilde 
beasts  ?  Hee  is  not  mad,  sayd  Sancho,  but  hardy.  He 
make  him  otherwise,  said  the  Gentleman ;  and  comming  to 
Don  Quixote,  that  was  hastening  the  Keeper  to  open  the 
Cages,  sayd,  Sir  Knight,  Knights  Errant  ought  to  under- 
take adventures,  that  may  give  a  likelihood  of  ending  them 
well,  and  not  such  as  are  altogether  desperate :  for  valour 
126 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

grounded  upon  rashnesse,  hath  more  madnesse  then  forti-    CHAPTER 
tude.     How  much  more,  these  Lyons  come  not  to  assay le        XVI I 
you,  they  are  carried  to  bee  presented  to  his  Majesty,  and  Where  is 
therefore  "'twere  not  good  to  stay  or  hinder  their  journey.  jfc«**d  the 
Pray  get  you  gone,  gentle   Sir  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  and  J^^st 
deale  with  your  tame  Partridge,  and  your  murdring  Ferret,  hazard  to 
and  leave  every  man  to  his  function :  this  is  mine,  and  I  am  whirh  the 
sufficient  to  know  whether  these  Lyons  come  against  me  or  unheard  of 

no:  so  turning  to  the  Keeper,  he"  cried:  *By  this— good-  5?<uTPta' 

-e-  f  \\     -n  TI       s-i     &    -ri     Don  Quixote 

man  slave,  if  you  doe  not  forthwith   open   the  Cage,  He  ^id  or  could 

nayle  you  with  my  Launce  to  your  Cart.     The  Carter  that  arrive,  etc. 
perceived  the  resolution  of  that  armed  Vision,  told  him,  #,, 
Seignior  mine,  will  you   be   pleased   in   charity  to  let  me  when "hee 
unyoke  my  Mules,  and  to  put  my  selfe  and  them  in  safety,  would  seeme 
before  I  unsheath  my  Lyons  ?  for  if  they  should  kill  them,  to  sweare,  but 
I  am  undone  all  dayes  of  my  life,  for  I  have  no  other  living  swe"yes  by 
but  this  Cart  and   my  Mules.     Oh   thou  wretch  of  little  n 
Faith  (quoth   Don   Quixote)   light,  and    unyoke,  and   doe 
what  thou   wilt,  for    thou    shalt   see   thou    mightest   have 
saved  a  labour.     The  Carter  alighted,  and  unyoaked  hastily, 
and  the  keeper  cryed  out  aloud,  Beare  witnesse,  my  Mastt 
all,  that  I  am  forced  against  my  will  to  open  the  Cages, 
and   to   let  loose  the   Lyons,  and  that   I    protest  to  this 
Gentleman,  that  all  the  harme  and   mischicfe  that  these 
Beasts  shall  doe,  light  upon  him,  besides  that  he  pay  mee 
my  wages  and  due.     Shift  you  sirs  for  your  selves,  before 
I  open,  for  I  am  sure  they  "1  doe  mee  no  hurt.     The  Gentle- 
man perswaded  him  the  second  time,  that  he  should  not 
attempt  such  a  piece  of  madnesse ;  for  such  a  folly  was  to 
tempt  God. 

To  which  Don  Quixote  answered,  that  he  knew  what  he 
did.  The  Gentleman  replyde,  That  he  should  consider 
well  of  it,  for  he  knew  he  was  deceived.  Well,  Sir,  (sayd 
Don  Quixote)  if  you  will  not  be  a  spectator  of  this  (which 
you  thinke  Tragedy)  pray  spurre  your  Flea-bitten,  and  put 
your  selfe  in  safety.  Which  when  Sancho  heard,  with 
teares  in  his  eyes,  he  beseeched  him  to  desist  from  that 
enterprize,  in  comparison  of  which,  that  of  the  Winde-Mils 

127 


CHAPTER 
XVII 

Where  is 
shewed  the 
last  and 
extremest 
hazard,  to 
which  the 
unheard  of 
courage  of 
Don  Quixote 
did  or  could 
arrive,  etc. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

was  Cakebread,  and  that  fearefull  one  also  of  the  Fulling- 
Miil,  or  all  the  exploits  that  ever  he  had  done  in  his 
life.  Looke  ye,  Sir  (said  Sancho)  heere  's  no  Enchantment, 
nor  any  such  thing;  for  I  have  looked  thorow  the  grates 
and  chinkes  of  the  Cages,  and  have  seen  a  clawe  of  a  true 
Lyon,  by  which  clawe  I  ghesse  the  Lyon  is  as  big  as  a 
mountaine. 

Thy  feare  at  least  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  will  make  him  as 
bigge  as  halfe  the  world.  Get  thee  out  of  the  way,  Sancho, 
and  leave  me,  and  if  I  die  in  the  place,  thou  knowest  our 
agreement,  repayre  to  Dulcinea,  and  that's  enough. 

To  these  hee  added  other  reasons,  by  which  hee  cut  off 
all  hope  of  his  leaving  the  prosecution  of  that  foolish  enter- 
prize. 

Hee  of  the  Greene  coate  would  have  hindered  him,  but 
hee  found  himselfe  unequally  matched  in  weapons,  and 
thought  it  no  wisedome  to  deale  with  a  mad-man ;  for  now 
Don  Quixote  appeared  no  otherwise  to  him,  who  hastning 
the  Keeper  afresh,  and  reiterating  his  threats,  made  the 
Gentleman  set  spurs  to  his  Mare,  and  Sancho  to  his  Dapple, 
and  the  Carter  to  his  Mules,  ech  of  them  striving  to  get  as 
farre  from  the  Cart  as  they  could,  before  the  Lyons  should 
be  unhampered. 

Sancho  bewailed  his  Masters  losse ;  for  he  beleeved  cer- 
tainely  that  the  Lyon  would  catch  him  in  his  pawes,  he 
cursed  his  fortune,  and  the  time  that  ever  hee  came  againe 
to  his  Masters  service.  But  for  all  his  wailing  and  lament- 
ing, he  left  not  punching  of  Dapple,  to  make  him  get  farre 
enough  from  the  Cart. 

The  Keeper,  when  he  saw  those  that  fledde  farre  enough 
off,  began  anew  to  require  and  intimate  to  Don  Quixote, 
what  hee  had  formerly  done :  who  answered,  That  hee 
heard  him,  and  that  hee  should  leave  his  intimations;  for 
all  was  needlesse,  and  that  he  should  make  haste. 

Whilest  the  Keeper  was  opening  the  first  Cage,  Don 
Quixote  began  to  consider,  whether  it  were  best  to  fight 
on  foot,  or  on  horsebacke :  And  at  last  he  determined  it 
should  be  on  foot,  fearing  that  Rozinante  would  bee  afraid 

188 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

to  looke  upon  the  Lyons :  and  thereupon  hee  leaped  from    CHAPTER 
his  horse,  cast  by  his  Launce,  buckled  his  Shield  to  him,        XVII 
and  unsheathed   his  sword   faire  and  softly  ;  with  a  mar- 
vellous  courage  and  valiant  heart,  he  marched  toward  the 
Cart,  recommending  himselfe  first  to  God,  and  then  to  his 
Lady  Dulcinea.  hazard,  to 

And  heere  is  to  be  noted,  that  when  the  Author  of  the  which  the 
true  History  came  to  this  passage,  hee  exclaimes  and  cries,  unheard  of 

0  strong   (and    beyond   all   comparison)   couragious    Don  Don^uixot 
(Quixote!    thou   Looking-glaate,  in   which    all   the   valiant  dkl  or  could 
Knights  of  the  World   may  behold  themselves  :  thou  new  arrive,  etc. 
and  second  Don  Manuel  de  Leon,  who  was  the  honor  and 

glory  of  the  Spanish   Knights:  with  what  words  shall  I  re- 
count this  fearefull  exployt  ?  or  with  what  arguments  shall 

1  make  it  credible  to  ensuing  times  ?  or  what  praises  will 
not  n't   and    square  with  thee  ?    though    they   may  seemu 
Hyperboles  above  all  Hyperboles?     Thou  on  foot,  alone, 
undiluted    and    magnanimous,  with   thy  sword    onely,  and 
that  none  of  your  cutting  Foxe-blades,  with  a  Shield,  not 
of  bright  and  shining  steele,  expectest  and  attendest  two 
of  the  fiercest  Lyons  that  ever  were  bred  in  African  woods. 
Let  thine  owne  deeds  extoll  tlue,  brave  Manchegan :  for  I 
must  leave  um  here  abruptly,  since  I  want  words  to  endeere 
them. 

Heere  the  Authors  exclamation  ceased,  and  the  thred  of 
the  story  went  knitting  it  selfe  on,  saying  : 

The  Keeper  si-eing  Don  Quixote  in  his  posture,  and  that 
hee  must  needs  let  loose  the  Male  Lyon,  on  paine  of  the 
bold  Knight  his  indignation,  he  set  the  first  Cage  wide  open, 
where  the  Lyon  (as  is  saide)  was,  of  an  extraordinary  big- 
nesse,  fearefull  and  ugly  to  see  to.  The  first  thing  he  did, 
was  to  tumble  up  and  down  the  cage,  stretch  one  pawe,  and 
rowse  himselfe,  forthwith  he  yawned,  and  gi-ntly  sneezed, 
then  with  his  tongue  some  two  handfuls  long,  he  licked  the 
dust  out  of  his  eyes,  and  washed  his  face ;  which  clone, 
he  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  Cage,  and  looked  round 
about  him,  with  his  eyes  like  fire  coales  :  a  sight  and  gesture 
able  to  make  Temerity  it  selfe  afraid.  Onely  Don  Quixote 

3 : R  129 


CHAPTER 
XVII 

Where  is 
shewed  the 
last  and 
extremest 
hazard,  to 
which  the 
unheard  of 
courage  of 
Don  Quixote 
did  or  could 
arrive,  etc. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

beheld  him  earnestly,  and  wished  he  would  leape  out  of 
the  Cart,  that  they  might  grapple,  for  hee  thought  to 
slice  him  in  pieces.  Hitherto  came  the  extreme  of  his  not- 
heard-of  madnesse :  but  the  generous  Lyon,  more  courteous 
then  arrogant,  neglecting  such  childishnesse,  and  Bravados, 
after  hee  had  looked  round  about  him  (as  is  said)  turned 
his  backe,  and  shewed  his  tayle  to  Don  Quixote,  and 
very  quietly  lay  downe  againe  in  the  Cage.  Which  Don 
Quixote  seeing,  he  commanded  the  Keeper  to  give  him 
two  or  three  blowes,  to  make  him  come  forth.  No,  not  I 
(quoth  the  Keeper)  for  if  I  urge  him,  I  shall  bee  the  first  he 
will  teare  in  pieces.  I  pray  you,  Sir  Knight,  be  contented 
with  your  daies  worke,  which  is  as  much  as  could  in  valour  be 
done,  and  tempt  not  a  second  hazard.  The  Lyons  door  was 
open,  hee  might  have  come  out  if  he  would  ;  but  since  hee 
hath  not  hitherto,  he  will  not  come  forth  all  this  day.  You 
have  well  shewed  the  stoutnesse  of  your  courage  :  no  brave 
Combatant  (in  my  opinion)  is  tyed  to  more,  then  to  defie  his 
Enemy,  and  to  expect  him  in  field  ;  and  if  his  contrary  come 
not,  the  disgrace  is  his,  and  he  that  expected,  remaines  with 
the  prize. 

True  it  is  (answered  Don  Quixote)  friend,  shut  the  dore, 
and  give  me  a  certificate  in  the  best  forme  that  you  can,  of 
what  you  have  seene  me  doe  here :  to  wit,  That  you  opened 
to  the  Lyon,  that  I  expected  him,  and  hee  came  not  out ; 
that  I  expected  him  againe,  yet  all  would  not  doe,  but  hee  lay 
downe.  I  could  doe  no  more.  Enchantments,  avant,  God 
maintaine  right  and  truth,  and  true  Chivalrie  :  shut  (as  I 
bad  you)  whilest  I  make  signes  to  them  that  are  fledde,  that 
they  may  know  this  exployt  from  thy  relation.  The  Keeper 
obeyed,  and  Don  Quixote  putting  his  handkerchiefe  on  the 
poynt  of  his  Launce,  with  which  hee  had  wiped  the  Curd- 
showre  from  off  his  face,  he  began  to  call  those  that  fledde, 
and  never  so  much  as  looked  behinde  them,  all  in  a  troope, 
and  the  Gentleman  the  foreman  :  but  Sancho  seeing  the 
white  cloth,  said,  Hang  mee,  if  my  Master  have  not  van- 
quished the  wilde  beasts,  since  he  calls  us.  All  of  them 
made  a  stand,  and  knew  it  was  Don  Quixote  that  made  the 

130 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

signe.    So  lessening  their  feare,  by  little  and  little  they  drew    CHAPTER 
neere  him,  till  they  could  plainely  heare  that  he  called  them.         XVI1 
At  length  they  returned  to  the  Cart,  and  Don  Quixote  said  Where  is 
to  the  Carter ;  Yoake  your  Mules  againe,  Brother,  and  get  shl>w«'«l  the 
you  on  your  way  :  and  Sancho,  give  him  two  pistolets  in  gold,  J^.,?,',','^ 
for  him  and  the  Lyon-keeper,  in  recompence  for  their  stay,  hazard,  to 
With  a  very  good  will,  (said  Sancho)  but  what's  become  of  which  the 
the  Lyons  ?  are  they  alive  or  dead  ?     Then  the  Keeper  faire  uuheard  of 
and  softly  began  to  tell  them  of  the  bickering,  extolling,  as  ^Ouixote 
well  as  he  could,  Don  Quixotes  valour,  at  whose  sight  the  did1  or  could 
Lyon  trembling,  would  not,  or  durst  not  sallie  from   the  arrive,  etc. 
Cage,  although  the  dore  were  open  a  pretty  while,  and  that 
because-  hee  had  told  the  Knight,  that  to  provoke  the  Lyon, 
was  to  tempt  God,  by  making  him  come  out  by  force  (as  lie 
would  that  hee  should  be  provoked  in  spight  of  his  teeth, 
and  against  his  will)  In-  suffered  the  doore  to  be  shut.    What 
thinke  you  of  this,  Sancho  ?  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  Can  En- 
chantment now  prevaile  against  true  Valour  ?     Well  may 
Enchanters  make  mee  unfortunate,  but  'tis  impossible  they 
should  bereave  mee  of  my  valour. 

Sand  10  bestowed  the  Pistolets,  and  the  Carter  yoaked,  the 
Keeper  tooke  leave  of  Don  Quixote,  and  thanked  him  for  his 
kindnesse,  and  promised  him  to  relate  his  valerous  exploit 
to  the  King  himselfe,  when  hee  came  to  Court.  Well,  if  his 
Majesty  chance  to  aske  who  it  was  that  did  it,  tell  him,  The 
Knight  of  the  Lyons  :  for  henceforward,  I  will  that  my  name 
be  trucked,  exchanged,  turned  and  changed  now,  from  that  I 
had  of  The  Knight  of  the  sorrowfull  Countenance  ;  and  in 
this  I  follow  the  ancient  use  of  Knights  Errant,  that  would 
change  their  names  when  they  pleased,  or  thought  it  con- 
venient. 

The  Cart  went  on  it's  way,  and  Don  Quixote,  Sancho,  and 
he  in  the  greene,  held  on  theirs.  In  all  this  while,  Don 
Diego  de  Miranda  spoke  not  a  word,  being  busied  in  noting 
Don  Quixotes  speeches  and  actions,  taking  him  to  bee  a  wise 
mad-man,  or  a  mad-man  that  came  somewhat  neere  a  wise- 
man.  Hee  knew  nothing  as  yet  of  the  first  part  of  his 
History,  for  if  hee  had  read  that,  he  would  have  left  admir- 

131 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    ing  his  words  and  deeds,  since  he  might  have  knowne  the 
XVII         nature  of  his  madnesse :  but  for  hee  knew  it  not,  he  held 
Where  is         him  to  be  wise  and  mad  by  fits ;  for  what  hee  spoke,  was  con- 
shewed  the       sonant,  elegant,  and  well  delivered:  but  his  actions  were 
extremes!         foolish,  rash,  and  unadvised :  and  (thought  hee  to  himselfe) 
hazard  to        What  greater  madnesse  could  there  be,  then  to  clap  on  a 
which  the        helmet  full  of  Curds,  and  to  make  us  beleeve  that  Enchanters 
unheard  of      had  softned  his  skull  ?  or  what  greater  rashnesse  or  foppery, 
then  forcibly  to  venter  upon  Lyons  ?    Don  Quixote  drew  him 
dicTor  could6    ^rom  these  imaginations,  saying,  Who  doubts,  Seignior  Don 
arrive,  etc.       Diego  de  Miranda,  but  that  you  will  hold  me  in  your  opinion 
for  an  idle  fellow,  or  a  mad-man :  and  no  marvell  that  I  be 
held  so  ;  for  my  actions  testifie  no  lesse  :  for  all  that,  I  would 
have  you  know,  that  I  am  not  so  mad,  or  so  shallow  as  I 
seeme.     It  is  a  brave  sight  to  see  a  goodly  Knight  in  the 
*In  Spaine       midst*  of  the  Market-place  before  his  Prince,  to  give  a  thrust 
they  use  with  with  his  Launce  to  a  fierce  Bull.     And  it  is  a  brave  sight  to 
indT"^11'       see  a  -^i&ht  armed  in  shining  armour  passe  about  the  Tilt- 
t^courseSSr  Jar(^  a*  ^e  cheerefull  lusts  before  the  Ladies ;  and  all  those 
Bull  to  death   Knights  are  a  brave  sight  that  in  Military  exercises  (or  such 
in  the  Market  as  may  seeme  so)  doe  entertaine,  revive,  and  honour  their 
places.  Princes  Courts :  but  above  all  these,  a  Knight  Errant  is  a 

better  sight,  that  by  Desarts  and  Wildernesses,  by  crosse- 
waies  and  Woods,  and  Mountaines,  searcheth  after  dangerous 
Adventures,  with  a  purpose  to  end  them  happily  and  fortu- 
nately, onely  to  obtaine  glorious  and  lasting  Fame.  A  Knight 
Errant  (I  say)  is  a  better  sight,  succouring  a  widdow  in 
some  Desart,  then  a  Court  Knight  courting  some  Damozell 
in  the  City.  All  Knights  have  their  particular  exercises  : 
Let  the  Courtier  serve  Ladies,  authorize  his  Princes  Court 
with  liveries,  sustaine  poore  Gentlemen  at  his  Table,  appoint 
lusts,  maintaine  Tourney es,  shew  himselfe  noble,  liberall,  and 
magnificent,  and  above  all,  Religious,  and  in  these  he  shal 
accomplish  with  his  obligation.  But  for  the  Knight  Errant, 
let  him  search  the  corners  of  the  world,  enter  the  most  in- 
tricate Labyrinths,  every  foote  undertake  Impossibles,  and 
in  the  Desarts  and  Wildernesse :  let  him  resist  the  Sunne- 
beames  in  the  midst  of  Summer,  and  the  sharpe  rigor  of  the 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

windes  and  frosts  in  Winter  :  Let  not  Lyons  fright  him,  nor    CHAPTER 
spirits  terrific  him,  nor  Hobgoblins  make  him  quake :  for  to         XVII 
seeke  these,  to  set  upon  them,  and  to  overcome  all,  are  his  Where  is 
prime  exercises.    And  since  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  bee  one  of  the  ^ewed  the 
number  of  tin-so  Knights  Errant,  I  cannot  but  undergoe  all  J^rj!,1,1,1^ 
that  I  think  conies  under  the  jurisdiction  of  my  profession.  ha/ani,  to 
So  that  the  encountring  those  Lyons  did  directly  belong  to  which  the 
me,  though  I  knew  it  to  be  an  exorbitant  rashnesse;  for  well  unheard  of 
I  know,  that  valour  is  a  vertue  betwixt  two  vicious  extremes,  jJwaMKbwIe 
as  cowardise  and  rashnesse  :  but  it  is  lesse  dangerous  for  him  (|id  or\.0,,i(i 
that  is  valiant,  to  rise  to  a  point  of  rasluu  -»e.  then  to  fall  or  arrive,  etc. 
touch  upon  the  Coward.     For  as  it  is  more  easie  for  a  pro- 
el  igall  man  to  be  liberall,  then  a  covetous,  so  it  is  easier  for  a 
rash  man  to  IK-  truely  valiant,  then  a  Coward  to  come  to  true 
valour.    And  touching  the  on-set  in  Adventures,  believe  mee 
Signior  Don   Diego,  it  is  better  playing  a  good  trump  then 
mall,  for  it  sounds  better  in  the  hearers  eares :  Such  a 
Knight  is  rash  and  hardy,  then,  such  a  Knight  is  fearefull 
and  cowardly. 

I  say,  Signior  (answered  Don  Diego)  that  all  that  you 

have  said  and  done  is  levelled  out  by  the  line  of  Reason, 

and    I    thinke  if  the   Statutes  and  Ordinances   of  Knight 

Errantry  were   lost,  they  might  be   found   again   in  your 

brest,  as  in    their   own    Storehouse   and    Register,  and    so 

let  us  haste,  for  the  day  growes  on  us,  let  us  get  to  my 

village  and  house,  where  you  shall  ease  your  selfe  of  your 

former  labour  ;  which,  though  it  have  not  beene  bodily,  yet 

it   is   mentall,    which   doth   often   redound    to   the   bodies 

wearinesse.      I   thanke  you   for  your    kimle    offer,  Signior 

(quoth  Don  Quixote)  and  spurring  on  faster,  about  two 

of  the  clocke   they  came  to  the  Village,  and   Don 

Diego's  house,  whom  Don  Quixote  stiled,  The 

Knight  of  the  greene  Cassocke. 


133 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


*0  dukes 
prendas.     A 
beginning  of 
a  sonnet  in 
Diana  de 
Monte  Mayor, 
which  D.  Q. 
heere  raps 
out  upon  a 
sodaine. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

What  happened  to  Don  Quixote  in  the  Castle,  or 

Knight  of  the  Greene  Cassocke  his  house, 

with  other  extravagant  matters. 


ON  QUIXOTE  perceived  that  Don  Diego 
de  Miranda's  house  was  spacious,  after  the 
Country  manner,  and  his  Armes  (though 
of  course  stone)  upon  the  dore  towards 
the  streete,  his  wine-celler  in  the  Court, 
his  other  sellar  or  vault  in  the  entry,  with 
many  great  stone  vessels  round  about,  that 
were  of  Toboso,  which  renued  the  remem- 
brance of  his  enchanted  and  transformed  Mistresse  Dulcinea, 
so  sighing,  and  not  minding  who  was  by,  he  said, 

*  O  happy  pledges,  found  out  to  my  losse. 
Sweet,  and  reviving,,  when  the  time  was  once. 

Oh  you  Tobosian  Tunnes,  that  bring  to  my  remembrance 
the  sweet  pledge  of  my  greatest  bitternesse.  The  Scholler 
Poet,  son  to  Don  Diego,  that  came  out  with  his  Mother  to 
welcome  him,  heard  him  pronounce  this,  and  the  mother  and 
sonne  were  in  some  suspence  at  the  strange  shape  of  Don 
Quixote,  who  alighting  from  Rozinante,  very  courteously 
desired  to  kisse  her  hands :  And  Don  Diego  sayd ;  I  pray, 
wife,  give  your  wonted  welcome  to  this  Gentle-man,  Signior 
Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  a  Knight  Errant,  and  the 
valiantest  and  wisest  in  the  world. 

The  Gentle-woman  called  Donna  Cristina,  welcommed 
him  very  affectionately,  and  with  much  courtesie,  which  Don 
Quixote  retorted  with  many  wise  and  mannerly  complements, 
and  did  (as  it  were)  use  the  same  over  againe  to  the  Scholler, 
who  hearing  Don  Quixote  speake,  tooke  him  to  bee  wondrous 

134 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

wise  and  witty.    Heere  the  Author  paints  out  unto  us  all  the    CHAPTER 
circumstances  of  Don  Diego  his  house,  deciphering  to  us  all 
that  a  Gentle-man  and  a  rich  Farmers  house  may  have :  but  What  hap- 
it  seemed  good  to  the  Translator,  to  passe  over  these  and  Pem'(1  to  Don 
such  like  trifles,  because  they  suited  not  with  the  nrincipall  JfocJirtle 
scope  of  this  History,  the  which  is  more  grounded  upon  Or  Kuight'of 
truth,  then  upon  bare  digressions.  theCin-i-no 

Don  Quixote  was  led  into  a  Hall,  Sancho  un-armed  him,  |'a*soi-ke  hi* 
so  that  now   he  had  nothing  on  but  his  breeches,  and  a  oJ^gxtrava 
Chamois  doublet,  all  smudged  with  the  filth  of  his  Armour,  gant  matters, 
about  his  necke  he  wore  a  little  Scholasticall  band  unstarcht, 
and  without  lace,  his  buskins  were  Date-coloured,  and  his 
shooes  close  on  each  side,  hi.s  good  sword  he  girt  to  him,  that 
hung  at  a  belt  of  Sea-wolves  skins,  for  it  was  thought  he  had 
the  running  of  the  reines  many  yeeres,  hee  wore  also  a  long 
cloke  of  good  russet-cloth  :  but  first  of  all,  in  five  or  six 
kettles  of  water  (for  touching  the  quantity  there  is  some 
difference)  hee  washed  his  head  and  his  face,  and  for  all  that, 
the  water  was  turned  whey-colour,  God  a  mercy  on  Sanctions 
gluttony,  and  the  buying  those  dismall  black  curds,  that 
made  his  Master  so  white.    With  the  aforesayd  bravery,  and 
with  aspritely  aire  and  gallantry,  Don  Quixote  marched  into 
another  room,  where  the  Scholler  stayed  for  him,  to  tnt 
taine  him  till  the  cloth  was  layd,  for  tin-  Mistris  of  the  hou 
Dona  Cristina,  meant  to  shew  to  her  honourable  guest,  that 
shee  knew  how  to  make  much  of  them  that  came  to  her 
houte, 

W Idlest  Don  Quixote  was  dis-arming  himselfe,  Don 
Lorenzo  had  leasure  (for  that  was  Don  Diego's  sonnes 
name)  to  aske  his  father ;  What  doe  you  call  this  Gentle- 
man, Sir,  that  you  have  brought  with  you  ?  for  his  name, 
his  shape,  and  your  calling  him  Knight  Errant,  makes  my 
mother  and  me  wonder.  Faith,  sonne  (quoth  Don  Diego) 
I  know  not  what  I  should  say  to  thee  of  him,  onely  I  may 
tell  thee,  I  have  seene  him  play  the  maddest  prankes  of 
any  mad-man  in  the  world,  and  speake  againe  speeches  so 
wise,  as  blot  out  and  undoe  his  deeds ;  doe  thou  speake  to 
him,  and  feele  the  pulse  of  his  understanding,  and  since 

135 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    thou  art  discreet,  j  udge  of  his  discretion  or  folly  as  thou 
XVIII        seest  best,  though  to  deale  plainely  with  thee,  I  rather  hold 
What  hap-       him  to  be  mad  then  wise. 

pened  to  Don       Heereupon  Don  Lorenzo  (as  is  sayd)  went  to  entertaine 

tteCastie1       ^on  Quix°te5  and  amongst  other  discourse  that  passed  be- 

or  Knight'  of    twixt  them,  Don  Quixote  sayd  to  Don  Lorenzo  ;  Signior 

the  Greene       Don  Diego  de  Miranda,  your  father,  hath  told  me  of  your 

Cassocke  his    rare  abilities  and  subtill  wit,  and  chiefly  that  you  are  an 

otte'exb^  excellent  Poet.     A  Poet  perhaps  (replide  Don  Lorenzo)  but 

gant  matters,   excellent,  by  no  meanes  :  true  it  is,  that  I  am  somewhat 

affectionated  to  Poesie,  and  to  read  good  Poets  :  but  not  so, 

that  I  may  deserve  the  name  of  excellent,  that  my  father 

stiles  me  with.     I  doe  not  dislike  your  modesty  (quoth  Don 

Quixote)  for  you  have  seldome  times  any  Poet  that  is  not 

arrogant,  and  thinkes  himselfe  to  be  the  best  Poet  in  the 

world.     There  is  no  rule  (quoth  Don  Lorenzo)  without  an 

exception,  and  some  one  there  is,  that  is  so,  and  yet  thinkes 

not  so.     Few  (sayd  Don  Quixote  :)  but  tell  mee,  Sir,  what 

verses  bee  those  that  you  have  now  in  hand,  that  your  father 

sayes  doe  trouble  and  puzzle  you  ?  and  if  it  be  some  kinde 

of  glosse,  I  know  what  belongs  to  glossing,  and  should  be 

glad  to  heare  them  :  and  if  they  bee  of  your  verses  for  the 

Dejusta  Prize,  content  your  selfe  with  the  second  reward  :  For  the 

literaria  :  A     first  gOes  alwayes  by  favour,  or  according  to  the  quality  of 

vIifveTsluesof  the  Person»  and  the  second  is  Jus%  distributed,  so  that  the 
Spaine,  of  third  comes  (according  to  this  account)  to  be  the  second, 
rewards  pro-  and  the  first  the  third,  according  to  degrees  that  are  given 
posed  to  them  jn  Vniversities  :  but  for  all  that,  the  word  first  is  a  great 
that  make  the 


Hitherto  (thought  Don  Lorenzo  to  himselfe)  I  cannot 
thinke  thee  mad  :  proceed  we  :  and  hee  sayd  ;  It  seemes, 
Sir,  you  have  frequented  the  Schooles,  what  Sciences  have 
you  heard  ?  That  of  Knight  Errantry  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
which  is  as  good  as  your  Poetry,  and  somewhat  better.  I 
know  not  what  Science  that  is  (quoth  Don  Lorenzo)  neither 
hath  it,  as  yet  comne  to  my  notice.  Tis  a  Science  (quoth 
Don  Quixote)  that  containes  in  it  all,  or  most  of  the  Sciences 
of  the  world,  by  reason  that  he  who  professes  it,  must  be 

136 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

skilfull   in    the    Lawes,   to    know   Justice   Distributive  ami    CHAPTER 

Commutative,  to  give  everv  man  his  owne,  ami  \\hat  belongs         XVIII 

to  him  :   lie  must  he  a  Divine,  to  know  how  to  give  a  reason  What  hap- 

cleerly  and  distinctly  of  his  Christian  profession,  whersoi -ver  I'J'1!1''1  tu .|)on 

it  shall  be  demanded   him  :   hee  must  bee  a   Physician,  and  JjJJfcMtle 

chiefly   an  Herbalist,   to  know  in  a  wiklernesse  or  Desart,  or  Knight'of 

what  hearbs  have  vertue  to  cure  wounds:  for  your  Knight  tin 

Errant  must  not  bee  looking  evi-rv  piping-while  who  shall  Ca-s<.cki>  his 

heale  him  :    He  must  be  an  Astronomer,  to  know  in  the  night 

by  the  star res  what  a  eloek  tis,  and  in  what  part  and  Climate  gant 

of  the  world  he  is:    IK- must  be  skilfull  in  the  Mathematikcs, 

becaus  -hal   have    need  of  them  :    And  to  let 

pa-se,  that  he  must  be  adorned  with  all  divine  and  merall 

verities;   descending  to  other  trifles,  I  sav,  he  must  learne  to 

swimme  (as  they  say)  fish   Nieholas,  or  Nicolao  did:   lire 

must  know  how  to  shoo  a  horse,  to  mend  a  saddle  or  bridle: 

And  camming  againe   to  what  went  before,  hee   must   ft 

God  and  hU   MMris  inviolably,  he   must    be  chaste    in    his 

thoughts,  honest  in  his  words,  liberall  in  his  deedes,  valiant 

in   his  actions,  patient  in  afflictions  charitable  towards   the 

poore,  and  lastlv,  a  Defender  of  truth,  although  it  cost  him 

his  life  for  it.     Of  all  thoe  great  and  lesser  parts  a  good 

Knight  Krrant  is  composed,  that    von   ma.  nior  Don 

Loren/.o,  whether  it   be  a  Minding  Science  that  the-  Knight 

thatlearnes  it  professeth,  and  whether  it  may  not  be  equalled 

to  the  proudest  of  them  all  taught  in  the  Sch<>. 

If  it  be  so  (sayd  Don  Lorenzo)  I  say  this  Science  fl 
beyond  them  all.  If  it  be  so  (quoth  Don  (Quixote)  -  \\'hv, 
let  mee  tell  you  (sayd  Don  Loren/.o)  I  doubt  whether  there 
be  any  Knights  Errant  now  adorned  with  so  many  vertues. 
Oft  have  I  spoken  (replide  Don  (Quixote)  that  which  I  must 
now  speake  agen,  that  the  greatest  part  of  men  in  the 
world  are  of  opinion,  that  there  be  no  Knights  Errant,  and 
I  thinke,  if  Heaven  doe  not  miraculously  let  um  under- 
stand the  truth,  that  there  have  been  such,  and  that  at  this 
day  there  be,  all  labour  will  be  in  vaine  (as  I  have  often 
found  by  experience.)  I  will  not  now  stand  upon  shewing 
you  your  errour :  all  I  will  doe,  is  to  pray  to  God  to  drli\i'r 

3  :S 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  you  out  of  it,  and  to  make  you  understand,  how  profitable 
XVIII  an(j  necessary  Knights  Errant  have  beene  to  the  world  in 
What  hap-  former  ages,  and  also  would  be  at  present,  if  they  were  in 
pened  to  Don  reqUest :  but  now,  for  our  sinnes,  sloth,  idlenesse,  gluttony, 
tteCastle1  an^  wantonnesse  doe  raigne.  Ffaith  (thought  Don  Lorenzo) 
or  Knight' of  for  this  once  our  ghest  hath  scaped  me :  but  for  all  that, 
the  Greene  he  is  a  lively  Asse,  and  I  were  a  dull  foole,  if  I  did  not 
Cassocke  his  beleeve  it. 

other  extrava  Heere  they  ended  their  discourse,  for  they  were  called 
gant  matters,  to  dinner :  Don  Diego  asked  his  sonne,  what  triall  he  had 
made  of  their  ghests  understanding:  To  which  he  made 
answer ;  All  the  Physicians  and  Scriveners  in  the  world  will 
not  wipe  out  his  madnesse.  He  is  a  curious  mad-man,  and 
hath  neat  Dilemma's.  To  dinner  they  went,  and  their  meat 
was  such  as  Don  Diego  upon  the  way  described  it,  such  as 
hee  gave  to  his  ghests,  well  drest,  savory  and  plentifull : 
But  that  which  best  pleased  Don  Quixote,  was  the  marvel- 
lous silence  thorowout  the  whole  house,  as  if  it  had  beene 
a  Convent  of  Carthusians :  So  (that  lifting  up  his  eyes,  and 
grace  being  sayd,  and  that  they  had  washed  hands)  hee 
earnestly  entreated  Don  Lorenzo  to  speake  his  Prize-verses. 

To  which  (quoth  he)  because  I  will  not  be  like  your  Poets, 
that  when  they  are  over-intreated,  they  use  to  make  scruple 
of  their  workes,  and  when  they  are  not  intreated,  they 
vomit  um  out,  I  will  speake  my  glosse,  for  which  I  expect 
no  reward,  as  having  written  them  only  to  exercise  my 
Muse.  A  wise  friend  of  mine  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  was  of 
opinion,  that  to  glosse  was  no  hard  taske  for  any  man,  the 
reason  being,  that  the  Glosse  could  neVe  come  neere  the 
Text,  and  most  commonly  the  Glosse  was  quite  from  the 
Theame  given ;  besides  that,  the  Lawes  of  glossing  were  too 
strict,  not  admitting  interrogations,  of '  Sayd  he  ? '  or,  '  Shall 
I  say  ? '  Or  changing  Nounes  into  Verbes,  without  other  liga- 
ments and  strictnesses  to  which  the  Glossor  is  tyed,  as  you 
know.  Certainely,  Signior  Don  Quixote  (said  Don  Lorenzo) 
I  desire  to  catch  you  in  an  absurdity,  but  cannot,  for  still 
you  slip  from  mee  like  an  Eele.  I  know  not  (sayd  Don 
Quixote)  what  you  meane  by  your  slipping.  You  shall 
138 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

know  my  meaning  (said  Don  Lorenzo :)  but  for  the  pn^cnt 
I  pray  you  barken  with  attention  to  my  glossed  verses,  and 
to  the  Glosse,  as  for  example. 

If  that  my  Was,  mi^lit  tunic  t«>  I-. 
If  look't  lor  't,  then  it  comes  compleat, 

(  >h   miirht    '. 

Our  after  v  In-  t«H.  -Treat. 

The  Glosse. 

As  every  tiling  doth  passe  away, 

^ave 

l>id  pa»c,  and  would  not  with  me  stay, 
Though  she  i_rave  once  all  I  could  cr.. 
Fortune,  'tis  loinr  since  thou  1, 
.Me  prostrate  at  thy  feet  ( I 

:  (as  1  have  heene) 
If  that  my  Was,  returne  ' 

Vnto  no  honour  am  I  bent, 

No  I  .jiie.xt,  <>r  Victorie, 

But  to  returne  to  my  content, 

Whose  thought  dotli  grieve  my  memorie  ; 

If  thou  to  me  doe  r 

Fortune  ;  the  ri^or  of  my  heat 

Allayd  is,  let  it  come,  before 

I  looke  for  't,  then  it  comes  compleat. 

Impossibles  doe  I  d> 
'I'o  make  time  |>a-t  returne  (in  vaine) 
No  1'ow'r  <»n  earth  can  once  aspire 
')  t«»  recall  him  hacke  a^aine, 
Time  doth  iroe,  time  runs  and  Hies 
Swiftly,  his  course  doth  never  ; 
I  Ice  's  in  an  errour  then  that  >•; 
Oh  miirht  I  say,  Now,  now  tinn 

I  live  in  irreat  jterplexitie. 

Sometime>  in  hope.  -  in  feare, 

l-'arrr  'or  to  die. 

That  of  my  uriefes  I  mi-  :re  ; 

I-'or  me  to  die  'twere  better  farre, 

Let  me  not  that  a^aine  re; 

••tter  live  loujj  :   f(,r 
Our  after  trriefes  may  be  : 

139 


CHAPTER 

XVIII 

What  hap- 
pened to  Don 
Quixote  in 
-tie, 

or  Knight  of 
the  (ir> 
Cassock e  his 
house,  with 
other  extrava- 
gant matters. 

The  first  verse 
of  the  glosse. 


The  second 

verse. 


The  third 
verse. 


The  fourth 
verse. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER        When  Don  Lorenzo  had  ended,  Don  Quixote  stood  up 

XVIII        and  cried  aloud,  as  if  hee  had  screecht,  taking  Don  Lorenzo 

What  hap-       by  the  hand,  and  sayd  ;  Assuredly,  generous  youth,  I  thinke 

pened  to  Don  yOU  are  fae  ^es^  poet  in  the  world,  and  you  deserve  the 

tooSie        Lawrell,  not  of  Cyprus  or  Gaeta,  as  a  Poet  sayd  (God  for- 

or  Knight' of   give  him)  but  of  Athens,  if  it  were  extant,  Paris,  Bolonia, 

the  Greene       and  Salamanca :    I  would  to  God  those  Judges  that  would 

Cassocke  his     deny  yOU  the  Prize,  might  bee  shot  to  death  with  arrowes  by 

oSeJtmhva-  Phoebus»and  that  the  Muses  never  come  within  their  thresh- 

gant  matters,   olds.     Speake,  Sir,  if  you  please,  some  of  your  loftier  verses, 

that  I  may  altogether  feele  the  pulse  of  your  admirable 

wit. 

How  say  you  by  this,  that  Don  Lorenzo  was  pleased,  when 
he  heard  himselfe  thus  praised  by  Don  Quixote,  although 
he  held  him  to  be  a  mad-man  ?  Oh  power  of  flattery,  how 
farre  thou  canst  extend,  and  how  large  are  the  bounds  of 
thy  pleasing  jurisdiction  !  This  truth  was  verified  in  Don 
Lorenzo,  since  hee  condiscended  to  Don  Quixotes  request, 
speaking  this  following  Sonnet  to  him,  of  the  Fable  or 
Story  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe. 

The  wall  was  broken  by  the  Virgin  faire, 

That  op't  the  gallant  brest  of  Pyramus, 

Love  parts  from  Cyprus,  that  he  may  declare 

(Once  scene)  the  narrow  breach  prodigious. 

There  nought  but  Silence  speakes,  no  voyce  doth  dare, 

Thorow  so  strait  a  straight,  be  venturous  ; 

Yet  their  mindes  speake,  Love  workes  this  wonder  rare, 

Facilitating  things  most  wonderous. 

Desire  in  her  grew  violent,  and  haste 
In  the  fond  Mayd,  in  stead  of  hearts  delight 
Solicites  death  :  See  !  now  the  Storie  's  past, 
Both  of  them,  in  a  moment  (oh  strange  sight !) 

One  Sword,  one  Sepulcher,  one  Memorie, 
Doth  kill,  doth  cover,  makes  them  never  die. 

Now  thanked  bee  God  (quoth  Don  Quixote,  having  heard 
this  Sonnet)  that  amongst  so  many  consumed  Poets  as  be, 
I  have  found  one  consummate,  as  you  are,  Sir,  which  I  per- 
140 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

ceive  by  your  well-framed  Sonnet.     Don  Quixote  remained    CHAPTER 
foure  dayes  (being  well  entertained)  in  Don  Diego's  house,  at        XVIII 
the  end  of  which  he  desired  to  take  his  leave,  and  thanked  What  hap- 
him  for  the  kindnesse  and  good  welcome  he  had  received:  IHMU..I  t.,_I>.m 
but  because  it  was  not  fit  that  Knights  Errant  should  bee  J^c^ 
too  long  idle,  hee  purposed  to  exercise  his  Function,  and  to  or  Knight'of 
seeke  after  Adventures  he  knew  of;  for  the  place  whither  the  (Jr. 
hee  meant  to  goe  to,  would  give  him  plenty  enough  to  passe  Cassm-ki«  his 
his  time  with,  till  it  were  fit   for  him  to  goe  to  the  lusts  at  J^iJjJa. 
Saragosa,  which  was  his  more  direct  course :  but  that  first  gant  mitten, 
of  all  he  meant  to  goe  to  Montesino's  vault,  of  which  there 
were  so  many  admirable  tales  in  every  mans  mouth :  so  to 
search  and  enquire  tin-  Spring  and  Origine  of  those  seven 
Lakes,  commonly  called  of  Ruydera.     Don  Diego  and  hi> 
sonne  commended    his    noble   determination,  and   bid   him 
furnish  himselfe  with  what  hee  pleased  of  their  house  and 
wealth,  for  that  hee  should  receive  it  with  all  love  and  good 
will ;  for  the-  worth  of  his  person,  and  his  honourable  profi 
sion  obliged  them  to  it. 

To  coin-link1,  the  day  for  his  parting  came,  a-  pleasing  to 
him,  as  bitter  and  sorrowfull  to  Sancho,  who  liked  wondrous 
well  of  Don  Diego's  plentiful]  provision,  and  was  loth  to 
returne  to  the  hunger  of  the  forrests  and  wildernesse,  and 
to  the  hardnesse  of  his  ill-furnisht  wallets,  notwithstanding 
hee  filled  and  stuffed  them  with  the  best  provision  he  could. 
And  Don  Quixote,  as  he  tooke  his  leave  of  Don  Lorenzo, 
1  ;  I  know  not,  Sir,  whether  I  have  told  you  heretofore, 
but  though  I  have,  I  tell  you  againe,  that  when  vou  would 
save  a  great  deale  of  labor  and  paines,  to  arrive  at  the  in- 
accessible top  of  Fames  Temple,  you  have  no  more  to  doe, 
but  to  leave  on  one  hand  the  straight  and  narrow  path  of 
Poesie,  and  to  take  the  most  narrow  of  Knight  Errantry, 
sufficient  to  make  you  an  Emperour,  ere  you  would  say, 
•What's  this?1 

With  this  Epilogue  Don  Quixote  shut  up  the  Comedy  of 
his  madnesse,  onely  this  he  added :  God  knowes,  I  would 
willingly  carry  Signior  Don  Lorenzo  with  me,  to  teach  him, 
what  belongs  to  pardoning  the  humble,  to  curbing  and 

HI 


CHAPTER 
XVIII 

What  hap- 
pened to  Don 
Quixote  in 
the  Castle, 
or  Knight  of 
the  Greene 
Cassocke,  his 
house,  with 
other  extrava- 
gant matters. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

restraining  the  proud;  vertues  annexed  to  my  profession:  but 
since  his  slender  age  is  not  capable,  and  his  laudible  enter- 
prises will  not  permit  him,  I  am  onely  willing  to  advize  you, 
that  being  a  Poet,  you  may  be  famous,  if  you  governe  your 
selfe  by  other  mens  judgements,  more  then  by  your  owne; 
for  you  have  no  parents  that  dislike  their  owne  children, 
faire  or  foule,  and  this  errour  is  more  frequent  in  mens 
understandings. 

The  Father  and  the  Son  afresh  admired  at  Don  Quixotes  oft 
interposed  reasons,  some  wise,  some  foolish,  and  at  his  ob- 
stinate being  bent  altogether  upon  his  unlucky  Adventures, 
which  hee  aimed  at,  as  the  marke  and  end  of  his  desire,  they 
renewed  againe  their  kinde  offers  and  complements  with 
him ;  but  Don  Quixote  taking  his  leave  of  the  Lady  of 
the  Castle,  mounted  his  Rozinante,  and  Sancho 
his  Dapple  ;  so  they  parted. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

Of  the  Adventure  of  the  enamoured  Shepheard, 
with  other,  indeed,  pleasant  Accidents. 

N  QUIXOTE  was  not  gone  far  from 
Don  Diego's  towne,  when  hee  overtooke 
two  men  that  seemed  to  be  Parsons,  or 
Schollers,  with  two  Husbandmen  that 
were  mounted  upon  foure  Asses.  One  of 
the  Schollers  had  (as  it  were  in  a  Port- 
mantue)  a  piece  of  white  cloth  for  Scarlet, 
wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  greene  Buckeram, 
and  two  payre  of  Cotton  Stockings :  the  other  had  nothing 
but  two  Foiles,  and  a  paire  of  Pumpes.  The  Husbandmen 
had  other  things,  which  shewed  they  came  from  some  Market 
Towne,  where  they  had  bought  them  to  carry  home  to  their 
village :  so  as  well  the  Schollers  as  the  Husbandmen  fell  into 
142 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

the  same  admiration,  that  all  they  had  done  who  first  saw    CIIAITKR 
Don  Quixote,  and   they  longed   to   know   what  manner  of 
fellow  he  was,  so  different  from  all  other  men.     Don  Quixote  OftheAdvon- 
saluted  them,  and  after  hee  asked  them  whither  they  went,  tull>  ut  tllt' 
and  that  they  had  said  they  went  his  way,  he  offered  them  SJJJSSi* 
his  company, and  desired  them  to  goe  softlver,  for  that  their  withother/in- 
young  Asses   travelled   faster  then   his  lior.se:  and   to  oblige  (UMMl.pl. 
them  the  more,  he  told  them  who  he  was,  and  of  his  p  rotes-       - 
sion,  that  he  was  a  Knight   Krrant,  that  he  went  to  seeke 
Adventures    round    about    the    world.       Hee   told    them    his 
proper  name  was  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  but  his  ordinary 
name,  The  Knight  of  the  Lyon-. 

All  this  to  the  Husbandmen  was  Heathen  Greek,  or  IVdlers 
French  :  but  not  to  the  Schollers,  who  straight  perceived  the 
weakcnesse  of  Don  Quixotes  braine :  Notwithstanding  they 
beheld  him  with  great  admiration  and  respect,  ami  one  of 
them  said,  Sir  Knight,  if  you  goe  no  set  journey,  as  they 
which  seeke  Adventures  seldome  doe,  I  prav  goe  with  US, 
and  vou  shall  see  one  of  the  bravest  anil  most  sumptuous 
manages  that  ever  was  kept  in  the  Mancha,  or  in  many 
leagues  round  about.  Don  Quixote  asked  them  if  it  were 
of  any  Prince  (for  so  hee  imagim-d. )  id  hee) 

but  betwixt  a  Farmer,  and  a  Fanners  daughter:  he  is  the 
richest  in  all  the  Count  rev,  and  she  the  fairest  alive.  Their 
provision  for  this  marriage  is  new  and  rare,  and  it  is  to  he 
kept  in  a  medow  neere  the1  Brides  towne.  Hue  i>  call 
the  more  to  set  her  out,  Quiteria  the  faire,  and  he  Camacho 
the  rich  :  she  is  about  eighteene  yeeres  of  age,  and  he  two 
and  twenty,  both  well  mette,  but  that  some  niee  people, 
that  busie  themselves  in  all  mens  linages,  will  say  that  the 
faire  Quiteria  is  of  better  parentage  then  he:  but  that's 
nothing,  riches  are  able  to  soulder  all  clefts.  To  say  true, 
this  Chamacho  is  liberall,  and  he  hath  longed  to  make  an 
Arbor,  and  cover  all  the  Medow  on  the  Top,  so  that  tin 
Sunne  will  be  troubled  to  enter  to  visit  th<  lu  ar!» 

underneath.  He  hath  also  certaine  warlike  Morrices,  as  well 
of  swords,  as  little  jyngling  bels ;  for  wee  have  those  in  the 
towne  that  will  jangle  them.  For  your  foot-clappers  I  say 

143 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    nothing,  you  would  wonder  to  see  um  bestirre  themselves : 

XIX         but  none  of  these,  nor  others  I  have  told  you  of,  are  like  to 

OftheAdven-  make  this  marriage  so  remarkeable,  as  the  despised  Basilius. 

ture  of  the       This  Basilius  is  a  neighbouring  swaine  of  Quiteria's  Towne, 

SheTeSd  whose  house  was  next  dore  to  her  Fathers-  From  hence 
withPother/in-  Love  tooke  occasion  to  renew  unto  the  world,  the  long  for- 
deed,  pleasant  gotten  loves  of  Pyramus  and  Thysbe ;  for  Basilius  loved 
Accidents.  Quiteria  from  a  childe,  and  she  answered  his  desires  with 
a  thousand  loving  favors.  So  that  it  grew  a  common  talke 
in  the  towne,  of  the  love  betweene  the  two  little  ones. 
Quiteria  began  to  grow  to  some  yeeres,  and  her  Father 
began  to  deny  Basilius  his  ordinary  accesse  to  the  house ; 
and  to  avoyd  all  suspition,  purposed  to  marry  her  to  the 
rich  Camacho,  not  thinking  it  fit  to  marry  her  to  Basilius, 
who  was  not  so  rich  in  Fortunes  goods,  as  in  those  of  the 
minde,  (for  to  say  truth  without  envy)  he  is  the  activest 
youth  we  have,  a  famous  Barre-pitcher,  an  excellent  Wrastler, 
a  great  Tennis-player,  he  runnes  like  a  Deere,  out-leapes  a 
shee-goat,  and  playes  at  tenne  pinnes  miraculously,  sings  like 
a  Larke,  playes  upon  a  Gitterne  as  if  he  made  it  speake,  and 
above  all,  fenceth  as  well  as  the  best. 

For  that  slight  only  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  the  youth  de- 
serves not  onely  to  match  with  the  faire  Quiteria,  but  with 
Queene  Ginebra  her  selfe,  if  she  were  now  alive,  in  spight  of 
Lansarote,  and  all  that  would  gain-say  it.  There 's  for  my 
wife  now  (quoth  Sancho  that  had  beene  all  this  while  silent) 
that  would  have  every  one  marry  with  their  equals,  holding 
her  selfe  to  the  Proverbe,  that  sayes ;  '  Like  to  like '  (quoth 
the  Devill  to  the  Collier.)  All  that  I  desire,  is,  that  honest 
Basilius  (for  me  thinkes  I  love  him)  were  married  to  Quiteria, 
and  God  give  um  joy  (I  was  saying)  those  that  go  about  to 
hinder  the  mariage  of  two  that  love  well.  If  all  that  love 
well  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  should  marry,  Parents  would  lose 
the  priviledge  of  marying  their  children,  when  and  with 
whom  they  ought ;  and  if  daughters  might  chuse  their 
husbands,  you  should  have  some  would  choose  their  fathers 
servants,  and  others,  any  passenger  in  the  street,  whom  they 
thought  to  be  a  lusty  swaggerer,  although  hee  were  a 
144 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

cowardly  Ruffian ;  for  love  and  affection  doe  easily  blinde    CHAPTER 
the  eyes  of  the  understanding,  which  is  onely  n't  to  choose, 
and  the  state  of  Matrimony  is  a  ticklish  tiling,  and  there  Of  the  A.lven- 
is  great  heed  to  be  taken,  and  a  particular  favour  to  be  g"^"^^ 
given  from  above  to  make  it  light  happily.  Bhepfoudj 

Any  man  that  would  but  undertake  some  voyage,  if  hee  with  otluT,in- 
he  wise,  before  lu-  i-   on  his  way,  he  will  seeke  him  some  »l«'i'<l,  H- 
good  companion.      And  why  should  not  he  doe  so,  that  Accidents, 
must  travell   all  his  life-time  till   he  come  to   his  resting- 
place,   Death?   and  the   rather  if  his  company  must  be  at 
bed,  and  at  hoord,  and  in  all  places,  as  the  wives  company 
must  be  with  the  Husband  ?     Your  wife  is  not  a  commodity 
like  others,  that  is  bought  and  sold,  or  exchanged,  but  an  in- 
separable accident,  that  la>ts  for  terme  of  life.    It  is  a  nooze, 
that  beeing  fastned  about  the  necke,  turnes  to  a  Gordian 
knot,  which  cannot  be  undone  but  bv  Deaths  sickle. 

Icould  tell  yee  much  more  in  this  bu-  re  it  not 

for  the  desire  I  have  to  be  satisfied  by  Master  Parson,  if 
there  be  any  more  to  come  of  Hasilius  his  .story.  To  which 
hee  answered.  This  is  all,  that  from  the  instant  that  Basilius 
knew  the  fair  <thiiteria  was  to  be  maricd  to  the  rich  Camacho, 
he  was  never  scene  to  smile,  or  talke  sensibly  ;  ami  hee  is 
alwaies  sad  and  pcnsative,  talkes  to  himselfe:  an  evident 
token  that  hee  is  distracted  :  eates  little,  ^leepes  much  :  all 
he  eates,  is  fruites,  and  all  his  .xlecpe  is  in  the  fields,  upon 
the  hard  ground  like  a  beast;  now  and  then  her  lookes  up 
to  heaven,  and  sometimes  casts  his  eyes  downeward,  so  sense- 
lesse,  as  if  hee  were  onely  a  statue  clothed,  and  the  very 
ayre  strikes  off  his  garments.  In  fine,  he  hath  all  the 
signcs  of  a  passionate  heart,  and  we  are  all  of  opinion,  that 
by  that  time  (Juiteria  to  morn  the,  I,  it  will  be  the 

sentence  of  his  death.     God  forbid  (>ayd  Sancho)  for  God 
gives  the  wound,  and  God  gives  the  salve:   no  body  kno\\ 
what  may  happen,  "f:  1   main    houres  betweenc  this 

and  to  morrow,  and  in  one  houre,  nay  one  minute,  a  house 
falls,  and  I  have  scene  the  Sunne  shine,  and  foule  weather 
in  an  instant ;  one  goes  to  bed  sound  at  night,  and  stirres 
not  the  next  morning :  and  pray  tell  me,  is  there  any  one 

3  :  T  1  \r> 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    here  that  can  say  he  hath  stayd  the  course  of  Fortunes  great 

XIX         wheele?     No  truly,  and  betweene  a  womans  I,  and  no,  I 

OftheAdven-  would  be  loth  to  put  a  pins  poynt ;   for  it  would  hardly 

ture  of  the       enter.     Let  mee  have  Mistresse  Quiteria  love  Basilius  with 

SheTear^       a11  her  heart»  and  Fle  &ive  him  a  ba^e  ful1  of  good  lucke, 
witTother'in-  f°r  your  l°ve  (as  I  nave  heard  tell)  lookes  wantonly  with 
deed,  pleasant  eyes  that  make  copper  seeme  gold,  and  poverty  riches,  and 
Accidents.        fjlih  in  the  eyes,  pearles.     Whither  a  plague  run'st  thou, 
Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)?  when  thou  goest  threading 
on  thy  Proverbs  and  thy  flim-flams,  ludas  him  selfe  take 
thee,  cannot  hold  thee :  Tell  me,  Beast,  what  knowest  thou 
of  Fortune,  or  her  wheele,  or  any  thing  else  ?     Oh  if  you 
understand  me  not,  no  marvell  though  my  sentences  be  held 
for  fopperies :  well,  I  know  what  I  say,  and  know  I  have  not 
spoken  much  from  the  purpose :  but  you,  Sir,  are  alwaies 
the  Tourney  to  my  words  and  actions.      Attourney  thou 
wouldest   say,   God   confound   thee,   thou   Prevaricator   of 
language.     Doe  not  you  deale  with  me  (said  Sancho)  since 
you  know  I  have  not  bin  brought  up  in  Court,  nor  studied  in 
Salamanca,  to  know  whether  I  adde  or  diminish  any  of  my 
*One  of  that    syllables.     Lord  God,  you  must  not  thinke  your  *Galizian 
Province  that  can  speak  like  your  Toledonian,  and  they  neyther  are  not 
?Pe^edalan      all  so  nimble.     For  matter  of  your  Court-language  (quoth 
euae-e  to  the    the  Parson)  'tis  true  ;  for  they  that  are  bred  in  the  Tanner- 
Spanish,          rowes,  and  the  *Zocodover,  cannot  discourse  like  them  that 
*The  market    walke  all  day  in  the  high  Church  -  Cloysters ;   yet  all  are 
place  so  called  Toledonians,  the  language  is  pure,  proper,  and  elegant,  (in- 
in  Toledo.        deed)  only  in  your  discreet  Courtiers,  let  them  be  borne 
where  they  will:  Discreet  I  say,  because  many  are  other- 
wise, and  discretion  is  the  Grammar  of  good  language,  which 
is  accompanied  with  practice :    I  Sir,  I  thanke  God  have 
studied  the  Canons  in  Salamanca,  and  presume  sometimes 
to  yeeld  a  reason  in  plaine  and  significant  termes.     If  you 
did  not  presume  (said  the  other  Scholler)  more  on  your 
using  the  foyles  you  carry,  then  your  tongue,  you  might 
have  beene  Senior   in  your  degree,  whereas  now  you  are 
lagge.      Looke  you  Bachelor  (quoth  the  Parson)  you  are 
in  the  most  erroneous  opinion  of  the  world,  touching  the 
146 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

skill  of  the  weapon,  since-  you  hold  it  frivolous.      Tis  no    CIIAI'IKR 

opinion  of  mine  (said  Corchuelo)  but  a  manifest  truth,  and 

if  you  will  have   me  >hew  it   bv  experience,  there  you  have  Of  the  Adven- 

foyles   commodious  :    I   have  an  arme,  and   strength,   whieh  tun- <>t  the 
together  with   my  courage,  which  is  not  small,  shall  make  gJSSSS 
you  confess,.  I  am  not  deceived;  alight  and  keepe  your  dis-  withother/in- 
tam-c,  your  circles,  your  corners,  and  all  your  Science,  I  hope  (U-i-d,  j.l, 
to   make  you    see   (lie  starrer  at    noone  day   with   my  skill,  Acridc:. 
which  is  but  moderne  ami  meane.  which  though  it  be  small, 
I  hope  to  (iod  the  man  is  yet  unborn  that  shall  make  mee 
turne  my  baeke,  and  there  is  no  man  in  the  world,  but  I  le 
make  him  give  ground.      For  turning  your  backe  (said  the 
Skilfull)  I    meddle   not,  though   perhaps  where  you   first  set 
your  fool,  there   \oiir  grave   might  be  digged,  I  meane  you 
might  be  killed  for  despising  skill.     That  you  shall  try  (said 
Corchuelo)  and  lighting  hastily  from  his  Asse.  lie  snatched 

•rds   that    the   Parson   carried.      Not 

Don  (Quixote   instantly)   He   be    the   Master   of   this    Fence, 
and  the  ludge  of  this   undecided  controversir.  and   lighting 
from  Ko/inante,  and  taking  his  Launce,  he  stepped  helv. 
them  till   such   time  as   the  Parson    had    put   him»elfc  into 
his    1'ostmv    and    distai  Duri    Corchuelo,    who    ranne 

(as  you  would  say)  darting  lire  out  of  h:  The  two 

Hu>bandmcn    that    wen     by,   without    lighting   from    their 
.    served    for    spectators    of   the    mortall     !  ,    the 

blowes,  the  stockados,  your  false  thrusts,  your  baek-bic 
your  doubling-blowes,  that  came  from  Corchuelo,  were  num- 

-   thicke  a.s  hoppes,  or  haije,  he  layd  on   lik 
angry  Lyon  :   but  still  the  Parson  gave  him  a  btoppl- 
his  mouth,  with  the  button  of  his  fovle,  winch  stopped  him 
in  the  midst  of  his  fury,  and  he-  made   him   kisse  it,  as  if  it 
had  been   a   Helike,  though   not  with  so  much  devotin: 
is  due  to  them.     In  a  word,  the  Parson  with  pure  Stocados 
told  all  the  buttons  of  his  Cassocke  which  he  had  on,  his 
flying  about  him  like  a  fishes  lay  le.     Twice  he  Brooke 
otl'  his  hat,  and  so  wearied  him,  that  what  for  despight,  what 
for  choller  and  rage,  he  tooke  the  sword  by  the  hilt,  and 
Hung  it  into  the  ayre  so  forcibly,  that  one  of  the  husband- 

147 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    men  that  was  by,  who  was  a  notary,  and  went  for  it,  gave 
XIX         testimony  after,  that  he  flung  it  almost  three  quarters  of  a 
OftheAdven-  mile  ;  which  testimony  serves,  and  hath  served,  that  it  may 
ture  of  the       \ye  knowne  and  really  scene,  that  force  is  overcome  by  Art. 
She^ean?  Corchuelo  sate  down  being  very  weary,  and  Sancho  com- 

with  other  'in-  ming  to  him,  said;  Truely  Sir  Bachelor,  if  you  take  my 
deed,  pleasant  advice,  hereafter  challenge  no  man  to  fence,  but  to  wrastle, 
Accidents.  or  throw  the  bar,  since  you  have  youth  and  force  enough 
for  it ;  for  I  have  heard  those  (that  you  call  your  Skilfull 
men)  say,  that  they  will  thrust  the  poynt  of  a  sword  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle.  I  am  gladde  (quoth  Corchuelo)  that  I 
came  from  my  Asse,  and  that  experience  hath  shewed  me 
what  I  would  not  have  beleeved.  So  rising  up,  he  embraced 
the  Parson,  and  they  were  as  good  friends  as  before.  So, 
not  staying  for  the  Notary  that  went  for  the  sword,  because 
they  thought  hee  would  tarry  long,  they  resolved  to  follow, 
and  come  betimes  to  Quiteria's  Village,  of  whence  they  all 
were.  By  the  way,  the  Parson  discourses  to  um,  of  the  ex- 
cellency of  the  Art  of  Fencing,  with  so  many  demonstrative 
reasons,  with  so  many  figures  and  Mathematical  demonstra- 
tions, that  all  were  satisfied  with  the  rarenesse  of  the  Science, 
and  Corchuelo  reduced  from  his  obstinacy. 

It  began  to  grow  darke :  but  before  they  drew  neere,  they 
all  saw  a  kinde  of  heaven  of  innumerable  starres  before 
the  Towne.  They  heard  likewise,  harmonious  and  confused 
sounds  of  divers  Instruments,  as  Flutes,  Tabers,  Psalteries, 
Recorders,  hand-Drummes  and  Bells :  and  when  they  drew 
neere,  they  saw  that  the  trees  of  an  Arbour,  which  had 
been  made  at  the  entrance  of  the  towne,  were  all  full  of 
lights,  which  were  not  offended  by  the  winde,  that  then 
blew  not,  but  was  so  gentle,  that  it  scarce  moved  the 
leaves  of  the  trees.  The  Musicians  were  they  that  made 
the  marriage  more  sprightly,  who  went  two  and  two  in 
companies,  some  dancing  and  singing,  others  playing  upon 
divers  of  the  aforesaid  instruments :  nothing  but  mirth 
ranne  up  and  downe  the  Medow,  others  were  busied  in 
raising  skaffolds,  that  they  might  the  next  day  see  the 
representations  and  dances  commodiously,  dedicated  to 
148 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

the  marriage  of  the  rich  Camacho,  and  the  Obsequies  of 
Basilius. 

Don  Quixote  would  not  enter  the  Towne,  although  the 
Husbandmen  and   the  Hachelor  entreated  him  :   for  he  gave 
a  sufficient  e\cu>e  for  himselfe  (as  hee  thought)  that  it  was 
the    custome    of    Knights    Krrant    to    sleepe    in    liekls    and 
forrests,  rather  then  in  habitations,  though  it  were  under 
golden    roofes  :    so    hee   went   a   little   out   of   the    way, 
much   against    Sancho's   will,   who   remembrcd   the 
i    lodging   hee   had   in   the   Castle,   or 
house  of  Don  Diego. 


CHATTER 
MX 

Of  the  Ad  ven- 
ture ot 
i'n;mu>urt'(l 
JSlu'jiht'ard. 
with  other, iu- 
dri-d,  jili-asant 
Ari-idriits. 


CHAPTER    XX 

Of  the  Marriage  of  rich  Camacho,  and  the  successe 
of  poore  Basilius. 

CARSE  had  the  silver  morne  given  bright 
riuebus  leave,  with  the  ardour  of  his 
burning  raves,  to  dry  the  liquid  pearles 
on  his  golden  lockes,  when  Don  (Juixote 
shaking  off  sloth  from  his  drow>ie  mem- 
bers, n>>e  up,  and  called  Saneho  his  Squire, 
that  still  lay  snorting  :  which  Don  QlttX- 
ot  .  before  he  could  wake,  he  said, 

Hi  happy  thou  above  all  that  live  upon  the  face  of  the  earth, 
that  without  envy,  or  being  envied,  >Kvpe>t  with  a  quiet 
brest,  neyther  persecuted  by  Knchanter>.  n.n  frighted  by 
Enchantments.  Sleepe,  I  say,  once  againe,  nay  an  handled 
times,  sleepe:  let  not  thy  Masters  jealousie  keepe  thee 
continually  awake,  nor  let  care  to  pay  thy  debts  make 
thee  watchfull,  or  how  another  day  thou  and  thy  small, 
but  strcightned  family  may  live,  whom  neither  ambition 
troubles,  nor  the  worlas  vaine  pompe  doth  weary,  since  the 
bounds  of  thy  desires  extend  no  further  then  to  thinking 

149 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    of  thine  Asse ;  for,  for  thine  owne  person,  that  thou  hast  com- 
mitted to  my  charge,  a  counterpoise  and  burden  that  Nature 
Of  the  Mar-     and  Custome  hath  layd  upon  the  Masters.      The  servant 
riage  of  rich     sieepes  an(j  the  Master  wakes,  thinking  how  he  may  main- 
Camacho.  and  ,.r  i   !•  jj       v  •       i  •    j  ^i  •  e 

the  successe     tame,  good  him,  and  doe  him  kindnesses :  the  gnefe  that 

of  poore  is,  to  see  heaven  obdurate  in  releeving  the  earth  with  season - 

Basilius.  able  moysture,  troubles  not  the  servant,  but  it  doth  the 

Master,  that  must  keepe  in  sterility  and  hunger,  him  that 
served  him  in  abundance  and  plenty. 

Sancho  answered  not  a  word  to  all  this,  for  hee  was 
asleepe,  neyther  would  hee  have  awaked  so  soone,  if  Don 
Quixote  had  not  made  him  come  to  himselfe  with  the  little 
end  of  his  Lance.  At  length  he  awaked,  sleepy  and  drowsie, 
and  turning  his  face  round  about,  hee  said,  From  this  Arbor 
(if  I  bee  not  deceived)  there  comes  a  steame  and  smell  rather 
of  good  broyled  rashers,  then  Time  and  Rushes :  A  marriage 
that  begins  with  such  smells,  (by  my  Holidam)  I  thinke 
twill  be  brave  and  plentifull. 

Away,  Glutton  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  come  and  let  us 
go  see  it,  and  what  becomes  of  the  disdained  Basilius.  Let 
him  doe  what  he  will  (said  Sancho)  were  it  not  better  that 
he  were  poore  still,  and  married  to  Quiteria  ?  There  is  no 
more  in  it,  but  let  the  Moone  loose  one  quarter,  and  shee  "1 
fall  from  the  clouds :  Faith,  Sir,  I  am  of  opinion,  that  the 
poore  fellow  bee  contented  with  his  fortunes,  and  not  seek 
after  things  impossible.  He  hold  one  of  mine  arms,  that 
Camacho  wil  cover  Basilius  all  over  with  sixpences :  and  if 
it  be  so,  as  tis  like,  Quiteria  were  a  very  foole  to  leave  her 
bravery  and  lewells  that  Camacho  hath,  and  can  give  her, 
and  chuse  Basilius  for  his  barre-pitching  and  fencing :  In  a 
Taverne  they  will  not  give  you  a  pint  of  wine  for  a  good 
throw  with  the  barre,  or  a  tricke  at  fence,  such  abilities  that 
are  worth  nothing,  have  um  whoso  will  for  me :  but  when 
they  light  upon  one  that  hath  crownes  withall,  let  mee  be 
like  that  man  that  hath  them  :  upon  a  good  foundation,  a 
good  building  may  be  raised,  and  mony  is  the  best  bottome 
and  foundation  that  is  in  the  world.  For  Gods  love,  Sancho 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  conclude  thy  tedious  discourse :  with 

150 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

which   (I  beleeve)  if  thou  wert  let  alone,  thou   wouldest    CHAPTER 

neyther  eat  nor  sleepe  for  talking.      If  you  had   a  good 

memory  (sayd  Sancho)  you  would  remember  the  articles  of  Of  the  Mar- 

our  agreement,  before  we  made  our  last  sally  from  home.  JJfS*  °*  ru'1'  . 

,  ,  ,   .  \  ,  oacho.  and 

ono  ot  winch  was,  that  you  would  let  me  speake  as  much  as  t|u.  Su,.(.e98e 

I  list,  on  condition  that  it  were  not  against  my  neighbor,  or  ,,f , 
against  your  authority,  and  hitherto  I  am  sure  I  have  not  Basilius. 
broken  that  article. 

I  remember  no  such  article,  Sancho,  (sayd  he)  and  though 
it  were  so,  I  would  have  you  now  be  silent,  and  come  with 
mee ;  for  now  the  Instruments  we  heard  over-night  begin  to 
chcere  the  valleyes,  and  doubtlesse,  the  marriage  is  kept  in 
the  coole  of  the  morning,  and  not  deferred  till  the  after- 
noones  heat.  Sancho  did  what  his  master  willed  him,  and 
saddling  Rozinante,  with  his  pack-saddle  clapped  likewise 
on  Dapple,  the  two  mounted,  and  faire  and  softly  entred 
the  Art)or.  The  first  thing  that  Sancho  saw,  was  a  whole 
Steere  spitted  upon  a  whole  Elme,  and  for  the  fire  where  it 
was  to  oee  rested,  there  was  a  pretty  mountaine  of  wood, 
and  six  pots  that  were  round-about  this  lion-lire,  which 
were  never  cast  in  the  ordinary  mold  that  other  pots  were, 
for  they  were  six  halfe  Olive-butts,  and  every  one  was  a  very 
Shambles  of  meat,  they  had  so  many  whole  >luvpe  Coking  in 
urn  which  were  11  .  as  if  they  had  beene  Pigeons,  the 

flayed  Hares,  and  pulled    Hens,  that  were    hung  upon  the 
trees,  to  bee  buried  in  the  pots,  were  numberlessc,  birds  and 
fowle  of  divers  sorts  infinite,  that  hung  on  the  trees,  that 
the  aire  might  coole  them.      Sancho  counted  above-  tl 
scon-  skinncs  of  wine,  each  of  them  of  above  two  Arroba's,  Arroba,  a 
and  as  it  afterward  seemed,  of  spritely  liquor  :  there  were  also  measure  of 
whole  heapes  of  purest  bread,  heaped   up  like  come  in  the  ^^'"whii-h 
threshing-noon*,  your  chee>es   like   bricks  piled  one  upon  maybe  some 
another,  made  a  goodly  wall,  and  two  kettles  of  oyle  bigger  •fejpB 
then  a  Diers,  served  to  frie  their  paste-worke,  which  theyofwine- 
tooke  out  with   two  strong  peelo,  when  they  were  fried, 
and  they  ducked  them  in  another  kettle  of  honey  that  stood 
by  for  the  same  purpose :  There  were  Cookes  above  fifty, 
men  and  women,  all  cleanely,  carefull,  and  cheerfull :  In  the 

151  ' 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    spacious  belly  of  the  Steere,  there  were  twelve  sucking  Pigs, 
xx          which  being  sowed  there,  served  to  make  him  more  savoury : 

Of  the  Mar-     the  spices  of  divers  sorts,  it  seemes  were  not  brought  by 

riage  of  rich     pounds,  but  by  Arrobas,  and  all  lay  open  in  a  great  chest. 

tlTeTuccesse     To  conclude>  this  preparation  for  the  marriage  was  rusticall ; 

of  poore  but  so  plentifull,  that  it  might  furnish  an  Army. 

Basilius.  Sancho  Pansa  beheld  all,  and  was  much  affected   with 

it :  and  first  of  all,  the  goodly  pots  did  captivate  his  desires, 
from  whence  with  all  his  heart  hee  would  have  beene  glad 
to  have  received  a  good  pipkin  full;  by  and  by  he  was 
enamoured  on  the  skins,  and  last  of  all  upon  the  fried 
meats,  if  so  be  those  vast  kettles  might  bee  called  frying- 
pans  :  so  without  longer  patience,  as  not  being  able  to 
abstaine,  he  came  to  one  of  the  busie  Cookes,  and  with 
courteous  and  hungry  reasons,  desired  him,  that  he  might 
sop  a  cast  of  bread  in  one  of  the  pots.  To  which  the  Cooke 
replide ;  Brother,  this  is  no  day  on  which  hunger  may  have 
any  j  urisdiction  (thanks  be  to  the  rich  Camacho)  alight,  and 
see  if  you  can  finde  ever  a  ladle  there,  and  skimme  out  a 
Hen  or  two,  and  much  good  may  they  doe  you. 

I  see  none  (sayd  Sancho.)  Stay  (sayd  the  Cooke)  God 
forgive  me,  What  a  Ninny  tis !  and  saying  this,  he  layed 
hold  of  a  kettle,  and  sowsing  into  it  one  of  the  halfe-butts, 
he  drew  out  of  it  three  Hens  and  two  Geese,  and  sayd  to 
Sancho  ;  Eat,  Friend,  and  breake  your  fast  with  this  froth, 
till  dinner-time.  I  have  nothing  to  put  it  in  (sayd  Sancho.) 
Why,  take  spoone  and  all  (sayd  the  Cooke)  for  Camacho^s 
riches  and  content  will  very  well  beare  it. 

Whilest  Sancho  thus  passed  his  time,  Don  Quixote  saw, 
that  by  one  side  of  the  Arbour,  there  came  a  doozen 
Husband-men  upon  twelve  goodly  Mares,  with  rich  and 
sightly  furniture  fit  for  the  Countrey,  with  many  little  bels 
upon  their  Petrels,  all  clad  in  bravery  for  that  dayes  solem- 
nity, and  all  in  a  joynt-troop  ran  many  Careeres  up  and 
downe  the  medow,  with  a  great  deale  of  mirth  and  jollity, 
crying :  Long  live  Camacho  and  Quiteria,  he  as  rich,  as  shee 
faire,  and  shee  the  fairest  of  the  world.  Which  when  Don 
Quixote  heard,  thought  hee  to  himselfe,  It  well  appeares 
152 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

that  these  men  have  not  scene  my  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  :  for    CHAPTER 

if  they  had,  they  would  not  bee  so  forward  in  praising  this 

their  Quiteria.  ofthr.Mar- 

A  while  after,  there  Infill  to  enter  at  divers  places  of  the  ria-rt'  ut'  ri('h 
Arbour,  certaine  different  dances,  amount  which  there  was  [,1"'^^' 
one  Sword-dance,  by   foure  and  twenty  Suainrs,  handsome  ()t-'; 
lusty  Youths,  all  in  white  liimen,  with  their  hand-kerchiefs  lia-ilius. 
wrought  in   severall   colours   of  line  silke,  and   one  of  the 
twelve  upon  th>  i^kcd   him  that  was   the  fore-man  of 

these,  a  nimble  Lad,  if  any  of  the  Dancers  hail  hurt  them- 
selves. 

Hitherto  (sayd  he)  no  body  i*  hurt,  wee  are  all  well,  God 
bee  thanked:  and  straight  he  shulHed  in  amongst  the  rest 
of  his  companions,  with  so  many  tricks,  and  so  much  flight  ; 
that  Don  (Quixote,  though  he  were  used  to  such  kinde  of 
dances,  yet  bee  never  liked  anv  >o  \\ell  as  this.  He  also 
liked  another  verv  well,  which  was  of  faire  voung  Mayds,  so 
young,  that  never  a  one  was  under  fourcteeiie,  nor  none- 
above  cightccnc,  all  clad  in  course  greeiic,  their  haire  partly 
lilletted  and  partly  loo>e  :  but  all  !low,  and  might 

compare  with  the  Sunne,  upon  which  they  had  garlands  of 
*Iasmincs,   Roses,   \Vood-bine  and   Hony-suckles,  they  had  *Iasmine*t  a 

>v 


for  their  guides  a  reverend  olde  man,  and  a  mat  ronl\  woman,  bttl 
but  more  light  and  nimble  then  could  bee  expected  from  jjjrt 
their  yeeres.  inSpSw 

They  danc'd  to  the  sound  of  a  *  /amora  bag-pipe,  >o  that  hc.!-^,  like 
with  their  honest  lookes,  and  their  nimble  feet,  they  >eemed  ">"'  s\veet 
to  be  the  best  Dancers  in  the  world.     After  this  there  came  Mari<" 
in  another  artificiall  dance,  of  those  called   BrawU  s,  it  con- 
sisted  of  eight  Nymphs,  divided  into  two  rankes.  (iod  Cupid 
guided  one  ranke,  and   .Money  the  other,  the  one  with  his  f;innms'for 
wings,  his  Bow,  his  Quiver  anil  Arrowo,  the  other  was  clad  that  kindc  of 
in  divers  rich  colours  of  gold  and  silke  :   The  Nvmphs  that  nmsirke,  like 
followed  Love,  carried  a  white  parchment   M  I  their  °"r  k'111'"1' 

backes,  in  which   their  names  were  written  in  great  letters:      *™ 
tlu-  first  was  Poesie,  the  second  Discretion,  the  third  Nobility, 
the  fourth  Valour.     In  the  same  manner  came  those  whom 
god  Money  led,  the  first  was  Liberality,  the  second  Reward, 

3:U  153 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    the   third   Treasure,  the  fourth  Quiet  Possession;    before 

XX         them  came  a  woodden  Castle,  which  was  shot  at  by  two 

Of  the  Mar-     Savages  clad  in  Ivie  and  Canvas,  died  in  greene,  so  to  the 

riageofrich     \{fe^  that  they  had  well-nigh  frighted  Sancho.      Vpon  the 

thTsuTcessT    Frontispice,  and  of  each  side  of  the  Castle,  was  written ; 

of  poore  '  The  Castle  of  good  heede ' :  Foure  skilfull  Musicians  played 

Basilius.          to  them  on  a  Taber  and  Pipe ;  Cupid  began  the  Dance,  and 

after  two  changes,  hee  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  bent  his  Bow 

against  a  Virgin  that  stood  upon  the  battlements  of  the 

Castle,  and  sayd  to  her  in  this  manner : 

I  am  the  pow'rfull  Deitie, 
In  Heaven  above  and  Earth  beneath, 
In  Seas  and  Hels  profunditie, 
O're  all  that  therein  live  or  breathe. 

What  'tis  to  feare,  I  never  knew, 
I  can  performe  all  that  I  will, 
Nothing  to  me  is  strange,  or  new ; 
I  bid,  forbid,  at  pleasure  still. 

The  Verse  being  ended,  he  shot  a  flight  over  the  Castle, 
and  retired  to  his  standing ;  By  and  by  came  out  Money, 
and  performed  his  two  changes ;  the  Taber  ceased,  and  he 
spoke : 

Loe  I,  that  can  doe  more  then  Love, 

Yet  love  is  he  that  doth  me  guide, 

My  of-spring  great'st  on  earth,  to  love 

Above  I  neerest  am  allide. 

I  Money  am,  with  whom  but  few 
Performe  the  honest  workes  they  ought ; 
Yet  heere  a  miracle  to  shew, 
That  without  me  they  could  doe  ought. 

Money  retired,  and  Poetry  advanced,  who  after  she  had 
done  her  changes  aswell  as  the  rest,  her  eyes  fixt  upon  the 
Damozell  of  the  Castle,  she  sayd : 

Lady,  to  thee,  sweet  Poesie 
Her  soule  in  deepe  conceits  doth  send, 
Wrapt  up  in  writs  of  Sonnetrie, 
Whose  pleasing  straines  doe  them  commend. 
154 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

If  with  my  oarn.  -•:!.•",•.  I  thee  CHAPTER 

Importune  not,  faire  Pamozell,  soone  XX 

Thy  envied  fortune  shall,  by  mee, 
M,;untthe,.ir,le,,ftheMoone. 


Poetry  gave  way,  and  from  Monies  side  came  Liberality,  £»"**"• 
and  afte-r  ner  changes,  sp,,k,  :  £™6 

To  irh  •«•  i>  Liberalitie,  Basilius. 

In  him  that  shunnes  two  contraries, 
The  one  of  Prodi^alitie, 
Tnther  of  hateftill  A\ 

Ilf  be  profuse  in  praising  thee, 
I'rofuseiiesse  hath  arrounted  beene 

it  fumiiieth  nit' 
Affection,  which  in  gifts  is  scene. 

In  this  sort  both  the  shewes  of  the  two  Squadrons,  came 
in  and  out,  and  each  of  them  performed  their  changes, 
and  spoke  their  verses,  some  elegant,  some  ridiculous,  Don 
Quixote  onely  remembred  (for  he  had  a  great  memory)  the 
rehearsed  one,  and  now  the  whole  troope  mingled  together, 
winding  in  and  out  with  great  spritolinesse  and  dexterity, 
and  still  as  Love  went  before  the  Castle,  he  shot  a  flight 
aloft,  but  Money  broke  gilded  bals,  and  threw  into  it. 

At  last,  after  Money  had  danc'd  a  good  while,  he  drew 
out  a  great  purse  made  of  a  Homane  Cats  >kinne,  which 
seemed  to  be  full  of  money,  and  casting  it  into  the  Castle, 
with  the  blow,  the  boords  were  dis-joyned,  and  fell  dowi 
leaving  the  l)amo/ell  discovered,  without  any  defence. 
Money  came  with  his  assistant  >,  and  easting  a  great  chaine 
of  golde  about  her  neeke,  they  made  a  '•hew  of  leading  her 
captive  :  Which  when  Love  and  his  Party  saw,  they  made 
shew  as  if  they  would  have  rescued  her,  and  all  these  motions 
were  to  the  sound  of  the  Taber,  with  skilfull  dancing,  the 
Savages  parted  them,  who  very  speedily  went  to  set  up 
and  joyne  the  boords  of  the  Castle,  and  the  Damozell 
enclosed  there  anew  :  and  with  this  the  dance  ended,  to  the 
great  content  of  the  Spectat 

Don  Quixote  asked  one  of  the  Nymphs,  Who  had  go  d 
and  ordered  her  ?    Shee  answered,  A  Parson  of  the  towne, 


tlesuccesse 
of  poore 
Basilius. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    who  had  an  excellent  capacity  for  such  inventions.     He  lay 
a  wager  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  he  was  more  Basilius  his  friend 
Of  the  Mar-     then  Camacho's,  and  that  he  knowes  better  what  belongs  to 

a  ^at?r  then  tO  Even-song  '  he  hath  wel1  fitted  Basilius  his 
abilities  to  the  dance,  and  Camacho's  riches. 

Sancho  Pansa  that  heard  all  sayd  ;  The  King  is  my  Cocke, 
I  hold  with  Camacho.  Well,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
thou  art  a  very  Peasant,  and  like  them  that  cry,  Long  live 
the  Conquerour.  I  know  not  who  I  am  like  (said  Sancho  :) 
but  I  know  I  shall  never  get  such  delicate  froth  out  of 
Basilius  his  Pottage-pots?  as  I  have  out  of  Camacho's  :  and 
with  that  shewed  him  the  kettle  full  of  Geese  and  Hens, 
and  laying  hold  on  one,  he  fell  to  it  merrily  and  hungerly, 
and  for  Basilius  abilities  this  he  sayd  to  their  teeth:  So 
much  thou  art  worth  as  thou  hast,  and  so  much  as  thou 
hast,  thou  art  worth.  An  olde  Grandam  of  mine  was  wont 
to  say,  there  were  but  two  linages  in  the  world,  Have-much, 
and  Have-little;  and  she  was  mightily  enclined  to  the 
former  :  and  at  this  day,  Master,  your  Physician  had  rather 
feele  a  having  pulse,  then  a  knowing  pulse,  and  an  Asse 
covered  with  golde  makes  a  better  shew  then  a  horse  with  a 
pack-saddle.  So  that  I  say  againe,  I  am  of  Camacho^s  side, 
the  scumme  of  whose  pots  are  Geese,  Hens,  Hares,  and 
Conies,  and  Basilius  his,  bee  they  neere  or  farre  off,  but 
poore  thin  water. 

Hast  thou  ended  with  thy  tediousnesse,  Sancho  (sayd  Don 
Quixote)?  I  must  end  (sayd  hee)  because  I  see  it  offends 
you,  for  if  it  were  not  for  that,  I  had  worke  cut  out  for 
three  dayes.  Pray  God,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  that  I 
may  see  thee  dumbe  before  I  die.  According  to  our  life 
(sayd  Sancho)  before  you  die,  I  shall  be  mumbling  clay,  and 
then  perhaps  I  shall  bee  so  dumbe,  that  I  shall  not  speake  a 
word  till  the  end  of  the  world,  or  at  least  till  Domes-day. 

Although  it  should  bee  so,  Sancho  (sayd  hee)  thy  silence 
will  never  be  equall  to  thy  talking  past,  and  thy  talke  to 
come;  besides,  tis  very  likely  that  I  shall  die  before  thee, 
and  so  I  shall  never  see  thee  dumbe,  no  not  when  thou 
drinkest  or  sleepest,  to  paint  thee  out  thorowly.  In  good 

156 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

faith,  Master  (quoth  Sancho)  there  is  no  trusting  in  the    CHAPTER 
raw  bones,  I  meane   Death,  that  devoures  lambes  as  will 
as   sheepe,   and    I   have  heard   our   Vicar  say,  .she  tramples  Of  the  Mar- 
as  wcl  on  the  high  Towres  of  Kin^s.  as  the  humble  cot-  ™K«  «* 'rn-h 

f  j.i  •     T    j      ir  Zu  , ,        C  amacno.  and 

tages  of  poore    men  :    this    Lady    hath    more    power  then  tju, 

squeainishnesse,   she   is   nothing   dainty,  shee  devoures  all,  ,,f  j 
plaves  at  all,  and  fils  her  wallets  with  all  kinde  of  people,  Basilius. 

.intl  preeminences:  Shee  is  no  Mower  that  sleepes  in 
the  hot  weather,  but  mowes  ;lt  all  howcrs,  and  cuts  aswell 
the  greene  grasse  as  the  hay  :  she  doth  not  chew,  but 
Uowei  at  once,  and  crams  downe  all  that  comes  before 
her;  shee  hath  a  Canine  appetite,  that  is  never  satisfied, 
and  though  shee  have  no  bellv,  vet  «hee  may  make  us  thinke 
shee  is  Hydropsicall.  with  the  thirst  shee  hath  to  drinke  all 
niens  lives,  as  if  it  were  a  juggc  of  eolde  water. 

No  more,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  (Quixote)  at  this  instant, 
hold  while  thou  art  well,  and  take  heed  of  falling,  for  cer- 
tainely  thou  hast  spoken  of  Death  in  thy  rustieall  termes, 
us*  much  as  a  good  Preacher  might  have  spoken.  I  tell 
thee,  Sancho,  that  for  thy  naturall  discretion,  thou  mightst 
get  thee  a  Pulpit,  and  preach  thy  fine  knacks  up  and  downe 
the  world.  Hee  preaches  well  that  lives  well  (suyd  Sancho) 
and  1  know  no  other  preaching.  Thou  needest  not  (quoth 
he:)  Hut  I  wonder  at  one  thing,  that  wisdome  beginning 
from  the-  feare  of  God,  that  thou,  who  feurest  a  Li/urd  more 
then  him,  shouldst  be  so  wise  ?  ludgc  you  of  your  Knight 
Errantry  (sayd  Sancho)  and  meddle  not  with  other  mens 
lea  res  or  valors,  for  I  am  as  pretty  a  Fearer  of  God 
as  any  of  my  neighbours,  and  so  let  nu-e  >miH'e  away  this  Meaning  to 
scum,  for  all  the  rest  are  but  idle  words,  for  which  we  t>at  hi>  IV" 
must  give  account  in  another  life.  And  in  „  MOtheC 

hee    began    to    give    another    assault    to    the    kettle,    with 
such    a   courage,   that    he    wakened    Don   Quixote,    that 
undoubtedly  would  have  taken  his  part,  if  he  had 
not  beene  hindered  by  that,  that  of  neces- 
sity must  be  set  downe. 


157 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


*In  stead  of 
three-piled. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

Of  the  prosecution  of  Camacho's  marriage,  with 
other  delightfull  accidents. 

S  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  were  in  their 
discourse  mentioned  in  the  former  chapter, 
they  heard  a  great  noyse  and  out-cry, 
which  was  caused  by  them  that  rode  on 
the  Mares,  who  with  a  large  Carreere  and 
shouts,  went  to  meet  the  married  couple ; 
who,  hemmed  in  with  a  thousand  trickes 
and  devices,  came  in  company  of  the 
Vicar,  and  both  their  kindreds,  and  all  the  better  sort  of 
the  neighbouring  townes,  all  clad  in  their  best  apparell. 
And  as  Sancho  saw  the  Bride,  he  said,  In  good  faith  she 
is  not  drest  like  a  country  wench,  but  like  one  of  your 
nice  Court  Dames :  by  th"  Masse  me  thinkes  her  glasse 
necke-laces  she  should  weare,  are  rich  Corrall ;  and  her 
course  greene  of  Cuenca,  is  a  *  thirty  piled  velvet;  and  her 
lacing  that  should  be  white  linnen,  (I  vow  by  me)  is  Satten : 
well  looke  on  her  hands  that  should  have  their  lette  rings, 
let  me  not  thrive  if  they  be  not  golden  rings,  arrant  gold, 
and  set  with  pearles  as  white  as  a  sillabub,  each  of  them  as 
precious  as  an  eye.  Ah  whooreson,  and  what  lockes  she 
hath  ?  for  if  they  be  not  false,  I  never  saw  longer,  nor  fairer 
in  my  life.  Well,  well,  finde  not  fault  with  her  livelinesse 
and  stature,  and  compare  her  me  to  a  Date  tree,  that  bends 
up  and  downe  when  it  is  loaden  with  bunches  of  Dates ;  for 
so  doth  she  with  her  trinkets  hanging  at  her  hayre  and 
about  her  necke :  I  sweare  by  my  soule,  she  is  a  wench  of 
mettall,  and  may  very  well  passe  the  pikes  in  Flanders. 

Don  Quixote  laughed  at  Sancho's  rusticke  praises,  and 
hee  thought,  that  setting  his  Mistresse  Dulcinea  aside,  he 
never  saw  fairer  woman :  the  beauteous  Quiteria  was  some- 
158 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

what  pah-,  belike,   with    the   ill   night   that    Hridcs  alwaies    CHAPTER 
have  when  they  dresse  them>elv»  \(   daies  man 

They  drew  neere  to  a  Theater  on  OIK-  side  of  the  Medow.  ofthi-pro- 
that    was    dressed    with    Carpets    and    boughes,    where    the  p'1'"^" 
marriage  was   to   bee    soK-mni/cd,   anil    where   they   should  nJJS^1 
behold  the  dances  and  inventions.      And  ju>t  as  they  should  %vjth  otlu'r 
come  to  the  place,  thev  heard   a  great  out-crv  l)ehind  them,  delight  full 
and  a  voyce,  >aying;  Stay  a  while,  rash  people  as  well  as 

;   At  who  and    words   they  all   turned  about, 

and  saw  that  he  that  spoke,  was  one  cladde  (to  see  to)  in  a 
blacke  Jacket  all  welted  with  Crimson  in  flames  crowned 
(as  they  straight  perceived)  with  a  cro\\ne  of  moiiniefull 
Cypresse,  in  his  hand  he  had  a  great  Truncheon:  and 
comming  neerer,  hce  was  knowne  l>v  all  to  be  the  Gallant 
Basilius,  who  were  in  suspc-nce,  expecting  what  should  be 

NIB  of  those  cryes  and  words,  fearing  some-  ill  successe 
from  this  so  unlooked-for  arrivall.  I  lee  drew  u  ry, 

and  out  of  breath,  and  comming  before  the  married  couple, 
and  clapping  his  Truncheon  upon  the  ground,  which  had  a 

the  end  of  it :   his  colour  changed,  ami  h 

fixed  upon  (^uiteria,  with  a  fearfull  and  hollow  vovcc,  thus 
spol. 

Well  knowest  thou,  forgctfull  Quiteria,  that  according  to 
the  Law  of  God  that  wee  profose,  that  whilest  I  live  thou 
canst  not  be  married  to  any  other:  nevthcr  are  you  ignor- 
ant, that  because  I  would  stay  till  time  and  my  ind 
might  better  my  fortunes,  I  would  not  breake  that  decorum 
that  was  fitting  to  the  preserving  of  thy  honestv  :  but  vou 
forgetting  all  duetie,  due  to  my  vertuou>  \vill  make 

another    Master   of  what   is   mine,    whose    rid  not 

onely  to  make  him  happy  in  them,  but  every  way  fortui 
and   that  he  may  be  so  to  the  full,  (not  as  I  thinke  he 

es  it,  but  as  the  Fates  ordaine  it  for  him)  I  will  with 
these  hands  remoove  the  impo.-sibilitv  or  inconvenience  that 
may  disturbe  him,  removing  mv  selfe  out  of  the  way.  Live-, 
rich  Camacho,  live  with  the  ungratefull  Quiteria  many  and 
prosperous  yeeres,  and  let  your  poore  Hasilius  die,  whose 
poverty  clipped  the  wings  of  his  happinesse,  and  laid  him 

159 


CHAPTER 
XXI 

Of  the  pro- 
secution of 
Camacho's 
marriage, 
with  other 
delightfull 
accidents. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

in  his  grave :  and  saying  this,  he  layd  hold  of  his  Truncheon 
that  he  had  stuck  in  the  ground,  and  the  one  halfe  of  it 
remaining  still  there,  shewed  that  it  served  for  a  scabberd  to 
a  short  Tucke  that  was  concealed  in  it,  and  putting  that 
which  might  be  called  the  hilt  on  the  ground,  with  a 
nimble  spring,  and  a  resolute  purpose,  hee  cast  himselfe 
upon  it,  and  in  an  instant  the  bloudy  poynt  appeared  out 
of  his  backe,  with  halfe  the  steele  blade,  the  poore  soule 
weltring  in  his  bloud,  all  along  on  the  ground,  runne  thorow 
with  his  owne  weapon.  His  friends  ranne  presently  to 
helpe  him,  greeved  with  his  misery  and  miserable  happe, 
and  Don  Quixote  forsaking  his  Rozinante,  went  also  to 
helpe  him ;  tooke  him  in  his  armes,  but  found  that  as  yet 
there  was  life  in  him.  They  would  have  pulled  out  the 
Tucke,  but  the  Vicar  there  present,  was  of  opinion  that  it 
were  not  best  before  hee  had  confessed  himselfe ;  for  that 
the  drawing  it  out,  and  his  death,  would  be  both  at  one 
instant.  But  Basilius  comming  a  little  to  himselfe,  with  a 
faint  and  dolefull  voyce,  said,  If  thou  wouldest,  O  Quiteria, 
yet  in  this  last  and  forcible  trance,  give  me  thy  hand  to  be 
my  spouse,  I  should  thinke  my  rashnesse  might  something 
excuse  me,  since  with  this  I  obtained  to  be  thine. 

The  Vicar  hearing  this,  bad  him  he  should  have  a  care  of 
his  soules  health,  rather  then  of  the  pleasures  of  his  body, 
and  that  he  should  heartily  aske  God  forgivenesse  for  his 
sinnes,  and  for  his  desperate  action.  To  which  Basilius 
replyM,  That  he  would  by  no  meanes  confesse  himselfe,  if 
Quiteria  did  not  first  give  him  her  hand  to  be  his  spouse, 
for  that  content  would  make  him  cheerefully  confesse  him- 
selfe. When  Don  Quixote  heard  the  wounded  mans  peti- 
tion, he  cried  aloud,  that  Basilius  desired  a  thing  very  just 
and  reasonable,  and  that  Signior  Camacho  would  be  as 
much  honoured  in  receiving  Quiteria,  the  worthy  Basilius 
his  widdow,  as  if  hee  had  received  her  from  her  Fathers  side  : 
heere  is  no  more  to  doe  but  give  one  I,  no  more  then  to 
pronounce  it,  since  the  nuptial  bed  of  this  mariage  must  be 
the  grave. 

Camacho  gave  eare  to  all  this,  and  was  much  troubled, 

160 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

not  knowing  what  to  doe  or  say:  but  Basilius   his  friends    CHAPTER 

M   earnest,  requesting   him    to   consent    that  Quiteria          XXI 
might  give  him  her  hand  to  bee  his  Spouse,  that  hce  might  Ofthepro- 
not  endanger  his  soule,  by  departing  desperately,  that  they  p'"*1""  °* 
mooved    him    and    enforced    him,   to    say   that   if   Quiteria  nmrriaire  8 
would,    he    was    contented  it    was    but    deferring  with  <>t 

his   ill-sires   a    minute    longer.      Then   all    of  them    came   to  delitrhtfull 
Quiteria,    some  with    in  others    with    teares,    most 

with  forcible  reasons,  and  perswaded  her  she  should  give 
her  hand  to  poore  Basilius ;  and  shee  more  hard  then 
marble,  more  lumpish  then  a  statue,  would  not  answer  a 
word,  nevther  would  she  at  all,  had  not  the  Vicar  bid  her 
lex dve  what  she  would  doe,  for  Basilius  was  even  now 
ready  to  depart,  and  could  not  her  irresolute  de- 

termination. Then  the  faire  Quiteria,  without  answering 
a  word,  all  sad  and  troubled,  came  where  Basilius  was, 
with  his  eves  even  sette,  his  breath  failing  him,  making 
shew  as  if  he  would  die  like  a  Gentile,  and  not  like  a 
Christian.  Quiteria  came  at  length,  and  upon  her  k 
made  signes  to  have  his  hand.  Basilius  unjoyn'd  his  eyes, 
and  looking  stedfaslly  upon  her,  said,  Oh  Quiteria,  thou 
art  now  come  to  be  pittifull,  when  thy  pitty  must  be  the 
sword  that  shall  end  my  life,  since  now  I  want  ton 
receive  the  glory  that  thou  givest  in  chusing  mee  for  thine, 
or  to  suspend  the  dolor  that  so  hastily  cloM'th  up  mine 
eyes,  with  the  fearefull  shade  of  death.  All  I  desire  thee 
is  (oh  fatall  starre  of  mine)  that  the  hand  thou  re<jn: 
and  that  that  thou  wilt  give  me,  that  it  be  not  for  fashion- 
sake,  nor  once  more  to  deceive  mee,  but  that  thou  con- 
fesse  and  say  without  being  forced  to  it,  that  thou  givest 
me  thy  hand  freely,  as  to  thy  lawfull  Spouse,  sine. 
unmerciful  in  this  trance  to  deceive  mee.  or  to  deale  falsely 
with  him  that  hath  beene  so  true  to  thee.  In  the  middest 
of  this  discourse  he  fainted,  so  that  all  the  standers  by 
thought  now  hi-  had  beene  gone.  Quiteria  all  honest  and 
shamefast,  laying  hold  with  her  right  hand  on  Basilius 
his,  said  to  him;  No  force  can  worke  upon  my  will,  and 
so  I  irive  thee  the  freest  hand  I  have  to  be  thy  lawfull 
X  161 


CHAPTER 
XXI 

Of  the  pro- 
secution of 
Camacho's 
marriage, 
with  other 
delightfull 
accidents. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

Spouse,  and  receive  thine,  if  thou  give  it  me  as  freely,  and 
that  the  anguish  of  thy  sodaine  accident  doe  not  too  much 
trouble  thee.  I  give  it  (said  Basilius)  lively  and  couragiously, 
with  the  best  understanding  that  heaven  hath  endued  mee 
withall,  and  therefore  take  me,  and  I  deliver  my  selfe  as  thy 
espousall ;  and  I  (said  Quiteria)  as  thy  Spouse,  whether  thou 
live  long,  or  whether  from  my  armes  they  carry  thee  to  thy 
grave. 

This  young  man  (said  Sancho)  being  so  wounded,  talks 
much  me  thinks,  let  him  leave  his  wooing,  and  attend  his 
souls  health,  which  me  thinks  appeares  more  in  his  tongue, 
then  in  his  teeth. 

Basilius  and  Quiteria  having  their  hands  thus  fastned,  the 
Vicar,  tender-harted  and  compassionate,  powred  his  blessing 
upon  them,  and  prayed  God  to  give  good  rest  to  the  new- 
married  mans  soule,  who  as  soone  as  he  received  this  bene- 
diction, sodainely  starts  up,  and  with  an  unlook't  for  agility, 
drew  out  the  Tucke  which  was  sheathed  in  his  body.  All 
the  spectators  were  in  a  maze,  and  some  of  them,  more  out 
of  simplicity  then  curiosity,  began  to  cry  out,  A  Miracle,  a 
Miracle :  but  Basilius  reply'd,  No  Miracle,  no  Miracle ;  but 
a  Tricke,  a  Tricke.  But  the  Vicar,  heed-lesse  and  astonisht, 
came  with  both  his  hands  to  feele  the  wound,  and  found  that 
the  blade  had  neyther  passed  thorow  flesh  or  ribbes,  but 
thorow  a  hollow  pipe  of  yron,  that  he  filled  with  bloud 
well  fitted  in  that  place,  and  (as  after  it  was  knowne)  pre- 
pared so,  that  it  could  not  congeale.  At  last  the  Vicar  and 
Camacho,  and  all  the  standers  by,  thought  that  they  were 
mocked  and  made  a  laughing-stocke.  The  Bride  made  no 
great  shew  of  sorrow :  rather  when  she  heard  say  that  the 
marriage  could  not  stand  currant,  because  it  was  deceitfull, 
she  said,  that  shee  anew  confirmed  it ;  by  which  they  all 
collected,  that  the  business  had  beene  plotted  by  the  know- 
ledge and  consentment  of  them  both.  At  which,  Camaeho 
and  his  friends  were  so  abashed,  that  they  remitted  their 
revenge  to  their  hands,  and  unsheathing  many  swords,  they 
set  upon  Basilius,  in  whose  favor  in  an  instant  there  were  as 
many  more  drawne  :  and  Don  Quixote  taking  the  Vantguard 

162 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

on  horsebacke,  with  his  Launce  at  his  rest,  and  well  covered    CHAPTKR 
with   his  shield,  made  way  thorow  uni   all.      Sancho  (whom  VXI 

such  feates  did  IK  i  or  -i»l;uv)  rannt1  to  the  pottage-  Of  tht>  pro- 

pot,  from  whi'iHv  IK-  had  gotten   the  skimmings,  thinking  s.-cutm- 
that   to    be    a    .sanctuary,  and    ><>    to    be    respected.       Don  Jn"" 
(Quixote    crved    aloud.    Hold,    hold.    Sirs;    for    thru-    is    no  \vitl,  ,,• 

in  that  you  should  take  r<  >r   the    wrongs  that  delijrhtfull 

Love  doth  us:   and    <  :i  if    lo\e  and  warre  are  all  Ul 

one :  and  as  in  warre  it  is  luwfull  to  use  sleights  and 
stratagems  to  overcome  tin-  enemy:  So  in  amorous  strifes 
and  competencies.  Impostures  and  juggling  trirks  are  held 
for  good,  to  attaine  to  the  wished  end,  s<>  it  bee  not  in 
prejudice  and  dishonour  of  the  thing  affected.  (^uiteria 

due  to  Basilius,  and  Basilius  to  (Juitcria,  by  the  just 
and  favourable  inclination  of  heavm.  Camacho  is  rich, 
and  may  purchase  his  delight,  and  whom  God  hath  joyned, 
let  no  man  isjlius  hath  but  this  one  slurpe, 

let  none  oiler  to  take  it  from  him,  be  he  never  so  power- 
full  :  he  that  h'r-t  attempts  it,  must  first  pas>e  thorow  tin- 
point  of  this  Launce;  at  which  hce  sliaked  his  Lum« 
strong  and  cunningly,  that  bee  frighted  all  that  knew 
him  not:  Hut  (^uiteria's  dUdairn-  \\  a^  >o  inwardly  lixt  in 
Camacho"5  heart,  that  he  forgot  her  in  an  instant  ;  so  that 
the  Vicars  persw.isions  prevailed  with  him,  (who  was  a  good 
discreet  and  honest-minded  man)  by  uhich  Camacho  and 
his  complices  were  pacified  and  quieted,  in  signe  of  which, 
they  put  up  their  swords,  rather  blaming  <<)ui!  ility, 

then  Basilius  his  industry.  Camacho  framM  this  discourse 
to  himselfe,  That  if  <<hiiteria  loved  Hasilius  when  >lu 
a  maide,  shee  would  also  have  continued  her  love  to  him 
though  she  had  beene  his  wife,  and  M>  that  hec  ought  to 
give  God  thankes  rather  for  having  ridden  him  of  her, 
then  to  have  given  her  to  him.  Camacho  then,  and  those 
of  his  crue  being  comforted  and  pacified,  all  Hasilius  his 
likewise  were  so,  and  Camacho  to  shew  that  he  stomacked 
not  the  jest,  nor  car'd  for  it,  was  willing  the  feast  should 
goe  forward,  as  if  he  had  beene  really  married.  But 
neyther  Basilius,  nor  his  Spouse,  nor  their  followers  would 

163 


CHAPTER 
XXI 

Of  the  pro- 
secution of 
Camacho's 
marriage, 
with  other 
delightfull 
accidents. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

stay,  but  went  to  Basilius  his  towne :  for  your  poore  that 
are   vertuous   and   discreet,  have   as   well   those  that  will 
follow,  honour,  and  uphold  them,  as  the  rich  theirs,  and 
such  as  will  flatter  them.     Don  Quixote  went  with  them  too, 
for  they  esteemed  him  to  be  a  man  of  worth  and  valor.     But 
Sancho's  mind  was  in  a  mist,  to  see  that  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  stay  for  Camacho's  sumptuous  feast  and  sports 
that  lasted  till  the  evening  :  so  that  straighted  and  sorrow- 
full,  he  followed  on  with  his  Master  that  went  in  Basilius  his 
squadron,  and  thus  left  behind  him  those  flesh-pots  of  ^Egypt, 
though  hee  bore  them  with  him  in  his  minde,  whose  skumme 
which  he  carried  in  the  kettle  being  consumed  now  and  ended, 
represented  unto  him  the  glorious  and  abundant  happi- 
nesse  hee  lost,  so  that  all  sad  and  sorrowfull,  though 
hungerlesse,  without  alighting  from  Dapple, 
he  followed  Rozinante's  tracke. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

Of  the  famous  Adventure  of  Montesinos  Cave, 

which  is  in  the  heart  of  Mancha,  which 

the  valerous  Don  Quixote  happily 

accomplished. 


HE  married  couple  made  wonderfull  much 
of  Don   Quixote,  obliged  thereunto  for 
the    willingnesse    he    shewed    to    defend 
their    cause,   and    with    his    valor    they 
paraleld  his  discretion,  accounting  him  a 
Cid  in  Armes,  and  a  Cicero  in  eloquence. 
The  good  Sancho  recreated  himselfe  three 
daies  at  the   Bridegroomes   charge,  and 
now  knew  that  Quiteria  knew  nothing  of  the  fayned  wound- 
ing, but  that  it  was  a  tricke  of  Basilius,  who  hoped  for  the 
successe  that  hath  been  shewed :  true  it  was,  that  he  had 
164 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

made  some  of  his  loving  fronds  acquainted  with  his  purpose,    CHAITKR 
that  they  might  helpe  him  at  need,  and  make  good  his         XX II 
deceit.     They  cannot  be  called  deceits  (quoth  Don  (Quixote)  Of  tin- famous 
that  are  done  to  a  vcrtuous  end,  and  that  the  marriage  of  a  Advi'nturc  of 
loving  couple  was  an  end   im»t  excellent:   hut  hy  the  way,  SSr?*! 
you  must  know  that  the  greatest  opposite  that  Love  hath,  is  in  the  heart 
is   want  and   continuall   necessity;    ror   Love   is   all   mirth,  of  Mancha, 
content   and    gladsomenos,   and    the    more,    when    lice    that  which  the 
loves,    cnjoves    the-    thing    loved  ;    against    which,    necessity   pf.^o'uixote 
and    poverty  are    open   and    declared   enemies.      All   this  he  l^ppS 
spoke    with    a    purpose    to    advise    Hasilius,   that    he    should  accomplished, 
leave  exercising  his  youthfull  abilities,  that  although  they 
got  him  a  name,  \v[  they  brought  no  wealth,  ami   that  ho 
should   looke  to  lay  up  somthing  now  by  lawfull  and  in- 
dustrious  means,  which  are  never  wanting  to  those  that  will 
be  wary  and  apply  them-cl\v->:    the  homM    pooro  man  (if  so 
be  the  poore   man   may  be  called   honest)   hath  a  Jewell  of  a 
faire  woman,  which  if  any  man   bereave  him  of,  dis-hoin 
him  and   kills  her.     Sliee  that  i^  faire  and  honest,  when  her 
husband   is   poore,  deserves  to  l)e  crowned  with    Lawrell  and 
triumphant    Hayes.      Beauty  alone   attracts  the  eyes  of  all 
that  behold  it,  and  the  princely  Eagles  and  high  Hying  bir 
doe   stoop    to    it  as   to   the    pleasing    Lure  :   but  if  extreme 
necessity  be  added  to  that  beauty,  then  Kites  and  C'rowes  will 
grapple  with  it,  and  other  ravenous  birds;  but  shoe  that  is 
constant  against  all  these  assaults,  doth  well  deserve  to  1 
her  husbands  crowne.     Marke,  wise  Basilius  (pr<  i  )on 

Quixote)  it  was  an  opinion  of  I  know  not  what  sage  man, 
that  there  was  but  one  good  woman  in  the  world,  and  his 
advice  was,  That  every  man  should  thinke  that  was  marri< 
that  his  wife  was  she,  and  so  he  should  be  sure  to  live  con- 
tented. I  never  yet  was  married,  neyther  have  I  any  thought 
hitherto  that  way  ;  notwithstanding,  I  could  be  able  to  give 
any  man  counsoll  hoeroin  that  should  aske  it,  and  how  he 
should  choose  his  wife. 

First  of  all  I  would  have  him  rather  respect  fame  then 
wealth,  for  the  honest  woman  gets  not  a  good  name  onely 
with  being  good,  but  in  appearing  so ;  for  your  publike 

L65 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  loosenesse  and  liberty  doth  more  prejudice  a  womans 
XXII  honesty,  then  her  sinning  secretly.  If  you  bring  her  honest 
Of  the  famous  to  your  house,  tis  easie  keeping  her  so,  and  to  better  her  in 
Adventure  of  that  goodnesse ;  but  if  you  bring  her  dis-honest,  tis  hard 
Cavewhich  mending  her;  for  it  is  not  very  pliable  to  passe  from  one 
is  in  the  heart  extreme  into  another,  I  say  not  impossible :  but  I  hold  it  to 
of  Mancha,  be  very  difficult. 

which  the  Sancho  heard  all  this,  and  said  to  himselfe,  This  Master 

DonChfix  t      °^ m^ne'  wnen  I  speake  matters  of  marrow  and  substance,  is 
happily  wont  to  tell  me,  that  I  may  take  a  Pulpit  in  hand,  and 

accomplished,  preach  my  fine  knacks  up  and  downe  the  world  :  but  I  may  say 
of  him,  that  when  hee  once  begins  to  thred  his  sentences,  he 
may  not  onely  take  a  Pulpit  in  hand,  but  in  each  finger  too, 
and  goe  up  and  downe  the  market  places,  and  cry,  Who 
buyes  my  ware  ?  The  Devill  take  thee,  for  a  Knight  Errant, 
how  wise  he  is!  On  my  soule  I  thoght  hee  had  knowne 
onely  what  belonged  to  his  Knight  Errantry ;  but  he  snaps 
at  all,  and  there  is  no  boat  that  hee  hath  not  an  oare  in. 
Sancho  spoke  this  somewhat  aloud,  and  his  Master  over- 
heard him,  and  asked,  What  is  that  thou  art  grumbling, 
Sancho?  I  say  nothing,  neyther  doe  I  grumble,  (quoth 
hee)  I  was  onely  saying  to  my  selfe,  that  I  would  I  had 
heard  you  before  I  was  married,  and  perhaps  I  might  now 
have  said,  The  sound  man  needs  no  Physician.  Is  Teresa  so 
bad,  Sancho  ?  said  Don  Quixote.  Not  very  bad,  said  Sancho, 
and  yet  not  very  good,  at  least,  not  so  good  as  I  would  have 
her.  Thou  dost  ill,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  to  speake 
ill  of  thy  wife,  who  is  indeede  mother  of  thy  children. 

There 's  no  love  lost  (quoth  Sancho :)  for  she  speakes  ill 
of  me  too,  when  shee  list,  especially  when  shee  is  jealous, 
for  then  the  Devill  himselfe  will  not  cope  with  her.  Well, 
three  dayes  they  stayed  with  the  married  Couple,  where 
they  were  welcommed  like  Princes.  Don  Quixote  desired 
the  skilfull  Parson  to  provide  him  a  Guide  that  might  shew 
him  the  way  to  Montesino's  Cave,  for  he  had  a  great  desire 
to  enter  into  it,  and  to  see  with  his  own  eies,  if  those  wonders 
that  were  told  of  it  up  and  down  the  Countrey  were  true. 
The  Parson  tolde  him,  that  a  Cousin -German  of  his,  a 
166 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

famous  Student,  and  much  addicted  to  bookes  of  Knight-    CHAPTER 
hood  should  goe  with  him,  who  should  willingly  carry  him         XX11 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Cave,  and  should  shew  the  famous  Lake  Of  the  famous 
of  Ruydera,  telling  him  hee  would  bee  very  good  company  A'lviMiture  of 
for  him,  by  reason  he  was  one  that  knew  how  to  publish  (  ^TwWdi 
books,  and  direct  them  to  great  mm.  JS'JM  ^u,  ju,art 

By  and  by  the  young  Student  comes  me  upon  an  Asse  of  Manrhu, 
with  Foale,  with  a  course  packing-cloth,  or  doubled  carpet  whirh  t 
upon  his  pack-saddle.    Sancho  saddled  Rozinante,  and  made  j'^SJIixote 
ready  his   Dapple,  furnished    his   wallets,  and  carried   the  happily 
Students  too,  aswell  provided ;   and  so  taking  leave,  and  arcoinjili>hrcl. 
bidding  all,  God  bee  with  you,  they  went  on,  holding  their 
course   to   Monte-sine's   Cave.      By    the   way  Don    (Quixote 
asked  the  Scholler,  of  what  kinde  or  quality  the  e\ 
his  prot'e»iou  ;iiul  study  were.     To  which  he  answered,  that 
his   Profession   was   Humanity,  his    :  -  and   Study  to 

make  bookes  for  the  verv  beneficial!  to 

himselfe,  ami   no  lesse  grutefiill   to  the  Commonwealth,  that 
one  of  hK  bookos  was  intituled.  The  Itookc  of  the  Lrcer 
where    are    set     downe    seven    hundred    and    three    sorts    of 
Liveries,    with    their    colours,    motto's,   and    cyphers;    from 
whence  any  may  bee  taken  at  festivall  times  and  shewes,  by 
Courtiers  without  bc-gging  them  from  any  body,  or  distilling 
\ou  would  sav)  from  their  owne  braines,  to  sute  them  to 
their  desires  and  intentions ;   for  I  give  to  the  jealous,  to 
the  forsaken,  to  the  forgotten,  to  the  absent,  the  most  ai_ 
able,  that  will  fit  tlu  '.1  as  their  1'uncks.     Another 

booke  I   have,  which  I  meane  to  call  tin-  jtfMoMOrplof^  or 
SjHinixh   Or'nl,  of  a  new  and  rare  invention  :    for  imitating 
Ovid  in  it,  by  way  of  mocking:   I  shew  who  the  Giralda  of 
Sevil  was,  the  Angcll  of  the  Magdalena,  who  was  the   Pipe  All  these 
of  Vecinguerra  of  Cordova,  who  tin-  Buls  of  (iuisando.  Sierra  severall  rar'- 
Morena,  the  springs  of  Loganitos  and  Lavapies  in  Madrid  ;  {l 
not  forgetting  that  of  Pioio,  that  of  the  gilded  pipe,  and  of 
the   Abbe-e,  and  all  this  with  the  Allegories  Metaphors, 
and  Translations,  that  they  delight,  suspend,  and  instruct 
all  in  a  moment.      Another  booke  I   have,  which  I  call  A 
to  Polydnrc  Virgil ^  concerning  the  invention  of  things 

167 


CHAPTER 
XXII 

Of  the  famous 
Adventure  of 
Montesinos 
Cave,  which 
is  in  the  heart 
of  Mancha, 
which  the 
valorous 
Don  Quixote 
happily 
accomplished. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

which  is  of  great  reading  and  study,  by  reason  that  I  doe 
verifie  many  matters  of  waight  that  Polydore  omitted,  and 
declare  them  in  a  very  pleasing  stile ;  Virgil  forgot  to  tell 
us  who  was  the  first  that  had  a  Catarre  in  the  world,  and 
the  first  that  was  anoynted  for  the  French  disease,  and  I  set 
it  downc  presently  after  I  propose  it,  and  authorize  it  with 
at  least  foure  and  twenty  Writers,  that  you  may  see  whether 
I  have  taken  good  paines,  and  whether  the  sayd  booke  may 
not  be  profitable  to  the  world. 

Sancho,  that  was  very  attentive  to  the  Schollers  narration, 
asked  him :  Tell  me,  Sir,  so  God  direct  your  right  hand  in 
the  Impression  of  your  bookes :  Can  you  tell  mee  ?  (For  I 
know  you  can,  since  you  know  all)  who  was  the  first  man 
that  scratcht  his  head,  for  I  beleeve  it  was  our  first  father 
Adam  ?  Yes  marry  was  it  (sayd  he)  for  Adam,  no  doubt, 
had  both  head  and  haire,  and  being  the  first  man  in  the 
world,  would  sometimes  scratch  himselfe.  I  beleeve  it 
(quoth  Sancho :)  but  tell  me  now,  Who  was  the  first  Vaulter 
in  the  world  ?  Truely,  Brother  (sayd  he)  I  cannot  at  present 
resolve  you,  I  will  study  it  when  I  come  to  my  bookes,  and 
then  He  satisfie  you,  when  wee  see  one  another  againe,  for  I 
hope  this  will  not  be  the  last  time.  Well,  Sir  (sayd  Sancho) 
never  trouble  your  selfe  with  this,  for  now  I  can  resolve  the 
doubt :  Know,  that  the  first  Tumbler  in  the  world  was 
Lucifer,  when  he  was  cast  out  of  Heaven,  and  came  tumbling 
down  to  Hell. 

You  say  true  (quoth  the  Scholler).  And  Don  Quixote 
sayd ;  This  answer,  Sancho,  is  none  of  thine,  thou  hast  heard 
some  body  say  so.  Peace,  Sir  (quoth  Sancho)  for  if  I  fall  to 
questions  and  answers,  I  shall  not  make  an  end  between 
this  and  morning:  And  to  aske  foolish  questions,  and 
answer  unlikeli-hoods,  I  want  no  help  of  my  neighbours. 
Thou  hast  spoken  more,  Sancho,  then  thou  thinkest  for 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  for  you  have  some  that  are  most 
busied  in  knowing  and  averring  things,  whose  knowledge 
and  remembrance  is  not  worth  a  button.  All  that  day  they 
passed  in  these  and  other  delightful  discourses,  and  at  night 
they  lodged  in  a  little  village,  from  whence  the  Scholler  told 

168 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

them  they  had  but  two  little  leagues  to  Montesino's  Cave,    CHAPTER 
and  that  if  he  meant  to  enter  it,  he  must  be  provided  of 
ropes,  to  tie  and  let   himselfe  downe  into  tin-  depth.     Don  Of  the  famous 
Quixote  sayd,  that  though  it  were  as  deep  as  Hell,  he  would  ^^ 
see  whither  it  reached  :  so  they  bought  a  hundred  fathome  Ca™   ^{Jteh 
of  cordage,  and  the  next  day  at  two  of  the  clocke,  they  came  is  in  the  heart 
to  the  Cave,  who>e  mouth  is  wide  and   spurious  ;  but  full  of  of  Manrh.-i, 
briers,  anil  brambles,  and  wilde  fig-trees,  and  weeds  >o  intri-  "1'1(>Jl  tjie 
cate  and  thick,  that  they  altogether  blinde  and  dam  it  up.  i^Quixote 
When  they  came  to  it,  Sancho  and   the  Scholler  alighted,  happily 
and  Don  (Quixote,  whom  they  tied  strongly  with  the  cordage  :  accomplished, 
and  whitest  they  were  swathing  and  binding  of  him,  Sancho 
sayd  to  him  ;  Take  hecde,  Sir,  what  you  doe,  doe  not  bury 
your  selfe  alive,  and  doe  not  hang  your  selfe  like  a  bottle  to 
be  cooled  in  some  Well ;  for  it  neither  concernes  nor  belongs 
to  you,  to  search  this  plaee  worse  then  a  Dungeon. 

Hiiule   me  and   peace  (quoth    Don  Quixote)  for  such  an 
enterprize  as  this,  Sancho,  was  reserved  for  me.     Then  said 
the  (Juide,  I   beseech    von.   Signior   Don   Quixote,   that  you 
take  beetle,  and  looke  about  you  with  an  hundred  eves,  to 
what    is  within  ;  for  perhaps  you  m  with  things 

that  will  be  (it  tor  mee  to  put  in  my  booke  of  Transforma- 
tions. Ilr  hath  his  Instrument  in  his  hand  (quoth  Sancho) 
that  knowes  how  to  u-e  it. 

This  sayd,  and  Don  Quixotes  binding  ended  (which  was 
not  upon  his  harne-e,  hut  upon  his  arming  doublet)  he 
We  did  unadvisedly,  in  not  providing  our  selves  of  some 
small  bell,  that  might  have  beene  tied  with  mee  to  the  same 
cord,  by  whose  sound,  you  might  know  that  I  were  still 
toward  the  bottome  and  alive:  but  since  tlu-re  is  now  no 
remedy,  God  bee  our  good  speede,  and  straight  he  kneeled 
upon  bis  knees,  ami  made  a  soft  j>r  '  .<  >d  Almighty, 

desiring  his  ayde,  and  to  give  him  good  m  D  that  (to 

siv  to) dangerous  and  strange  Adventure,  and  then  straight- 
hee  cried  aloud;  Oh  thou  Mistris  of  my  actions  and 
motions,  most  excellent.  :  M  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  if  it 

be  possible,  that  the  prayers  and  rr-que-ts  of  this  thy  happy 
Lover  conic  to  thine  eares,  barken,  I  beseech  thec.  by  thy 

3  :  Y  169 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    unheard  of  beauty,  deny  not  now  unto  me  thy  favour  and 

protection,  which  I  so  much  neede :  I  goe  to  cast  my  selfe 

Of  the  famous  headlong  to  a  plunge,  and  sinke  my  selfe  into  the  Abissus, 

MonetesSos°f  ?hat  Presents  {i  selfe  to  me'  that  the  worl.d  may  know>  that 
Cave  6whicSh  ^  thou  favour  me,  there  shall  be  nothing  impossible  for  mee 
is  in  the  heart  to  undergoe  and  end. 

of  Mancha,  And  in  saying  this,  hee  came  to  the  mouth,  but  saw  he 
which  the  could  not  come  neere  to  bee  let  downe,  except  it  were  by 
Don'oiiixote  mak^n§  way  with  maine  force,  or  with  cutting  thorow,  and  so 
happily  laying  hand  on  his  sword,  hee  began  to  cut  and  slash  the 

accomplished,  weedes  that  were  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave ;  at  whose  rush- 
ing and  noyse,  there  came  out  an  infinite  Company  of 
Crowes  and  Dawes,  so  thicke  and  so  hastily,  that  they  tumbled 
Don  Quixote  on  the  ground,  and  if  hee  had  beene  as  super- 
stitious, as  good  Christian,  hee  would  have  taken  it  for  an 
ill  signe,  and  not  have  proceeded. 

Well,  he  rose,  and  seeing  the  Crowes  were  all  gone,  and 

that  there  were  no  other  night-birds,  as  Bats,  that  came  out 

amongst  the  Crowes,  Sancho  and  the  Scholler  let  him  downe, 

to  search  the  bottome  of  that  fearefull  Cave ;  but  Sancho 

first  bestowed  his  benediction  on  him,  and  making  a  thousand 

Severall  crosses  over  him,  sayd ;  God  and  the  Rocke  of  France,  together 

places  of          with  the  Trinity  of  Gaeta,  guide  thee,  thou  Flower,  Creame, 

on'          and  Scumme  of  Knights  Errant :  There  thou  goest,  Hackster 

of  the  world,  Heart  of  steele,  and  Armes  of  brasse,  God 

againe  be  thy  Guide,  and  deliver  thee  sound  and  without 

skarre,  to  the  light  of  this  world  which  thou  leavest,  to  bury 

thy  selfe  in  the  obscurity  which  thou  seekest. 

The  Scholler  did  (as  it  were)  make  the  same  kinde  of 
wishes  and  deprecations.  Don  Quixote  cried  out,  that  they 
should  yet  give  him  more  rope,  which  they  gave  by  little 
and  little :  and  when  his  voyce  (that  was  stopt  in  the  gutters 
of  the  Cave)  could  be  no  longer  heard,  and  that  they  had  let 
downe  their  hundred  fathome  of  rope,  they  were  of  opinion 
to  hoyst  him  up  againe,  since  they  could  give  him  no  more 
cord  ;  for  all  that,  they  stayed  some  halfe  an  houre,  and  then 
began  easily  to  draw  up  the  rope,  and  without  any  wait, 
which  made  them  think  Don  Quixote  was  within,  and  Sancho 
170 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

beleeving  it,  wept  bitterly,  and  drew  up  apace,  that  he  might    CHAPTER 
l)i-i*    satisfied  :    but  cumming   somewhat   neere    foure-score 
fathome,  they  felt  a  waight,  which  made  them  very  much  of  the  famous 
re  Joyce.  Advrntu: 


At  length  when  they  came  to  ten,  they  plainely  saw  Don 
Quixote:  to  whom  Sancho  cryed  out,  saying;  Y'ou  are  well  js'jn  the  In-art 
returned,  Sir,  for  we  thought  you  had  itayed  there  tor  breed.  <>f  Mai  .. 
Hut  Don  Quixote  did  not  answer  a  word  :  but  drawing  him  which  the 
altogether  out,  they  saw  that  h  ^-re  shut,  as  it'  hee  I^Q^^ 

were  asleepe  ;  they  .stretcht  him  on  the  ground,  and  unbound  happily 
him,  and  for  all  this  he  awaked  not.      Hut  they  so  turned,  accomplished. 
tossed  and  shaked  him,  that  a  prettv  while  after  he  came  to 
liimselfe,  la/ing  himselfe,  as  if  he  had  wakened  out  of  a  great 
and  profound  sleep,  and   looking  wildclv  round-about   him, 
sayd  ;  (ioil    forgive   you,   Friends,   for   you    have  raised    mee 
from   one  of  the  delicatest  and  j  -t  lives  and  n 

that  i  M-ene  by  humane  •*•  at  length  I  pcr- 

CeiYe,  that  all  the  delights  of  this  world  doe  passe  like  a 
shadow  or  dreamt-,  or  wither  like  a  flower  of  the  field  :  Oh 
unhappy  Montesino's,  oh  ill  wounded  Durandarte,  oh  luek- 
li  mournfull  Guadiana,  and  you  unfortunate 
daugliters  of  Kuydera,  that  shew  by  your  waters,  those  your 
faire  eyes  wi-pt. 

The  Seholler  and  Sancho  gave  eare  to  these  words  which 

Don  Quixote  spake,  as  if  with  great  paine  they  came  from 

his  very  entrailes  :  They  desired   him  to  let  them  know  his 

meaning,  and  to  tell  them  what  he  had  seem-  in  that  hellish 

place.     I  lellish,  call  ye  it  ?  sayd  Don  Quixote,  well,  call  it  not 

so,  for  it  deserves  not  the  name,  as  straight  you  shall  heare  : 

Hee  desired  them  to  give  him  somewhat  to  eat,  for  he  Wt 

ceeding  hungry.  They  layd  the  SchollerscouiM  u  rapper  upon 

the  greene  grasse,  and  went  to  the  Spence  of  their  wallets,  and 

all  three  of  them  being  set  like  good  fellowes,  eat  their 

Beavar,  and  supped  all  together.    The  cloth  taken  up 

(Don  Quixote  sayd  )  Sit  still  Ho,  let  none  of  you 

rise,  and  marke  me  attentively. 


171 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

Of  the  admirable  things,  that  the  unparalel'd  Don 

Quixote  recounted,  which  he  had  scene  in  Monte- 

sino's  profound   Cave,  whose  strangenesse 

and  impossibility  makes  this  Chapter 

be  held  for  Apocrypha. 

was  well  toward  foure  of  the  clocke,  when 
the  Sunne,  covered  betweene  two  clouds, 
shewed  but  a  dimme  light,  and  with  his 
temperate  beames,  gave  Don  Quixote 
leave,  without  heat  or  trouble,  to  relate 
to  his  two  conspicuous  Auditors,  what  he 
had  scene  in  Montesino's  Cave;  and  he 
began,  as  followeth:  About  a  twelve  or 
fourteene  mens  heights  in  the  profundity  of  this  Dungeon, 
on  the  right  hand,  there  is  a  Concavity  and  Space  able  to 
containe  a  Cart,  Mules  and  all ;  some  light  there  comes  into 
it  by  certaine  chinks  and  loope-holes,  which  answer  to  it  a 
farre  off  in  the  Superficies  of  the  earth  ;  this  Space  and  Con- 
cavity saw  I,  when  I  was  weary  and  angry  to  see  mee  my 
selfe,  hanging  by  the  rope,  to  goe  downe  that  obscure  region, 
without  being  carried  a  sure  or  knowne  way :  so  I  determined 
to  enter  into  it,  and  to  rest  a  little ;  I  cryed  out  unto  you, 
that  you  should  let  downe  no  more  rope,  till  I  bad  you ;  but 
it  seemed  you  heard  me  not :  I  went  gathering  up  the  rope 
you  let  downe  to  me,  and  rolling  of  it  up  into  a  heape,  sate 
me  downe  upon  it,  very  pensative,  thinking  with  my  selfe 
what  I  might  doe  to  get  to  the  bottome;  and  being  in 
this  thought  and  confusion,  upon  a  sudden  (without  any 
former  inclination  in  mee)  a  most  profound  sleep  came  upon 
me,  and  when  I  least  thought  of  it,  without  knowing  how, 
nor  which  way,  I  awaked  out  of  it,  and  found  my  selfe  in  the 
172 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

middest  of  the  fairest,  most  pleasant,  and  delightfull  medow,     ('II  AI'lF.ll 
that  ever  Nature  created,  or  the  WUget   humane  discretion         XXIII 
can  imagine;  I  snuffed  mine  eves,  wiped  them,  and  saw  that  Ofthi>;ulmir- 
I  was  not  asleepe,  hut  really  awake,  notwithstanding  I  felt  ahll>  things, 
upon  my  head  and    my  bre.st,  to  he  assured,  it'  I  were  there  [,,'j!^.'/ 
my  selfe  or   no   in   per>on,  or   that  it  were   some   illusion,  DonQa 
or  counterfet  ;   hut  mv  touching,  feeling,  and  inv  reasonable  n-nmiLi. 
discourse  that  I  made  to  my  selfe,  certified  me,  that  I  was  "hii 

then  present,  the  same  that  I  am  now.  J?"  7 

,.   .  .Montosmos 

By  and  by  I  saw  a  Princely  and  sumptuous   Falace  or  j,rofOUIHi 

Castle,  whose  wals  and  battlement  seemed  to  bee  made  of 
transparent  Cristall,  from  whence  (upon  the  opening  of  two 
great  gates)  I  saw  that  there  came  towards  me  a  reverend 
olde  man,  elad  in  a  tawny  l>a\  .  that  he  dragged 

upon   the  ground;  over  his  shoulders  and  hre>t,  hi-  u> 
tipj)et  of  greene  sattin,  like  your  fellowes  of  Colledges,  and 
upon   his  cap  a  blacke  Milan    bond,   and   his   hoary   beard 
reached  down  to  his  girdle,  lie  had  no  kind  of  weapon  in  his 
hand,  but  onely  a  Rosary  of  Heads,  somewhat  bigger  then 
:able   wal-nuts,  ami    the  Credo-Heads,  about   the   hig- 
<>f  Ostrich   egges,  his  countenaiuv,  paa  .  .  ami 

his  -preading  presence,  each  thing  by  it  selfe,  and  all  together, 
suspended  ana  admired. 

He  came  to  me,  and  the  first  thing  he  did,  was  to  imbrace 
nu1  straightlv,  and  forthwith  >avd  ;  It  is  long  since  (renowned 
Knight,  Don  Quixote  de  la  Manch.i)  that  we,  who  live-  in 
these  enchanted  Desarts,  have  hoped  to  see  thee,  that  thou 
mightst  let  the  world  know  what  is  contained  heere,  and 
inclosed  in  this  profound  Cave,  which  thou  hast  entred, 
called  Montcsino's  Cave:  an  exployt  i  onely  to  be 

attempted  by  thy  invincible  Heart,  and  stupendous  Con: 
Come  with  mee,  thou  most  Illustrious  Knight,  for  I  will 
shew  thee  the  wonders  that  this  transparent  Castle  doth 
conceale,  of  which  I  am  the  (iovernour,  and  perpetuall  chiefe 
Warder,  as  being  the  same  Montesinos,  from  whom  the  Cave 
takes  name. 

Scarce  had  he  told  me  that  he  was  Montesinos,  when  I 
asked  him,  Whether  it  were  true  that  was  bruited  heere  in 

173 


CHAPTER 
XXIII 

Of  the  admir- 
able things, 
that  the 
unparalel'd 
Don  Quixote 
recounted, 
which  he 
had  scene  in 
Montesino's 
profound 
Cave,  etc. 


For  so  I  trans- 
late it,  to  shew 
the  Authours 
mistake. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

the  world  above,  that  he  had  taken  his  great  friend  Duran- 
dartes  heart  out  of  the  midst  of  his  bosome  with  a  little 
dagger,  and  carried  it  to  the  Lady  Belerma  (as  he  willed) 
at  the  instant  of  his  death  ?  Hee  answered  me,  that  all  was 
true,  but  onely  that  of  the  dagger,  for  it  was  no  dagger,  but 
a  little  Stilleto,  as  sharpe  as  a  Nawle. 

Belike  (quoth  Sancho)  it  was  of  Ramon  de  Hozes  the 
Sevillians  making.  I  know  not  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  but 
twas  not  of  that  Stilletto-maker,  for  he  lived  but  the  other 
day,  and  that  battell  of  Roncesvalles,  where  this  accident 
happened,  was  many  yeeres  since :  but  this  averring  is  of  no 
importance  or  let,  neither  alters  the  truth,  or  Stories  text. 

You  say  right  (quoth  the  Scholler)  for  I  harken  with  the 
greatest  delight  in  the  world.  With  no  lesse  doe  I  tell  it 
you  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  and  proceede ;  The  venerable  Mon- 
tesinos  brought  me  into  the  Cristalline  Palace,  where  in  a 
low  Hall,  exceeding  fresh  and  coole,  all  of  Alabaster,  was  a 
great  Sepulcher  of  Marble,  made  with  singular  Art,  upon 
which  I  saw  a  Knight  layd  at  length,  not  of  Brasse,  Marble, 
or  lasper,  as  you  use  to  have  in  other  tombes,  but  of  pure 
flesh  and  bone,  hee  held  his  right  hand  (which  was  some- 
what hairy  and  sinowy,  a  signe  that  the  owner  was  very 
strong)  upon  his  heart-side,  and  before  I  asked  Montesinos 
ought,  that  saw  mee  in  suspence,  beholding  the  tombe,  he 
sayd  : 

This  is  my  friend  Durandarte,  the  flower  and  mirror 
of  Chivalrie,  of  the  enamoured  and  valiant  Knights  of  his 
time :  He  is  kept  heere  enchanted,  as  my  selfe  and  many 
more  Knights  and  Ladies  are,  by  Merlin  that  French  En- 
chanter ;  who,  they  say,  was  sonne  to  the  Devill,  but  as  I 
beleeve  he  was  not  so,  only  he  knew  more  then  the  Devill. 
Why,  or  how  he  enchanted  us,  no  body  knowes,  which  the 
times  will  bring  to  light,  that  I  hope  are  not  farre  off :  all 
that  I  admire  is,  (since  I  know  for  certaine,  as  it  is  now  day, 
that  Durandarte  dyed  in  my  armes,  and  that  after  he  was 
dead,  I  tooke  out  his  heart,  and  surely  it  weighed  above  two 
pounds ;  for  according  to  naturall  Philosophy,  he  that  hath 
the  biggest  heart,  is  more  valiant  then  he  that  hath  but 

174 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

a  lesse :  which  beeing  so,  and  that  this  Knight  died  really)    CHAPTER 
how  he  complaines  and  sighes  sometimes  as  if  he  were  alive  ?  ' IJ 

Which  said,  the  wretched    Durandarte,  crying  out  aloud,  Oftheadmir- 
said ;   Oh    my  Cousin  Montesinos,   the   last   thing  that  I  ^  *^m«*> 
requested  you  when  I   was  dying,  and  my  sonic  departing,  u^L^fel'd 
was,  That  you  would  carrv  my  heart  to  Belerma,  taking  it  Don  Quixote 
out  of  my  bosonu',  either  frith   ponvard  or  dagger:  which  recoun1 
when  the  venerable  Montesinos  heard,  he  kneeled  before  the  which  he  ^ 
giveved    Knight,  and  with  teares   in   his  eyes,  said;    Long  ^^"no1" 
since,  Oh  Durandarte,  long  since  my  dearest  Cousin,  I  did  profound 
what  you  en-joyn\l  me  in  that  bitter  day  of  our  losse;  I  Cave,  etc. 
tooke  your  heart,  as  well  as  I  could,  without  leaving  the 
least  part  of  it  in  your  bn^t :   I  wiped  it  with  a  laced  hand- 
kerchiefe,  ami  posted   with  it  towards  France,  having  first 
layd  you  in  the  bosome  of  the  earth,  with  so  many  teares  as 
was  sufficient  to  wash  my  hands,  or  to  wipe  off  the  bloud  from 
them,  which  I  had  gotten  by  stirring  them  in  your  entrailes : 
and  for  more  assurance  that  I  did  it,  my  cleared  Cousin,  at 
the   first  place  I  came  to   from    Honcesvalle,  I  cast  salt  upon 
your  heart,  that  it    might    not  stinke,  and   might  be   fresh, 
and  embalmed  when  it   should  come  to  the  presence  of  the 
Lady  Belerma,  who  with  you  and  me,  Guadiana  your  Squire, 
I  he  waiting-woman   Ruvdera,  and  her  seven   Daughters,  and 
her  two  NYcces,  ami  many  other  of  your  Acquaintance!  and 
friciuls,  have-  beene  enchanted   he-ore  bv  Merlin  that  \Yi/ard 
:nee,  atul  though  it  be  above  five  hundred  yeeres  agoe, 
yet  none  of  us  is  dead;  onely  Kuydera,  her  Daughters 
Neeces  are  wanting,  whom  1  of  their  lamentation, 

Merlin  that  had  companion  on  them,  turned  them  into  so 
many  Lakes  now  living  in  the  world  :  and  in  the  Province  of 
Mancha  they  are  called  the  Lakes  of  Kuydera;  seven  belong 
to  the  Kings  of  Spaine,  and  the  two  Neeces  to  the  Knights  of 
the  most  holy  Order  of  Saint  lohn.  Guadiana  your  Squire, 
wailing  in  like  manner  this  mis-hap,  was  turned  into  a  River 
that  bore-  his  owne  name,  who  when  bee  came  to  the  super- 
ficies of  the  earth,  and  saw  the  Sun  in  another  heaven,  such 
was  his  griefe  to  have  left  you,  that  he  straight  plunged 
himselfe  into  the  entrailes  of  the  earth  :  but.  as  it  is  not 

175 


CHAPTER 
XXIII 

Of  the  admir- 
able things, 
that  the 
unparalel'd 
Don  Quixote 
recounted, 
which  he 
had  seene  in 
Montesino's 
profound 
Cave,  etc. 


*Paciencia 
y  barajar.    A 
Metaphor 
taken  from 
Cardplayers, 
who  when 
they  lose,  cry 
to  the  dealer, 
Patience,  and 
shuffle  the 
Cards. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

possible  for  him  to  leave  his  naturall  Current,  sometimes  he 
appeares  and  shewes  himselfe,  where  the  Sunne  and  men  may 
see  him.  The  aforesaid  Lakes  do  minister  their  waters  to 
him,  with  which,  and  many  others,  hee  enters  Portugall  in 
pompe :  but  which  way  so-ere  he  goes,  hee  shewes  his  sorrow 
and  melancholy,  and  contemnes  the  breeding  of  dainty  fish 
in  his  waters,  and  such  as  are  esteemed,  but  only  muddie 
and  unsavorie,  farre  differing  from  those  of  golden  Tagus ; 
and  what  I  now  tell  you,  Cousin  mine,  I  have  told  you  often, 
and  since  you  answere  mee  nothing,  I  imagine  you  eyther 
beleeve  me  not,  or  not  heare  me ;  for  which  (God  knowes)  I 
am  heartily  sorry.  One  newes  I  will  let  you  know,  which, 
though  perhaps  it  may  not  any  way  lighten  your  griefe, 
yet  it  will  no  way  increase  it :  Know,  that  you  have  heere 
in  your  presence,  (open  your  eyes  and  you  shall  see  him) 
that  famous  Knight,  of  whom  Merlin  prophesied  such  great 
matters,  that  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  I  say,  that  now 
newly  and  more  happily  then  former  Ages,  hath  raised 
the  long-forgotten  Knight  Errantry,  by  whose  meanes  and 
favour,  it  may  be,  that  we  also  may  be  dis-inchanted ;  for 
great  exploits  are  reserved  for  great  Personages.  And  if 
it  be  otherwise  (answered  the  grieved  Durandarte)  with 
a  faint  and  low  voyce,  if  it  be  otherwise,  O  Cousin,  I  say, 
*Patience  and  shuffle  :  and  turning  on  one  side,  hee  returned 
to  his  accustomed  silence,  without  speaking  one  word. 

By  this  wee  heard  great  howling  and  moane,  accompanied 
with  deepe  sighes,  and  short-breathM  accents :  I  turned  mee 
about,  and  saw  that  in  another  roome  there  came  passing 
by  the  Christall  waters,  a  procession  of  a  company  of  most 
beautifull  Damozels,  in  two  rankes,  all  clad  in  mourning, 
with  Turbants  upon  their  heads,  after  the  Turkish  fashion  ; 
at  last,  and  in  the  end  of  the  rankes,  there  came  a  Lady, 
who  by  her  majesty  appeared  so,  clothed  in  like  manner  in 
blacke,  with  a  white  dressing  on  her  head,  so  large,  that  it 
kissed  the  very  ground.  Her  Turbant  was  twice  as  bigge 
as  the  biggest  of  the  rest,  shee  was  somewhat  bettle-brow^d, 
flatte-nosed,  wide-mouth VI,  but  redde  lipped  :  her  teeth,  for 
sometimes  she  discovered  them,  seemed  to  be  thin,  and  not 

176 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

very-well  placed,  though    they  were   as   white   as   blancht    CHAPTER 
Almonds;  in  her  hand  shee  carried  a  fine  cloth,  and  within  'U 

it  (as  might  be  perceived)  a  Mommied  Ik-art,  l>y  reason  of  Of  the  admir- 
the  dry  embalming  of  it:    Montesinos   told    me,   that  all  a*)le  things, 
those  in  that  procession,  v,  mts  to  Durandarte  and  JmiwSal'd 

Belerma,  that  were  there  enchanted  with  their  Masters,  and  Don  Quixote 
that   shee   tliat  came   la>t    with    the   linnen   cloth   and   the  m-mui- 
heart  in   her  hand,  was  the  Lady  Belerma,  who,  together  w'hich  he 

with   hir  Damo/el.x,  four  daies  in  "the  weeke  did  make  that  I1;1'1  S(MMU'  V1 

.,     .      ,..  .Monte-i- 

procession,  singing  or    to  say    truer,    howling   their  Dirges  ,,rofuumi 

over  the   body  and   greeved  heart  of  his  Cousin,  and  that  Cave,  etc. 
if  now  she  appeared  somewhat  foule  to  mee,  or  not  so  faire 
as  Fame  hath  given  out,  tl  was;  her  bad  nights,  but 

wor>e  daies  that  she  indured  in  that  enchantment,  as  I 
might  see  by  her  dcepe-Minke  eyes,  and  her  broken  com- 
plexion, and  her  monthly  disease,  is  not  the  cause  of  t 
(an  ordinary  thing  in  women)  for  it  is  many  moneths  MIHV, 
and  many  yeeres,  that  she  hath  not  had  it,  nor  knowne  what 
it  is;  but  tilt1  griefe  that  shee  hat  h  in  her  owne  heart ,  for  that 
she  carries  in  her  hand  continually,  which  renewes  and  brings 
to  her  remembrance,  the  unfortunat.  her  luck 

Lover;  for  if  it  wen-  not  for  tli  would  the  famous 

Duleinea  del  Toboso  ecjuall  her  in  beauty,  wit,  or  livelinesse, 
that  is  so  famous  in  the  Mancha,  and  all  the  world  over. 
Not  too  fast  (then  said  I)  Signior  Don  Montesinos,  on  with 
your  story  as  befits;  for  you  know,  all  comparisons  are  odious, 
and  so  leave  your  comparing,  the  j  Duleinea  del 

Toboso  is  what  she  is,  and  the  Lady  Belerma  is  what 
is  and  hath  beene;  and  let  this  suffice. 

To  which  he  answered.  Pardon  me  Signior  Don  Quixote, 
for  I  confesse  I  did  ill,  and  not  wel  to  say,  the  Lady  Duleinea 
would  ,|iiall  the  Lady  Belerma,  >ince  it  had  1> 

sufficient,  that  I  understood  (I  know  not  by  what  aime) 
that  you  are  her  Knight,  enough  to  have  made  me  bite 
my  tongue,  before  I  had  compared  her  with  any  thing  but 
heaven  it  selfe.  With  this  satisfaction  that  Montesinos  i 
me,  my  heart  was  free  from  that  sodaine  pa»ion  I  had,  to 
heare  my  Mistresse  compared  to  Belerma. 

3:7  177 


CHAPTER 
XXIII 

Of  the  admir- 
able things, 
that  the 
unparalel'd 
Don  Quixote 
recounted^ 
which  he 
had  seene  in 
Montesino's 
profound 
Cave,  etc. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

And  I  marvell  (said  Sancho)  that  you  got  not  to  the  olde 
Carle  and  bang'd  his  bones,  and  pulled  his  beard,  without 
leaving  him  a  haire  in  it. 

No,  friend  Sancho,  said  he,  it  was  not  fit  for  me  to  doe 
so ;  for  wee  are  all  bound  to  reverence  our  Elders,  although 
they  be  no  Knights,  and  most  of  all  when  they  are  so,  and 
are  enchanted.  I  know  well  enough,  I  was  not  behinde- 
hand  with  him  in  other  questions  and  answeres  that  passed 
betweene  us.  Then  said  the  Scholler,  I  know  not,  Signior 
Don  Quixote,  how  you  in  so  little  time  (as  it  is  since  you 
went  downe)  have  seene  so  many  things,  and  spoken  and 
answered  so  much.  How  long  is  it  (quoth  he)  since  I  went 
downe  ?  A  little  more  then  an  houre  (said  Sancho.)  That 
cannot  be  (replyed  Don  Quixote)  because  it  was  morning 
and  evening,  and  evening  and  morning  three  times ;  so  that 
by  my  account,  I  have  beene  three  daies  in  those  parts  so 
remote  and  hidden  from  our  sight.  Surely,  my  Master 
(quoth  Sancho)  is  in  the  right ;  for  as  all  things  that  befall 
him  are  by  way  of  enchantment ;  so  perhaps,  that  which  ap- 
peares  to  us  but  an  houre,  is  to  him  there,  three  nights  and 
three  dayes.  He  hath  hit  it  (said  Don  Quixote.)  And  have 
you  eat,  Sir,  in  all  this  time  (quoth  the  Scholler)  ?  Not  a 
bit  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  neyther  have  I  beene  hungry,  or 
so  much  as  thought  of  eating.  And  the  enchanted,  eat 
they?  said  the  Scholler.  No,  said  he,  neyther  are  they 
troubled  with  your  greater  excrements,  although  it  be 
probable  that  their  nailes,  their  beards,  and  their  haires 
grow.  Sleep  they  haply?  said  Sancho.  No  indeed,  said  Don 
Quixote,  at  least  these  three  daies  that  I  have  beene  with 
them,  not  one  of  them  hath  closed  his  eyes,  nor  I  neyther. 
That  fits  the  Proverb,  quoth  Sancho,  which  sayes,  You  shall 
know  the  person  by  his  company :  you  have  beene  amongst 
the  enchanted,  and  those  that  watch  and  fast :  no  marvell 
therefore  though  you  neyther  slept  nor  eat  whilest  you  were 
amongst  them ;  but  pray,  Sir,  pardon  me,  if  I  say,  God  (or 
the  Devill  I  was  about  to  say)  take  me,  if  I  beleeve  a  word 
of  all  this  you  have  spoken.  Why  not  ?  said  the  Scholler, 
doe  you  thinke  Signior  Don  Quixote  would  Ive  to  us,  for 

178 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

though    he  would,  hee  hath   not   had    time   to  compose  or    CHAPTKR 
invent  such  a   million   of  lies?     I  doe  not  beleeve  (quoth        XMll 
Sancho)  that  my  Master   lies.     Hut  what  doe  you  beleeve  of  tht-.-idmir- 
then  (quotli  Doii  Quiv    )  -      Marv  I  I)'  :d   Sancho)  -'''I*' things, 

that  that   Merlin,  or   tlioM-    Knchanters   that   enchanted  all  JJ^jai^ 
that   rabble,  that  you   say  you   have   scene   and   conversed  Don  Quixot* 
with  there  below,  clapt  into  your  apprehension  or  memory  riTouur. 
all  this  Machine  that  you  have  told  us,  and  all  that  remaines  wllil 
yet  to  he  told.      All  this  may  he,  Sancho,  said  Don  Quixote,  ^ 
but 'tis  otherwise;   for  what   I   have   told,   I  saw  with    these  j,rofoun,i 

uid    felt   with   these    hands:    hut   what   wilt    thou 
when  I  shall  tell  thce,  that,  amount  infinite  other  matters 
anil  wonders,  that  Monte>ino>   shewed  me,   which  at  more 

.  and  at  fitting  time  in  processe  of  our  journey  I  shall 
tell  thee:  He  shewed  me  three  Country  wenches,  that  went 
leaping  and  frisking  up  and  downe  those  pleasant  Ik-Ids  like 
Goats,  and  I  •'•  them,  \\heii  I  perceived  the  one  was 

the  peerlevM-  Duleinea,  and  the  other  two  the  sclfe-same  that 
wee  spoke  to  when  wee  left  Tohox).  I  asked  Molltesinos 
whetlier  hee  knew  them:  who  answered  me.  Not:  hut  that 
Mire  thev  wet  i  :  Duality  there  I'lichanted,  that 

hut  lately  appi-ared  in  those  fields,  and  that  it  was  no 
wonder;  for  that  there  were  many  ot !  i  rmer  tin: 

and  the>e  present,  that  \\ere  enchanted  in  strange  and 
different  shapes,  amongst  whom  hee  knew  (t)ueeiie  (iuinivcr, 
aiul  her  woman  Quintaniona  filling  Lansirotes  cups  when 
he  came  from  Hritaine. 

When  Sancho  heard  his  Master  thus  tarn-,  it  made  him 
starke  madde,  and  ready  to  hurst  with  laughter;  for  by 
reason  that  he  knew  the  truth  of  Duleinea" s  enchantment, 
as  having  been  hiniM-lfe  tlu-  Knchanter. and  th^  that 

tale,  hee  did  undoubtedly  ratifie  his  beliefe,  that  his  Master 
was  madde  and  out  of  his  wittes;  and  so  told  him  :  In  an 
ill  time,  and  dismall  day  (Patron  mine)  went  you  downe  into 
the  other  world,  and  at  an  ill  -eason  met  you  with  Signior 
Montesinos,  that  hath  returned  you  in  this  pickle:  you 
well  enough  heere  above,  in  your  ri^ht  sences  as  God  hath 

them  you,  uttering  sentences,  and  giving  good  counsaile 

1  i  J 


CHAPTER 
XXIII 

Of  the  admir- 
able things, 
that  the 
unparalel'd 
Don  Quixote 
recounted, 
which  he 
had  scene  in 
Montesino's 
profound 
Cave,  etc. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

every  foote,  and  not  as  now  telling  the  greatest  unlikelihoods 
that  can  be  imagined. 

Because  I  know  thee,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  I  make 
no  account  of  thy  words.  Nor  I  of  yours,  said  hee:  you 
may  strike  or  kill  me  if  you  will,  eyther  for  those  I  have 
spoken,  or  those  I  meane  to  speake,  if  you  doe  not  correct 
and  amend  your  selfe.  But  pray  tell  me,  Sir,  whilest  we  are 
quiet,  how  knew  you  it  was  our  Mistris  ?  spoke  you  to  her  ? 
what  said  shee,  and  what  answered  you  ?  I  knew  her,  said 
Don  Quixote,  by  the  same  clothes  she  had  on  at  such  time 
as  thou  shewd'st  her  me :  I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  gave  me 
not  a  word,  but  turned  her  backe,  and  scudded  away  so  fast, 
that  a  flight  would  not  have  overtaken  her :  I  meant  to  have 
followed  her,  and  had  done  it,  but  that  Montesinos  told  mee 
it  was  in  vaine,  and  the  rather,  because  it  was  now  high  time 
for  me  to  returne  out  of  the  Cave.  He  told  me  likewise, 
that  in  processe  of  time,  he  would  let  me  know  the  meanes 
of  dis-enchanting  Durandarte,  and  Belerma  and  himselfe ; 
together  with  all  the  rest  that  were  there :  But  that  which 
most  greeved  me,  was  ;  that  whilest  I  was  thus  talking  with 
Montesinos,  one  of  the  unfortunate  Dulcinea^s  companions 
came  on  one  side  of  me  (I  not  perceiving  it)  and  with  teares 
in  her  eyes,  and  hollow  voyce  said  to  me;  My  Lady  Dulcinea 
del  Toboso  commends  her  to  you,  and  desires  to  know  how 
you  doe :  and  withall,  because  she  is  in  great  necessity,  she 
desires  you  with  all  earnestnesse,  that  you  would  be  pleased 
to  lend  her  three  shillings  upon  this  new  Cotton  Petticote 
that  I  bring  you,  or  what  you  can  spare ;  for  she  will  pay 
you  againe  very  shortly.  This  message  held  me  in  suspence 
and  admiration :  so  that  turning  to  Signior  Montesinos,  I 
asked  him,  Is  it  possible,  Signior,  that  those  of  your  better 
sort  that  be  enchanted  are  in  want  ?  To  which  he  answered, 
Beleeve  me,  Signior  Don  Quixote,  this  necessity  rangeth  and 
extends  it  selfe  every  where,  and  overtakes  all  men,  neither 
spares  shee  the  Enchanted ;  and  therefore  since  the  Lady 
Dulcinea  demaunds  these  three  shillings  of  you,  and  that 
the  pawne  seemes  to  bee  good,  lend  them  her,  for  sure 
shee  is  much  straightned.  I  will  take  no  pawne  (quoth  I) 

180 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

neither  can  I  lend  what  shee  requires,  for  I  have  but  two    CHAPTKK 

shillings :  these  I  gave,  which  were  the  same,  Sancho,  that 

thou  gavest  me  tother  day,  to  give  for  almes  to  the  pome  Of  theadmir- 

that  we  met:  and  I  told  the  Mayd,  Friend,  tell  your  Mistris  »)'lf  t';>"g»> 

L  T  -. i  i  ii  twrt  Uw 

that   I  am   sorry  with   ft]    my    heart   for   her   wants,   and   I  n,,^,,.;^.!',! 

would   I  were  a  *Fucar  to   releeve  them  ;  and  let  her  know,  l)on  g,. 
that  I  neither  can,  nor  may  have  health,  wanting  her  pleasing  recount! 
company,  and  discreet  conversation,  and  that  I  desire  her,  J1'.11!1'!1 
as  earnestly  as  may  be,  that   this  her  Captive  Servant  and  ^',! 
Way-beaten  Knight  may  see  and  treat  with  her.  profound 

You  shall  also  say,  that  when  she  least  thinkes  of  it,  shee  ' 
shall  hcarc  say,  that  I  have-  made  an  oath  and  vow,  Mich  as 
the    Marquis    his   of  Mantua,   to  revenge   his   Nephue 
Haldwine,  when  he  found  him   ready  to  give  up  the  ghost  in  family,  and 
the  midst  of  the  mountaine  ;  which  was,  not  to  cat  his  meat  name" in  ' 
with  napkins,  and  other  Flim-flams  added  therunto,  till  he  many  that 

had    revenged    his   death:    And  '    I,  not  to  IK-  quiet,  "'I"111/1"111'1 

,  -n   T  i  11111,1  ,  •,  •  i    ;i  wuike  "t 

till  I  have  travelled  all   the  seven   partitions  of   the  world,  Im,nies  iu 

more  punctually  then  Prince  Don  Manuel   of  dl,  till  Spain,  and 

I  have  dis-enchanted  her.     All  this  and  more  you  oue  to  my  still  used  to 
Mistrcssc,  said  the   Damo/ell;  and  taking  the  two  shillings,  Sj^rfJ^   P 
in  stead  of  making  me  a  courtesie,  she  fetcht  a  caper  t\\o  In'|t). 
vards  high  in  the-  ftl 

Hlcssed  (iod  !  (Sancho  cryed  out)  and  i*  it  possible  that 
Enchanters  and  Knchantments  >houKl  so  much  prevaile  upon 
him,  as  to  turn  his  right  understanding  into  Mich  a  wilde 
mad nes  ?  Sir,  Sir,  for  Gods  love  ha\ 

and  looke  to  your  credit  :   beleeve   not  in  these  bubbles  that 
have  lessened  and  cra/ed  your  wits.     Out  of  thy  love,  Sancho, 
thou  speakest  this  (said   Don  (Quixote)  and   for  want  « 
perience  in  the  world,  all  things  that  have  never  so  little 
difficulty  seeme    to    thee  to   be   impossible:    but   time  will 
come  (as  I   have  told   thee  already)  that  I  shall  relate 
some  things   that   I   have   seme   before,  which  may 
make  thee  beleeve  what  I  have  said,  which 
admits  no  reply,  or  controver 


181 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

Where  are  recounted  a  thousand  flim-flams,  as 
impertinent,  as  necessary  to  the  under- 
standing of  this  famous  History. 


HE  Translator  of  this  famous  History  out 
of  his  Originall,  written  by  Cid  Hamete 
Benengeli,  sayes ;  That  when  hee  came  to 
the  last  chapter  going  before,  these  words 
were  written  in  the  Margin  by  the  same 
Hamete.  I  cannot  beleeve  or  be  per- 
swaded,  that  all  that  is  written  in  the 
antecedent  Chapter  hapned  so  punctually 
to  the  valerous  Don  Quixote:  the  reason  is,  because  all 
Adventures  hitherto  have  beene  accidentall  and  probable ; 
but  this  of  the  Cave,  I  see  no  likelihood  of  the  truth  of  it, 
as  being  so  un-reasonable :  Yet  to  thinke  Don  Quixote 
would  lye,  being  the  worthiest  Gentleman,  and  noblest 
Knight  of  his  time,  is  not  possible ;  for  he  would  not  lye, 
though  he  were  shot  to  death  with  arrowes.  On  the  other 
side  I  consider,  that  he  related  it,  with  all  the  aforesaid  cir- 
cumstances, and  that  in  so  short  a  time,  hee  could  not  frame 
such  a  Machina  of  fopperies,  and  if  this  Adventure  seeme  to 
be  Apocrypha,  the  fault  is  not  mine  :  so  that  leaving  it  in- 
different, I  here  set  it  downe.  Thou,  Oh  Reader,  as  thou 
art  wise,  judge  as  thou  thinkest  good ;  for  I  can  doe  no  more, 
though  one  thing  be  certaine,  that  when  hee  was  upon  his 
death-bed,  he  disclaimed  this  Adventure,  and  said,  That  he 
had  onely  invented  it,  because  it  suted  with  such  as  hee  had 
read  of  in  his  Histories  :  so  he  proceeds,  saying : 

The  Scholler  wondred,  as  well  at  Sanctions  boldnesse,  as  his 

Masters  patience,  but  he  thought,  that  by  reason  of  the  joy 

that  he  received  in  having  scene  hisMistresse  Dulcinea  (though 

enchanted)  that  softnesse  of  condition  grew  upon  him ;  for 

182 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

had  it  beene  otherwise,  Sancho  spoke  words  that  might  have    CHAPTER 
grinded  him  to  powder:  for  in  his  opinion  he  was  somwhat         XXIV 
sawcy  with  his  Master,  to  whom  he  said  :  U'hcre  are 

Signior  Don  Quixote,  I  thinke  the  journey  that  I  have  recounted 
made  with  you,  very  wel  employd,  because  in  it  I  have  stored  jj^JJJJ 
up  foure  things.     The  first  is,  the  having  knownc  your  selfe,  impertinent, 
which  I  I'stivnie  as  a  great  happinesse.     The  second,  to  hav<  ~>ary 

knowne  the  secrets  of  this  Montesinos  Cave,  with  the  trans-  to  ^ie  undi«r- 

formations  of  Guadiana  and   Kuvdera's  Lakes,  which  may  "|all(|.in^  of 

.,.,...,-       .    ,  , i  •    i  •*    tins  fame 

belpc  mi-  in  my  &MMMM  OM  I  have  in  hand.     Ihe  third  is,  njstorv- 

to  know  the  Antiquity  of  ( 'arcl-j>laying,  which  was  used  at 
least  in  time  of  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Great,  as  may  be 
roll  eft  ed  out  of  the  words  you  say  Durandarte  used,  when 
after  a  long  speech  hetweeiic  him  and  Montesinos,  hee 
awakened  .saving;  Patience,  and  shuflle  :  and  this  kind  of 
speaking,  he  could  not  learnc  when  he  was  enchanted,  but 
when  hee  lived  in  France,  in  time  of  the  aforesaid  Emperor: 
and  this  observation  comes  in  pudding  time  for  the  other 
hooke  that  I  am  making,  which  is,  My  supply  to  Polijdore 
lV;\i,-v7,  iu  the  invention  of  Antiquities,  and  I  beleeve,  in  his 
hee  left  out  Cards,  which  I  will  put  in,  as  a  matter  of  great 
importance,  especially  having  so  authentike  an  author  as 
Signior  Durandarte.  The  fourth  is,  to  have  knowne  for  a 
certaine  the  true  spring  of  the  River  (iuacliana,  which  hath 
hitherto  beene  concealed. 

You  have  reason  (sayd  Don  Quixote :)  but  I  would  faine 
know  of  you,  now  that  it  pleased  God  to  give  you  abilities 
to  print  your  1)  •  whom  will  you  direct  them  ?  You 

have  Lords  and  *(i  ramies  in  Spaine  (sayd  the  Scholler)  to  *A  name 
whom  I  may  direct  them.     Few  of  them  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  jfSJ?0  men 
not  because  they  doe  not  deserve  the  dedications,  but  because  SSSj'Mw- 
they  will  not  admit  of  them,  not  to  oblige  themselves  to  the  quis>es/or 
satisfaction,  that  is  due  to  the  Authors  paines  and  courtesie.  K.ui 
One  Prince  1  know,  that  may  Mipplv  the  deserts  of  the  rest,  Spaine,  whose 
with  such  advantage,  that  'should   I  speake  of  it,  it  might  jHJffJ 
stirre  up  envy  in  some  noble  brests  :  but  let  this  rest  till  some  stand  covered 
fit  time,  and  let  us  lookc  out  where  we  may  lodge  too  night,  before  the 

Not  farrc  from  hence  (sayd  the  Scholler)  there  is  a  Hermi-  King. 

183 


CHAPTER 
XXIV 

Where  are 
recounted 
a  thousand 
flim-flams,  as 
impertinent, 
as  necessary 
to  the  under- 
standing of 
this  famous 
History. 


*Ventas, 
Places  in 
Spaine,  in 
barren  un- 
peopled parts 
for  lodging, 
like  our 
beggerly  Ale- 
houses upon 
the  High- 
wayes. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

tage,  where  dwels  a  Hermit,  that  they  say  hath  been  a 
Souldior,  and  is  thought  to  bee  a  good  Christian,  and  very 
discreet,  and  charitable.  Besides  the  Hermitage,  he  hath  a 
little  house,  which  he  hath  built  at  his  owne  charge,  yet 
though  it  be  little,  it  is  fit  to  receive  ghests.  Hath  hee 
any  Hens,  trow  (sayd  Sancho)  ?  Few  Hermits  are  without 
um  (quoth  Don  Quixote  :)  for  your  Hermits  now  adayes,  are 
not  like  those  that  lived  in  the  Desarts  of  ./Egypt,  that  were 
clad  in  Palme-leaves,  and  lived  upon  the  roots  of  the  earth : 
but  mistake  me  not,  that  because  I  speake  well  of  them,  I 
should  speake  ill  of  these,  onely  the  penitency  of  these  times 
comes  not  neere  those  :  yet  for  ought  I  know,  all  are  good, 
at  least  I  think  so,  and  if  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  your 
Hypocrite  that  faines  himselfe  good,  doth  lesse  hurt  then  he 
that  sinnes  in  publike. 

As  they  were  thus  talking,  they  might  espy  a  Foot-man 
comming  towards  them,  going  apace,  and  beating  with  his 
wand  a  Hee-Mule  laden  with  Lances  and  Halberds;  when 
hee  came  neere  them,  hee  saluted  them,  and  passed  on :  but 
Don  Quixote  sayd  to  him  ;  Honest  fellow,  stay,  for  me 
thinkes  you  make  your  Mule  goe  faster  then  needes.  I 
cannot  stay,  Sir  (sayd  he)  because  these  weapons  that  you 
see  I  carry,  must  bee  used  to  morrow  morning :  so  I  must 
needs  goe  on  my  way,  Farewell :  But  if  you  will  know  why  I 
carry  them,  I  shall  lodge  to  night  in  the  *Vente  above  the 
Hermitage,  and  if  you  goe  that  way,  there  you  shall  have  me, 
and  I  will  tell  you  wonders :  and  so  once  more,  Farewell.  So 
the  Mule  pricked  on  so  fast,  that  Don  Quixote  had  no  leisure 
to  aske  him,  what  wonders  they  were ;  and  as  hee  was  curious, 
and  alwayes  desirous  of  novelties,  hee  tooke  order  that  they 
should  presently  go  and  passe  that  night  in  the  Vente,  with- 
out touching  at  the  Hermitage,  where  the  Scholler  would 
have  stayed  that  night. 

So  all  three  of  them  mounted,  went  toward  the  Vente, 
whither  they  reached  somewhat  before  it  grew  darke,  and  the 
Scholler  invited  Don  Quixote  to  drinke  a  sup  by  the  way  at 
the  Hermitage  :  which  as  soon  as  Sancho  heard,  he  made 
haste  with  Dapple,  as  did  Don  Quixote  and  the  Scholler 

184 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

likewise  :  but  as  Sancho'sill  lucke  would  have  it,  tin-  Hermit    CM  AI'TKR 
was  not  at  home,  a  M   them  by  the  Vnder-IIermit :         \M\ 

they  asked  him  whether  lie  had  any  of  the  dearer  sort  of  Wlu-rcaro 
wine?    who  answered.   His    Master  had   none:    but  if  they  recj?UI***Ji 
would  have  any  chcape  water,  bee  would  give  it  them  with  Jj^j 
a  good  will.      If  my   thirst  would  bet-  queue-lit  with   water,  Lmpertii 
wee  might  have  had  \Vels  to  drinke  at  by  the  way.     Ah  M 
Camacho\   marriage,  and  Don    Diego's  plenty,  how  oft  shal  to  the  uiHlrr- 
I   mi  New   they  left  the  ^1  lermitage,  and  spurred  JjJ 

toward  the  Venti •,  and  a  little  before  them,  they  overtooke  History, 
a  Youth,  that  went  not  verv  fast  lu-fore  them  ;  so  they  over- 
tooke him:  he  had  a  sword  upon  his  shoulder,  and  upon  it, 
as  it  seemed,  a  bundle  of  elothes,  as  breeehes,  and  eloke,  and 
a  shirt;  for  he  wore  a  velvet  jerkin,  that  had  some  kinde  of 
remainder  of  xittin,  and  his  shirt  hung  out,  his  stockings  were 
of  silke,  and  his  shooes  square  at  toe,  after  the  ( 'ourt-fashion, 
he  was  about,  eighteen •  .  ami  aetive  of  body  to 

to:  to  pas>e  the  tediou  the  wav,  he  went  sinking 

short  pieees  of  songs,  and  as  they  came  neere  him,  he  mar 
end  of  one,  which  the  Seholler  (they  sav)  learnt  bv  heart,  and 
it  was  this : 

To  th»>  \\  for  in»res>ity, 

At  hoini'  would  I  tarry,  it' I  had  moii«'\. 

Don  (Quixote  was  the  tir>t  that  spoke  to  him,  saying  ;  You 
go  very  naked.  Sir  Gallant.      And  whither,  a   <  mu1? 

Let's  know,  if  it  be  your  pleasure  to  tell  u*  ?    To  whieli  the 
Youth  answered.    Heat  and   poverty   are   the   .  hat  I 

walke  so  light,  and  my  journey  is  to  the  \\ars.  \\'hy  for 
poverty  (quoth  Don  Quixote)?  for  heat  it  may  well  be.' 
(sayd  the  Youth)  1  carry  in  thi>  bundle  a  paire  of  slop-, 
fellowes  to  this  lerken.  if  I  weare  urn  by  the  way,  I  shall 
doe  my  selfe  no  credit  with  them  when  I  come  to  any  tow  ne, 
and  I  have  no  money  to  buy  others  with,  so  as  well  for  this, 
a-  to  aire  my  selfe,  I  goe  till  I  can  over- take  eertaine  com- 
panies of  Foot,  which  are  not  above  twelve  leagues  from 
hence,  where  I  shall  get  me  a  place,  and  shall  not  want  ear- 
to  travell  in,  till  I  come  to  our  imbarking  place,  which 
(they  say)  must  be  in  Cartagena,  and  I  had  rather  have  the 

3  :  AA  185 


CHAPTER 
XXIV 

Where  are 
recounted 
a  thousand 
flim-flams,  as 
impertinent, 
as  necessary 
to  the  under- 
standing of 
this  famous 
History. 


*Cullionry. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

King  to  my  Master,  and  serve  him,  then  a  beggerly  Courtier. 
And  have  you  any  extraordinary  pay  ?  sayd  the  Scholler. 

Had  I  served  any  Grande,  or  man  of  quality  (sayd  the 
Youth)  no  doubt  I  should ;  for  that  comes  by  your  serving 
good  Masters,  that  out  of  the  Scullery  men  come  to  bee 
Lieutenants  or  Captaines,  or  to  have  some  good  pay  :  but  I 
alwayes  had  the  ill  lucke  to  serve  your  Shag-rags  and  Vp- 
starts,  whose  allowance  was  so  bare  and  short,  that  one  halfe 
of  it  still  was  spent  in  starching  me  a  ruffe,  and  it  is  a 
miracle,  that  one  ventring  Page  amongst  an  hundred,  should 
ever  get  any  reasonable  fortune.  But  tell  me,  Friend 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  Is  it  possible,  that  in  all  the  time  you 
served,  you  never  got  a  Livery?  Two  (sayd  the  Page:) 
But  as  he  that  goes  out  of  a  Monastery,  before  he  professeth, 
hath  his  habit  taken  from  him,  and  his  clothes  given  him 
backe:  so  my  Masters  returned  me  mine,  when  they  had 
ended  their  businesses,  for  which  they  came  to  the  Court 
for,  and  returned  to  their  owne  homes,  and  with-held  their 
Liveries,  which  they  had  onely  shewed  for  ostentation. 

A  notable  *  Espilorcheria,  as  saith  your  Italian  (quoth 
Don  Quixote)  for  all  that,  thinke  your  selfe  happy  that  you 
are  come  from  the  Court,  with  so  good  an  intention,  for 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  better,  nor  more  profitable, 
then  to  serve  God  first,  and  next,  your  Prince  and  naturall 
Master,  especially  in  the  practice  of  Armes,  by  which,  if 
not  more  wealth,  yet  at  least,  more  honour  is  obtained,  then 
by  Learning,  as  I  have  sayd  many  times,  that  though  Learn- 
ing hath  raised  more  houses  then  Armes,  yet  your  Sword-men 
have  a  kind  of  (I  know  not  what)  advantage  above  Schollers, 
with  a  kinde  of  splendor,  that  doth  advantage  them  over  all. 

And  beare  in  your  minde  what  I  shall  now  tell  you,  which 
shall  be  much  for  your  good,  and  much  lighten  you  in  your 
travels,  that  is,  not  to  thinke  upon  adversity ;  for  the  worst 
that  can  come  is  death,  which  if  it  be  a  good  death,  the  best 
fortune  of  all  is  to  die.  lulius  Caesar,  that  brave  Romane 
Emperour,  being  asked,  Which  was  the  best  death?  answered, 
A  sudden  one  and  unthought  of ;  and  though  he  answered 
like  a  Gentile,  and  voyd  of  the  knowledge  of  the  true  God, 

186 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

yet  he  sayd  well,  to  save  humane  feeling  a  labour  ;  for  say    CHAPTER 
you  should  bee  slaine  in  the  first  skirmish,  either  with  a        XXIV 
Canon-shot,  or  blowne  up  with  a  Mine,  What  matter  is  it  ?  Where  are 
All  is  but  dying,  and  there 's  an  end  :  And  as  Terence  sayes,  rmmnu-il 
A  Souldier  slaine  in  the  field,  slu-wes  better,  then  alive  and  SiJjSJ* 
safe  in  Might ;  and  so  much  the  more  famous  is  a  good  Soul-  impertinent, 
diour,  by  how  much  hee  obeye>   his  Captaines,  and  those  as  nece.- 
that  may  command  him  ;  and  inarke,  childe,  it  is  better  for  to  the  umler- 
a  Soldiour  to  smell  of  his  gun-powder,  then  of  civet ;  and  *^n<iin£  of 

i  ,  this  famous 

when  olde  age  comes  upon  you  in  this  honourable  exercise,  History 
though  you  be  full  of  scarres,  maimed,  or  lame,  at  least,  you 
shall  not  be  without  honour,  which  poverty  cannot  diminish  ; 
and  besides,  there  is  order  taken  now,  that  olde  and  maimed 
Souldiers  may  be  releeved  ;  neither  are  they  dealt  withall 
like  those  mens  *  Negars,  that  when  they  are  olde  and  can  doe  *He  describes 
their  Masters  no  servkv.  they  (under  colour  of  making  them  the  right  sub- 
free)  turne  them  out  of  doores,  and  make  them  slaves  to  tU! aud  c™.e11 

f  ,  •   ,          .11  /.  .1,1  i  nature  of  his 

hunger,  from  which  nothing  can  free  them  but  death,  and  damned 

for  tliis  time  I   will  say  no  more  to  you,  but  onely  get  up  Countrymen, 
behinde  me  till  you  come  to  the  Vente,  and  there  you  shall 
sup  with  me,  and  to  morrow  take  your  journey,  which  God 

rve. 

The  Page  accepted  not  of  his  invitement,  to  ride  behinde 
him  ;  but  tor  the  supper  hee  did  :  And  at  this  season  (they 
say)   Sancho   s.-ivd   to   him-i -Ife  ;    Lord  defend   thce,   Master; 
And  is  it  possible,  that  a  man  that  knowes  to  speake  such,  so 
many,  and  M>  good  things  (as  hee  hath  sayd  heere)  should 
say  hee  hath  MOM  Mich  impossible  fooleries,  as  he  hath  told 
us  of  Montesino's  Cave.     Well,  wee  shall  see  what  will  be- 
come of  it.     And  by  this  they  came  to  the  Vente  just  as  it 
was  night,  for  which  Sancho  was  glad,  because  too  his  Master 
tooke  it  to  be  a  true  Vente,  and  not  a  Castle,  as  hee  was  wont. 
They    wen   no  sooner    entred,    when    Don    Quixote    asked  *Ventero,  the 
the   *  Venter  for  the  man  with  the  Lances  and   Halberds,  Master  of  the 
who  answered  him,  hee  was  in  the  stable  looking  to  his     Vente. 
Moyle:  Sancho  and  the  Scholler  did  the  same  to  their 
Asses,  giving  Don  Quixotes  Ro/inante  the  best 
manger  and  roome  in  the  stable. 

187 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    XXV 

Of  the  Adventure  of  the  Braying,  and  the  merry 

one  of  the  Puppet-man,  with  the  memorable 

southsaying  of  the  prophesying  Ape. 


QUIXOTE  stood  upon  thornes,  till 
hee  might  heare  and  know  the  promised 
wonders,  of  the  man  that  carried  the 
Armes,  and  went  where  the  Venter  had 
tolde  him,  to  seeke  him  ;  where  finding 
him,  hee  sayd  ;  That  by  all  meanes  he 
must  tell  him  presently,  what  hee  had 
promised  him  upon  the  way.  The  man 
answered  him,  The  story  of  the  wonders  requires  more 
leisure,  and  must  not  bee  told  thus  standing:  good  Sir 
let  mee  make  an  end  of  provandring  my  Beast,  and  I  will 
tell  you  things  that  shall  admire  you. 

Let  not  that  hinder  you  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  for  lie 
helpe  you  :  and  so  he  did,  sifting  his  barley,  and  cleansing 
the  manger  (a  humility  that  obliged  the  fellow  to  tell  him 
his  tale  heartily  :)  thus  sitting  downe  upon  a  bench,  Don 
Quixote  by  him,  with  the  Scholler,  Page,  and  Sancho, 
and  the  Venter,  for  his  complete  Senate  and  Auditory,  he 
began  : 

You  shall  understand,  that  in  a  towne,  some  foure  leagues 
and  an  halfe  from  this  Vente,  it  fell  out,  that  an  Alderman 
there,  by  a  trick  and  wile  of  a  wench,  his  mayd-servant 
(which  were  long  to  tell  how)  lost  his  Asse,  and  though 
the  sayd  Alderman  used  all  manner  of  diligence  to  finde 
him,  it  was  impossible.  His  Asse  was  wanting  (as  the  pub- 
like  voyce  and  fame  goeth)  fifteene  dayes  :  when  the  Alder- 
man that  lost  him,  being  in  the  market-place,  another 
Alderman  of  the  same  towne  told  him  ;  Pay  mee  for  my 
newes,  Gossip,  for  your  Asse  is  forth  -comming.  I  will 
188 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

willingly,  Gossip  (sayd  the  other)  but  let  me  know  where    CHAPTER 
he  is  ?    This  morning  (sayd  the  Second)  I  saw  him  upon  the        xxv 
mountaines  without  his  pack-saddle,  or  any  other  furniture,  Of  theAdven- 
so  leane,  that  it  was  pity  to  see  him,  I  would  have  gotten  j"re  ! 
him  before  me,  and    have   driven  him  to  you,  but  hee  is  flJ^Mnfyom 
so  mountainous  and  wilde,  that  when  I  made  towards  him,  ofthe  Puppet- 
lire  Mew  from   mee,  and  got  into  the  thickest  of  the  wood:  man,  with  the 
If  you  please,  wee  will  both  returne  and  seeke  him,  let  me  memorable 
' 


iir,'l  put  up  tliis  Asse  at  home,  and   He  come  by  and  by. 

i     11     i  ,   i  •  i    \  -11  of  the  pro- 

\ou  shall  doe  me  a  great  kmdnesse  (quoth  he)  and  I  will  phesyim:  Ape. 

repay  you  (if  need  be)  in  the  like  kinde. 

With  all  these  circumstances,  just  as  I  tell  you,  all  that 

know  the  truth,  relate  it  :  In  fine,  tin-  two  Aldermen,  afoot 
and  hand  to  hand,  went  to  the  Ilils,  and  camming  to  the 
place  where  they  thought  to  finde  the  Al0e,  they  missed  of 
him,  neither  could  they  iinde  him,  for  all  their  seeking  round- 
about. Seeing  then  there  was  no  appearance  of  him,  the 
Alderman  that  had  >cene  him,  sayd  to  the  other;  Harke 
you,  (io>Mp,  I  have  a  tricke  in  my  head,  with  which  we  shall 
tinde  out  this  Beast,  though  hee  bee  hidden  under  ground, 
much  more  if  in  the  mountaine  :  Thus  it  is,  I  can  bray 
excellent  well,  and  so  can  you  a  little:  well,  tis  a  match.  A 

little,  GOMD  (quoth  the  other)  Verity,  He  take  no  ods  of  any 
body,  nor  of  an  Asse  himsel:  lun  (said  the 

second  Alderman)  for  my  plot  is,  that  you  goc  on  one  side 
of  the  hill,  and  I  on  the  other,  so  that  wee  may  compa^ 
round,  now  and  then  you  shall  bray,  and  so  will  I,  and  it 
cannot  bee,  but  that  your  Asse  will  answer  one  of  us,  if  hee 
bee  in  the  mountaine. 

To  this  the  owner  of  the  Asse  answered  ;  I  tell  you,  Gossip, 
the  device  is  rare,  and  worthy  your  great  wit  :  so  dividing 
themselves  (according  to  the  agreement)  it  fell  out,  that  just 
at  one  instant  both  brayed,  and  each  of  them  coo/ened  with 
the  others  braying,  came  to  looke  another,  thinking  now 
there  had  beene  newo  of  the  Asse  :  And  as  they  nut,  the 
Looser  sayd  ;  Is  it  possible,  Gossip,  that  it  was  not  mine 
that  brayed  ?  No,  twas  I,  sayd  the  other.  Then 
(replide  the  Owner)  Gossip,  betweene  you  and  an  Asse  there 

189 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    is  no  difference,  touching  your  braying;  for  in  my  life  I  never 

XXV         heard  a  thing  more  naturall. 

OftheAdven-      These  praises  and  extollings  (sayd  the  other)  doe  more 
ture  of  the       properly  belong  to  you  then  mee,  for  truely  you  may  give 

tiiTmefr  "Sne  two  to  one'  to  ^he  best  and  skilfullest  Brayer  in  the  world  ; 

of  the  Puppet-  f°r  your  sound  is  lofty,  you  keepe  very  good  time,  and  your 

man,  with  the  cadences  thicke  and  sudden :  To  conclude,  I  yeeld  my  selfe 

memorable       vanquished,  and  give  you  the  prize  and  glory  of  this  rare 

offherl1?     abilit.V-     Wel1  (sayd  the  Owner)  I  shall  like  my  selfe  the 

phesying°Ape.  better  for  this  heereafter,  and  shall  thinke  I  know  something, 

since  I  have  gotten  a  quality,  for  though  I  ever  thought  I 

brayed  well,  yet  I  never  thought  I  was  so  excellent  at  it,  as 

you  say. 

Let  me  tell  you  (sayd  the  other)  there  bee  rare  abilities  in 
the  world,  that  are  lost  and  ill-imployed,  in  those  that  will 
not  good  them-selves  with  them.  Ours  (quoth  the  Owner) 
can  do  us  no  good,  but  in  such  businesses  as  wee  have  now  in 
hand,  and  pray  God  in  this  they  may. 

This  sayd,  they  divided  themselves  againe,  and  returned 
to  their  braying,  and  every  foot  they  were  deceived,  and  met; 
till  they  agreed  upon  a  counter-signe,  that  to  know  twas 
themselves,  and  not  the  Asse,  they  should  bray  twice  to- 
gether :  so  that  with  this  doubling  their  brayes,  every  stitch- 
while  they  compassed  the  hill,  the  lost  Asse  not  answering 
so  much,  as  by  the  least  signe ;  but  how  could  the  poore  and 
ill-thriving   Beast   answer,   when   they   found   him  in   the 
Thicket  eaten  with  Wolves  ?     And  his  Owner  seeing  him, 
sayd ;   I  marvelled  he  did  not  answer ;   for  if  he  had  not 
been  dead,  he  would  have  brayed,  if  he  had  heard  us,  or  else 
*En  buena       ne  *iad  ^eene  no  Asse:  but  i'faith,  Gossip,  since  I  have  heard 
mano  esta.       your  delicate  braying,  I  thinke  my  paines  well  bestowed  in 
Alluding  to      looking  this  Asse,  though  I  have  found  him  dead, 
two,  that  *  Tis  in  a  verv  good  hand,  Gossip  (sayd  the  other :)  And  if 

?neVanothearke  tl?e  Abbot  sing"well»*  the  little  Monke  conles  not  behinde 
drhike^rst^  hun-  With  this,  all  comfortlesse  and  hoarce,  home  they  went, 
*Th  one  as  wnere  they  told  their  Friends,  Neighbours,  and  Acquaint- 
very  an  Asse  ances,  what  had  happened  in  the  search  for  the  Asse,  the  one 
as  the  other,  exaggerating  the  others  cunning  in  braying ;  all  which  was 
190 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

knowne  and  sp red  abroad  in  the  neighboring  townes :  And    CII.MTF.K 
the    Devill,    that   alwaies    watcheth   how    he    may  sow  and 
scatter  quarrels  and  discord  every  where,  raising  brabbles  in  Ofthe  Adven- 
the  aire,  and  making  great  Chima-ra's  of  nothing,  made  the  H^.j"[irlll^mi 
people  of  other  townes,that  when  they  saw  any  of  ours,  they  the  merry  aw 
should  bray,  as  hitting  us  in  the  teeth  with  our  Aldermens  ,,f  the  I'uppet- 
braying.  man,  with  the 

The  Boyes  at  length  fell  to  it,  which  was,  as  if  it  had  memorable 
falne  into  the  jawes  of  all  the  Devils  in  Hell,  so  this  braying  Jf££XJ? 
spred  it  selfe  from  one  towne  to  the  other,  that  they  which  phesyiii^  Ape. 
are  borne  in  our  towne,  are  as  well  knowne  as  the  begger 
knowes  his  dish  ;  and  this  unfortunate  scoffe  hath  proceeded 
so  farre,  that  many  times  those  that  were  M-olled  at,  have 
gone  out  armed  in  a  whole  Squadron,  to  give  battell  to  the 
Scofi'ers,  without  feare  or  wit,  neither  King  nor  Keisar  being 
able  to   prevent   them  :    I    beleeve,  that  to  morrow  or  next 
dav,  those  of  mv  towne  will  be-  in  field  (to  wit,  the  Uravcr>) 

.list  the  nrxt  towne,  which  is  two  leagues  oil',  one  of 
them  that  doth  most  persecute  us;  and  because  uc  might 
IK'  well  provided,  I  have  bought  those  Halberds  and  Lane, 
that  you  saw.  And  thoe  lie  the  wonders,  that  I  said  I 
would  tell  you  of:  and  if  these  bee  not  so,  I  know  not 
what  may. 

And  heere  the  poore  fellow  ended  his  discourse  :  and  now 
there  cut  red  at  the  doore  of  the  \ente,  one  clad  all  in 
Chamois,  in  hose  and  doublet,  and  called  aloud  ;  Mine  O;i 
have  you  any  lodging?  for  here  comes  the  prophesying  Ape, 
and  the  Motion  of  MtTwmlrn.  Hody  of  me  (quoth  the 
Venter)  heere  is  Master  Peter,  we  shall  have  a  brave  night 
of  it  (I  had  forgot  to  tell  how  this  Mast  had  his  left 

.  and  halfe  his  cheeke,  covered  with  a  patch  of  green 
Taffata,  a  signe  that  all  that  side  was  sore:)  so  the  Venter 
proceeded,  saving  ;  You  are  welcome,  Master  Peter,  Where 
the  Ape  and  the  Motion,  that  I  see  um  not?  They  are  not 
farre  off  (quoth  the  Chamois-man)  onely  I  am  come  before, 
to  know  if  you  have  any  loclgii 

I  would  make  bold  with  the  Duke  of  Alva  himselfe  (sayd 
the   Venter)  rather  then  Master    Peter  should    bee  disap- 

191 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  poynted :  let  your  Ape  and  your  Motion  come ;  for  wee 
have  ghests  heere  to  night,  that  will  pay  for  seeing  that, 
OftheAdven-  and  the  Apes  abilities.  In  good  time  (sayd  hee  of  the 
tureofthe  patch)  for  I  will  moderate  the  price,  so  my  charges  this 
thTmefr/one  night  be  PaJd  for'  and  therefore  I  will  cause  the  Cart 
of  the  Puppet-  where  they  are,  to  drive  on :  with  this  hee  went  out  of  the 
man,  with  the  Vente  againe.  Don  Quixote  straight  asked  the  Venter, 
memorable  What  Master  Peter  that  was,  and  what  Motion  or  Ape 
ySSwSf  those  he  brought  ? 

phesyingApe.  To  which  the  Venter  answered;  He  is  a  famous  Puppet- 
Master,  that  this  long  time  hath  gone  up  and  down  these 
parts  of  Aragon,  shewing  this  motion  of  Melisendra,  and 
Don  Gayjeros,  one  of  the  best  histories  that  hath  bin  repre- 
sented these  many  yeeres  in  this  kingdom.  Besides,  he  hath 
an  Ape,  the  strangest  that  ever  was ;  for  if  you  aske  him 
any  thing,  he  marketh  what  you  aske,  and  gets  up  upon  his 
Masters  shoulder,  and  tells  him  in  his  eare  by  way  of  answer, 
what  he  was  asked :  which  Master  Peter  declares :  he  tells 
things  to  come,  as  well  as  things  past,  and  though  he  doe 
not  alwaies  hit  upon  the  right,  yet  he  seldome  erres,  and 
makes  us  beleeve  the  Devill  is  in  him.  Twelve  pence  for 
every  answer  we  give,  if  the  Ape  doe  answer,  I  meane,  if 
his  Master  answer  for  him,  after  hee  hath  whispered  in  his 
eare ;  so  it  is  thought  that  Master  Peter  is  very  rich,  he  is  a 
notable  fellow,  and  (as  your  Italian  saith)  a  boon  companion  ; 
hath  the  best  life  in  the  world,  talkes  his  share  for  sixe  men, 
and  drinks  for  a  doozen,  all  at  his  Tongues  charge,  his 
Motion,  and  his  Apes. 

By  this,  Master  Peter  was  returned,  and  his  Motion  and 
Ape  came  in  a  smal  carriage ;  his  Ape  was  of  a  good  big- 
nesse,  without  a  tayle,  and  his  bumme  as  bare  as  a  Felt,  but 
not  very  ill-favoured.  Don  Quixote  scarce  beheld  him,  when 
hee  demanded,  Master  Prophesier,  What  fish  doe  we  catch  ? 
Tell  us  what  will  become  of  us,  and  heere  is  twelve-pence, 
which  he  commanded  Sancho  to  give  Master  Peter ;  who 
answered  for  the  Ape  and  said  :  Sir,  this  beast  answeres  not, 
nor  gives  any  notice  of  things  to  come,  of  things  past  hee 
knowes  something,  and  likewise  a  little  of  things  present. 
192 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Zwookcrs  (quoth  Sancho)  He  not  give  a  farthing  to  know    CHAPTER 
what  is  past :  for  who  can  tell  that  better  then  my  selfe  ?         XXV 
and  to  pay  for  what  I  know,  is  most  foolish :  but  since  you  OftheAdven- 
say  hee  knowes  things  present,  heere's  my  twelve-pence,  and  *"re  pfthe 
let  good-man  Ape  tell  me  what  my  wife  Teresa  Pansa  doth,  ^SSS/one 
and  in  what  shee  busies  her  selfe.     Master  Peter  would  not  of  the  Puppets 
take  his  mony,  saying ;  I  will  not  take  your  reward  before-  man,  with  the 
hand,  till  the  Ape  hath  first  done  his  duty  :  so  giving  a  clap  memorable 
or  two  with  his  right  hand  on  his  left  shoulder,  at  one  friske  ^"the^o? 
the  Ape  got  up,  and  laying  his  mouth  to  his  eare,  grated  phesyingApe. 
his  teeth  apace,  and  having  shewed  this  feat  the  space  of  a 
Creeds  saying,  at  another  frisk  he  leap'd  to  the  ground,  and 
instantly  Master  Peter  very  hastily  ran  and  kneeled  downe 
before  Don  Quixote,  and  embracing  his  legs,  said  :   These 
legges  I  embrace,  as  if  they  were  Hercules  Pillars.    O  famous 
reviver  of  the  long- forgotten  Knight  Errantry !     Oh  never 
sufficiently  extolled  Knight  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha ! 
raiser  of  the  faint-hearted,  propper  of  those  that  fall,  the 
staffe  and  comfort  of  all  the  unfortunate  !     Don  Quixote 
was  amazed,  Sancho  confused,  the  Scholler  in  suspence,  the 
Page  astonisht,  the  Bray  townes-man  all  in  a  gaze,  the 
Venter  at  his  wittes  end,  and  all  admiring  that  heard  the 
Puppet-mans  speech,  who  went  on,  saying: 

And  thou  honest  Sancho  Pansa,  the  best  Squire  to  the 
best  Knight  of  the  world,  rejoyce,  for  thy  wife  Teresa  is  a 
good  hous-wife,  and  at  this  time  she  is  dressing  a  pound  of 
flaxe ;  by  the  same  token  shee  hath  a  good  broken-moutrTd 
pot  at  her  left  side,  that  holds  a  pretty  scantling  of  wine, 
with  which  she  easeth  her  labour. 

I  beleeve  that  very  well  (sayd  Sancho)  for  she  is  a  good 
soule ;  and  if  she  were  not  jealous,  I  would  not  change  her 
for  the  Gyantesse  Andandona,  that,  as  my  Master  sayes, 
was  a  woman  for  the  nonce :  and  my  Teresa  is  one  of  those 
that  will  not  pine  her  selfe,  though  her  heyres  smart  for  it. 

Well,  I  say  now  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  he  that  reades 
much,  and  travels  much,  sees  much,  and  knowes  much. 
This  I  say,  for  who  in  the  world  could  have  perswaded  mee 
that  Apes  could  prophesie?  which  now  I  have  scene  with 

3  :  BB  193 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  mine  owne  eyes ;  for  I  am  the  same  Don  Quixote  that  this 
xxv  beast  speakes  of,  although  he  have  bin  somewhat  too  liberal! 
OftheAdven-  in  my  praise:  but  howsoever  I  am,  I  give  God  thanks  that 
ture  of  the  ne  nath  made  me  so  relenting  and  compassionate ;  alwaies 
the menrone  enclmed  to  do  good  to  all,  and  hurt  to  no  man. 
of  the  Puppet-  If  I  had  money  (said  the  Page)  I  would  aske  Mr.  Ape 
man,,  with  the  what  should  befall  me  in  the  peregrination  I  have  in  hand, 
memorable  To  which  Master  Peter  answered,  that  was  now  risen  from 

ofUtheSa rlng  Don  Quixotes  foot5 !  have  told  y°u  once  that  this  kttle  beast 
phesying°Ape.  foretels  not  things  to  come ;  for  if  he  could,  twere  no  matter 
for  your  mony:  for  heere  is  Signior  Don  Quixote  present, 
for  whose  sake  I  would  forgoe  all  the  Interest  in  the  world : 
and  to  shew  my  duety  to  him,  and  to  give  him  delight,  I 
will  set  up  my  Motion,  and  freely  shew  all  the  company  in 
the  Vent  some  pastime  gratis.  Which  the  Venter  hearing, 
unmeasurably  glad,  pointed  him  to  a  place  where  he  might 
set  it  up ;  which  was  done  in  an  instant. 

Don  Quixote  liked  not  the  Apes  prophesying  very  well, 
holding  it  to  be  frivolous,  that  an  Ape  should  onely  tell 
things  present,  and  not  past,  or  to  come.  So  whilest  Master 
Peter  was  fitting  his  Motion,  Don  Quixote  tooke  Sancho 
with  him  to  a  corner  of  the  stable,  and  in  private  said : 

Looke  thee,  Sancho,  I  have  very  well  considered  of  this 
Apes  strange  quality,  and  finde  that  this  Master  Peter  hath 
made  a  secret  expresse  compact  with  the  Devill,  to  infuse 
this  ability  into  the  Ape,  that  he  may  get  his  living  by  it, 
and  when  he  is  rich,  he  will  give  him  his  soule ;  which  is 
that,  that  this  universall  enemy  of  mankinde  pretends :  and 
that  which  induceth  me  to  this  beliefe,  is,  that  the  Ape 
answers  not  to  things  past,  but  onely  present ;  and  the 
Devils  knowledge  attaines  to  no  more,  for  things  to  come 
he  knowes  not,  only  by  conjecture :  for  God  alone  can  dis- 
tinguish the  times  and  moments,  and  to  him  nothing  is  past 
or  to  come,  but  all  is  present :  Which  being  so,  it  is  most 
certaine  that  this  Ape  speakes  by  instinct  from  the  Devill, 
and  I  wonder  he  hath  not  beene  accused  to  the  Inquisition, 
and  examined,  and  that  it  hath  not  beene  pressed  out  of  him, 
to  know  by  what  vertue  this  Ape  prophesieth  ;  for  certainely, 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

neyther  he  nor  his  Ape  are  Astrologers,  nor  know  how  to    CHAPTER 
cast  figures,   which   they  call  judiciary,  so   much    used  in         ^^ 
Spaine:    for  you   have  no   paltry  Woman,  nor   Page,  nor  OftheAdven- 
Cobler,  that  presumes  not  to  cast  a  figure,  as  if  it  were  one  Jure 
of  the  knaves  at  Cards  upon  a  table,  falsifying  that  wondrous  th^nu'irV  "IM- 
Science  with  their  ignorant  lying.  ,,f  the  1'uppet- 

I  knew  a  Gentlewoman  that  asked  one  of  these  Figure-  man,  with  the 
flingers,  if  a  little  fovsting-hound  of  hers  should  have  any  "WBJ"»U« 
puppies,  and  if  it  had,  how  many,  and  of  what  colour  the  ^he 
whelps  should  be.    To  winch  mv  cunning  man  (after  hee  had  phesyingApe. 
cast  his  figure)  answered  :  That  the  bitch  should  have  young, 
and   bring  forth  three  little  whelps,  the   one   Greene,  the 
other  Carnation,  and  the  third  of  a  mixt  colour,  with  this 
proviso,  that  she  should  take  the  dogge  betweene  eleven  and 
twelve  of  the  clocke  at   noone,  or  at  night,  which  should 
be  on  the  Munday,  or  the  Saturday;  and  the  suecesse  was, 
that  some  two  dayes  after  the  bitch  died  of  a  surfet,  and 
Master  figure-raiser  was  reputed  in  the  towne  a  most  pert'* 
ludiciary.  as  all,  or  the'  greatest  part  of  such  men  are.     For 
all  that  (said  Sancho)  I  would  you  would  bid  Master  Peter 
aske   his   Ape,   whether   all   were    true  that  befell   you    in 
Montesino's  Cave;  for  I  thinke  (under  correction)  all  was 
cogging  and  King,  or  at  least  but  a  dreaine.     All  might  be 
(said  Don  (Quixote)  yet  I  will  doe  as  thou  dost  advize  me, 
though  I  ha\e  one  scruple  remaining. 

\Yhile>t  they  were  thus  communing,  Mu-ti-r  Peter  came 
to  call  Don  Quixote,  and  to  tell  him  that  the  Motion  was 
now  up,  if  he  would  please  to  see  it,  which  would  give  him 
content. 

Don  Quixote  told  him  his  desire,  and  wished  that  his  Ape 
might  tell  him,  if  certaine  things  that  befell  him  in  Monte- 
sine's  Cave  were  true,  or  but  dreames ;  for  himselfe  was 
uncertaine  whether.  Master  Peter,  without  answering  a 
word,  fetcht  his  Ape,  and  putting  him  before  Don  Quixote 
and  Sancho,  saide,  Looke  you,  Master  Ape,  Signior  Don 
Quixote  would  have  you  tell  him,  whether  certaine  things 
that  hapned  to  him  in  Montesino's  Cave  were  true  or  false  ? 
and  making  the  accustomed  signe,  the  Ape  whipt  upon  his 

195 


CHAPTER 
XXV 

Of  the  Adven- 
ture of  the 
Braying,  and 
the  merry  one 
of  the  Puppet- 
man,  with  the 
memorable 
southsaying 
of  the  pro- 
phesying Ape. 


*El  Truja- 
man.     An 
Interpreter 
amongst  the 
Turks,  but 
here  taken 
for  any  in 
general!. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

left  shoulder,  and  seeming  to  speake  to  him  in  his  eare, 
Master  Peter  straight  interpreted.  The  Ape,  Signior,  saies 
that  part  of  those  things  are  false,  and  part  of  them  true, 
and  this  is  all  he  knowes  touching  this  demand ;  and  now 
his  vertue  is  gone  from  him,  and  if  you  will  know  any  more, 
you  must  expect  till  Friday  next,  and  then  he  will  answer 
you  all  you  will  aske,  for  his  vertue  will  not  returne  till  then. 

Law  ye  there  (quoth  Sancho)  did  not  I  tell  you  that  I  could 
not  beleeve  that  all  you  said  of  Montesinos  Cave  could  hold 
currant  ?  The  successe  heereafter  will  determine  that  (quoth 
Don  Quixote)  for  time,  the  discoverer  of  al  things,  brings 
every  thing  to  the  Sunnes  light,  though  it  be  hidden  in  the 
bosome  of  the  earth :  and  now  let  this  suffice,  and  let  us  goe 
see  the  Motion ;  for  I  beleeve  we  shall  have  some  strange 
novelty.  Some  strange  one?  quoth  Master  Peter,  this 
Motion  of  mine  hath  a  thousand  strange  ones :  I  tell  you 
Signior,  it  is  one  of  the  rarest  things  to  be  scene  in  the  world ; 
operibus  credite  et  non  verbis :  and  now  to  worke,  for  it  is 
late,  and  we  have  much  to  doe,  say,  and  shew. 

Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  obeyed,  and  went  where  the 

Motion  was  set  and  opened,  all  full  of  little  waxe  lights,  that 

made  it  most  sightly  and  glorious.     Master  Peter  straight 

clapped  himselfe  within  it,  who  was  hee  that  was  to  manage 

the  artificiall  Puppets,  and  without  stood  his  boy  to  interpret 

and  declare  the  mysteries  of  the  Motion ;  in  his  hand  hee 

had  a  white  wand,  with  which  he  pointed  out  the  severall 

shapes  that  came  in  and  out.    Thus  all  that  were  in  the  Vente 

being  placed,  and  some  standing  over-against  the  Motion, 

Don  Quixote,  Sancho,  the  Scholler  and  the  Page,  placed 

in  the  best  seates,  *the  Trudge-man  began  to  speak 

what  shall  be  heard  or  seene,  by  him  that  shall 

heare  or  read  the  next  Chapter. 


196 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Of  the  delightfull  passage  of  the  Puppet-play, 
and  other  pleasant  matters. 

EERE  Tyrians  and  Troyans  were  all  silent, 
,  nil  tlu-  spectators  of  the  Motion 


had  their  eares  hanged  upon  the  Inter- 
preters mouth,  that  should  declare  the 
wonders  ;  by  and  by  there  was  a  great 
sound  of  Kettle  Drums,  and  Trumpets, 
and  a  volly  of  great  shot  within  the 
Motion,  which  passing  away  briefly,  the 


boy  beganne  to  raise  his  voyce,  and  to  say  : 

>ry  which  is 
taken  word  for  word  out  of  the  French  Chronicles,  and  the 


This   trui-    History  which  is  here  represented  to  you,  is 


Spanish  Romants,  which  are  in  every  bodies  mouth,  and 
sung  by  boyes  up  and  downe  the  streets.  It  treats  of  the 
liberty  that  Signior  Don  Gayferos  gave  to  Melisendra  his 
wife,  that  was  imprisoned  by  the  Moorcs  in  Spaine,  in  the 
City  of  Sansuena,  which  was  then  so  called,  and  now  Sara- 
gosa ;  and  looke  you  there,  how  Don  Gayferos  is  playing  at 
Tables,  according  to  the  song ; 

Now  Don  Gayferos  at  Tables  doth  play, 
Vnmindfull  of  Melisendra  away. 

And  that  Personage  that  peepes  out  there  with  a  Crowne 
on  his  head,  and  a  Scepter  in  his  hand,  is  the  Emperor 
Charlemaine,  the  supposed  father  of  the  said  Melisendra, 
who  grieved  with  the  sloth  and  neglect  of  his  Sonne  in 
law,  comes  to  chide  him :  and  marke  with  what  vehemency 
and  earnestnesse  he  rates  him,  as  if  he  meant  to  give  him 
halfe  a  doozen  Connes  with  his  Scepter.  Some  Authors 
there  bee  that  say,  hee  did,  and  sound  ones  too :  and  after 

197 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    he  had  told  him  many  things  concerning  the  danger  of  his 
XXVI        reputation,  if  he  did  not  free  his  Spouse,  twas  said  hee  told 
Of  the  him,  I  have  said  enough,  looke  to  it.     Looke  ye  Sir,  againe, 

delightfull  jjOW  j-hg  Emperor  turnes  his  backe,  and  in  what  case  hee 
thTpuppet-  leaves  Don  Gayferos,  who  all  enraged  flings  the  Tables  and 
play,  and  the  table-men  from  him,  and  hastily  calls  for  his  Armour, 
other  pleasant  and  borrowes  his  Cousin  Germane  Roldan  his  sword  Durin- 
matters.  dana;  who  offers  him  his  company  in  this  difficult  enter- 

prise. But  the  valorous  enraged  Knight  would  not  accept 
it,  saying ;  That  hee  is  sufficient  to  free  his  Spouse,  though 
she  were  put  in  the  deepe  Centre  of  the  earth :  and  now 
hee  goes  in  to  Arme  himselfe  for  his  lourney. 

Now  turne  your  eyes  to  yonder  Tower  that  appeares,  (for 
you  must  suppose  it  is  one  of  the  Towers  of  the  Castle  of 
Saragosa,  which  is  now  called  the  Aliaferia)  and  that  Lady 
that  appeares  in  the  window,  cladde  in  a  Moorish  habit,  is 
the  peerelesse  Melisendra,  that  many  a  time  lookes  toward 
France,  thinking  on  Paris  and  her  spouse,  the  onely  comforts 
in  her  imprisonment.  Behold  also  a  strange  accident  now 
that  happens,  perhaps  never  the  like  seene:  see  you  not 
that  Moore  that  comes  faire  and  softly,  with  his  finger  in 
his  mouth,  behinde  Melisendra?  looke  what  a  smacke  he 
gives  her  in  the  midst  of  her  lippes,  and  how  sodainely  shee 
begins  to  spit,  and  to  wipe  them  with  her  white  smocke 
sleeve,  and  how  she  laments,  and  for  very  anguish  despite- 
ously  rootes  up  her  faire  hayres,  as  if  they  were  to  blame 
for  this  wickednesse.  Marke  you  also  that  grave  Moore, 
that  stands  in  that  open  Gallery,  it  is  Marsilius  King  of 
Sansuenna,  who  when  he  saw  the  Moores  sawcinesse,  although 
he  were  a  kins-man,  and  a  great  favourite  of  his,  hee  com- 
manded him  straight  to  bee  apprehended,  and  to  have  two 
hundreth  stripes  given  him,  and  to  be  carried  thorow  the 
chiefe  streets  in  the  City,  with  minstrels  before,  and  rods  of 
Justice  behinde;  and  looke  ye  how  the  sentence  is  put  in 
execution  before  the  fault  bee  scarce  committed;  for  your 
Moores  use  not  (as  we  doe)  any  legall  proceeding.  Childe, 
childe  (cried  Don  Quixote  aloud)  on  with  your  story  in  a 
direct  line,  and  fall  not  into  your  crookes  and  your  trans- 
198 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

versals :  for  to  verifie  a  thing  I  tell  you,  there  had  need  be   CHAPTER 

a  Legall  proceeding.     Then  Master  Peter  too  said  from       XXVI 

within ;  Boy,  fall  not  you  to  your  flourishes,  but  doe  as  that  Of  the 

Gentleman  commands  you,  which  is  the  best  course;  sing 

you  your  plaine  song,  and  meddle  not  with  the  treble,  lest 

the  strings  breake.     I  will,  Master  (said  the  boy)  and  pro-  piay,  and 

ceeded,  saying  :  other  pleasant 

He  that  you  see  there  (quoth  he)  on  horsebacke,  cladde  in  matters. 
a  Gascoyne  cloake,  is  Don  Gayferos  himselfe,  to  whom  his 
Wife  (now  revenged  on  the  Moore  for  his  boldnesse)  shewes 
her  selfe  from  the  battlements  of  the  Castle,  taking  him  to 
bee  some  passenger,  with  whom  shee  passed  all  the  discourse 
mentioned  in  the  Romant,  that  saves ; 

Friend,  if  toward  France  you  goe, 
Aske  if  Gayferos  be  there  or  no,  etc. 

The  rest  I  omit,  for  all  prolixity  is  irkesome,  tis  sufficient 
that  you  see  there  how  Don  Gayferos  discovers  himselfe,  and 
by  Melisendra's  jocund  behaviour,  we  may  imagine  shee 
knowcs  him,  and  the  rather,  because  now  we  see,  she  lets 
her  selfe  down  from  a  bay-window,  to  ride  away  behinde  her 
good  Spouse :  but  alas,  unhappy  creature,  one  of  the  skirts 
of  her  kirtle  hath  caught  upon  one  of  the  yron  barres  of  the 
window,  and  she  hovers  in  the  ayre,  without  possibility  of 
comming  to  the  ground  :  but  see  how  pittifull  heavens  releeve 
her  in  her  greatest  necessity  ;  for  Don  Gayferos  comes,  and 
without  any  care  of  her  rich  Kirtle,  layes  hold  of  it,  and 
forcibly  brings  her  downe  with  him,  and  at  one  hoist  sets  her 
astride  upon  his  horses  crupper,  and  commands  her  to  sit 
fast,  and  clap  her  armes  about  him,  that  shee  fall  not ;  for 
Melisendra  was  not  used  to  that  kinde  of  riding.  Lookeyou 
how  the  horse  by  his  neighing  shewes  that  he  is  proud  with 
the  burden  of  his  valiant  Master,  and  faire  Mistresse.  Look 
how  they  turne  their  backes  to  the  City,  and  merrily  take 
their  way  toward  Paris.  Peace  be  with  you,  O  peerelesse 
couple  of  true  Lovers,  safely  may  you  arrive  at  your  de- 
sired Country,  without  Fortunes  hindering  your  prosperous 

199 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    voyage :  may  your  friends  and  kindred  see  you  enjoy  the  rest 

XXVI        of  your  yeeres  (as  many  as  Nestors)  peaceably. 

Of  the  Heere   Master  Peter  cryed   out  aloud   againe,   saying ; 

delightfull       Plainenesse,  good  boy,  doe  not  you  soare  so  high,  this  affec- 

thTp?ppet-     tation  is  scurvy.      The  Interpreter  answered  nothing,  but 

play,  and         went  on,  saying,  There  wanted  not  some  idle  spectators  that 

other  pleasant  pry  into  every  thing,  who  saw  the  going  downe  of  Melisendra, 

matters.  anj  gave  Marsilius  notice  of  it,  who  straight  commanded  to 

sound  an  Alarme  ;  and  now  behold,  how  fast  the  City  even 

sinkes  againe  with  the  noyse  of  bels  that  sound  in  the  high 

*Mezquitas,      Towers  of  the  *Mesquits. 

Moorish  There  you  are  out  Boy  (said  Don  Quixote)  and  Master 

Peter  is  very  improper  in  his  belles ;  for  amongst  Moores 
you  have  no  bels,  but  Kettle-drummes,  and  a  kinde  of 
Shaulmes  that  bee  like  our  Waytes,  so  that  your  sounding 
of  bels  in  Sansuenna  is  a  most  idle  foppery.  Stand  not  upon 
trifles,  Signior  Don  Quixote,  said  Master  Peter,  and  so 
strictly  upon  every  thing,  for  we  shall  not  know  how  to 
please  you.  Have  you  not  a  thousand  Comedies  ordinarily 
represented,  as  full  of  incongruities  and  absurdities,  and  yet 
they  runne  their  Careere  happily,  and  are  heard,  not  only 
with  applause,  but  great  admiration  also  ?  On,  boy,  say  on, 
and  so  I  fill  my  purse,  let  there  be  as  many  improprieties  as 
moates  in  the  Sunne.  You  are  the  right  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
and  the  boy  proceeded. 

Looke  what  a  company  of  gallant  Knights  go  out  of  the 
City  in  pursuit  of  the  Catholike  Lovers,  how  many  Trumpets 
sound,  how  many  Shaulmes  play,  how  many  drummes  and 
kettles  make  a  noyse,  I  feare  me  they  will  over-take  them, 
and  bring  them  backe  both  bound  to  the  same  horses  tayle, 
which  would  be  a  horrible  spectacle. 

Don  Quixote  seeing  and  hearing  such  a  deale  of  Moorisme, 
and  such  a  coyle,  he  thought  fit  to  succour  those  that  fled  :  so 
standing  up,  with  a  loud  voyce  he  cryed  out ;  I  will  never 
consent  while  I  live,  that  in  my  presence,  such  an  outrage  as 
this,  bee  offred  to  so  valiant,  and  so  amorous  a  bold  Knight, 
as  Don  Gayferos  :  Stay,  you  base  Scoundrels,  doe  not  yee 
follow  or  persecute  him  :  if  you  doe,  you  must  first  wage 
200 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

warre  with  mee  :  so  doing  and  speaking,  he  unsheathed  his    CHAPTER 

sword,  and  at  one  frisk  e  he  got  to  the  Motion,  and  with  an        XXVI 

unseene  and  posting  fury,  he  began  to  raine  strokes  upon  Of  the 

the  Puppetish  Moorisme,  overthrowing  some,  and  beheading  (J« 

others,  maiming  this,  and  cutting  in  pieces  that,  and  amongst  ^he^ppet- 

many  other  blowes,  he  fetcht  one  so  downe  right,  that  had  piay^  and 

not  Mr.  Peter  tumbled  and  squatted  downe,  hee  had  clipped  other  pleasant 

his  Mazard  as  easily,  as  if  it  had  beene  made  of  March-pane,  matters. 

Mr.  Peter  cryed  out,  saying;  Hold,  Signior  Don  Quixote, 

hold  ;  ami   know  that  these  you  hurle  downe,  destroy  and 

kill,  are  not  reall  Moores,  but  shapes  made  of  paste-boord  : 

Looke  you,  looke  yee  now  (wretch  that  I  am)  hee  spoyles  all, 

and  undoes  me.     Hut  for  all  this,  Don  Quixote  still  multi- 

plied his  slashes,  doubling  and  redoubling  his  blowes,  as 

thieke  as  hops. 

And  in  a  word,  in  lesse  then  two  Credo's,  he  cast  downe 
the  whole  Motion  (all  the  tackling  first  cut  to  fitters,  and  all 
the  Puppets)  King  Marsilius  was  sore  wounded,  and  the 
Kmperour  Chnrlemaine,  his  head  and  crowne  were  parted  in 
two  phuvs,  the  Senate  and  Auditors  were  all  in  a  hurry,  and 
the  Ape  gat  up  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  so  out  at  the 
window,  the  Scnoller  was  frighted,  the  Page  cleane  dastarded, 
and  even  S.-mcho  himselfe  was  in  a  terrible  perplexity,  for 
(as  he  sware  after  the  storme  was  past)  he  never  saw  his 
Master  so  outragious. 

The  generall  ruine  of  the  Motion  thus  performed,  Don 
Quixote  began  to  bee  somewhat  pacified,  and  sayd  ;  Now 
would  I  have  all  those  heere  at  this  instant  before  mee,  that 
beleeve  not,  how  profitable  Knights  Errant  are  to  the  world  ; 
and  had  not  I  beene  now  present,  what  (I  marvell)  would 
have  becomne  of  Signior  Don  Gayferos,  and  the  faire  Meli- 
sendra?     I  warrant,  ere  this,  those  dogs  would  have  over-  *DonRodrigo 
taken,  and  shewed  them  some  foule  play  :  when  all  is  done,  was  the  last 
long  live  Knight  Errantry,  above  all  things  living  in  the  King  of  the 
world.  Goths  that 


Long  live  it  on  Gods  name  (sayd  Mr.  Peter)  agen  with  a  _ 

pitifull  voyce,  and  may  I  die,  since  I  live  to  be  so  unhappy,  quered'by  the 
as  to  say  with  King  *Don  Rodrigo,  Yesterday  I  was  Lord  Moores. 

3  :  CC  201 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  of  all  Spaine,  but  to  day  have  not  a  Battlement  I  can  call 

XXVI  mine  :  Tis  not  yet  halfe  an  houre,  scarce  halfe  a  minute,  that 

Of  the  I  was  Master  of  Kings  and  Emperours,  had  my  stables, 

delightfull  coffers,  and  bags  full  of  horses  and  treasure :  but  now  I  am 

passage  of  desolate,  dejected  and  poore,  and  to  adde  more  affliction, 

the  Puppet-  .,                JA         ,  i     ,  i r  />        T                .   i    i  •              •        T 

play,  and  without  my  Ape,  that  before  I  can  catch  him  againe,  I  am 

other  pleasant  like  to  sweat  for  it,  and  all  through  the  unconsiderate  furies 
matters.  of  this  Sir  Knight,  who  is  sayd  to  protect  the  fatherlesse,  to 

rectifie  wrongs,  and  to  doe  other  charitable  works  ;  but  to  me 
onely,  this  his  generous  intention  hath  beene  defective,  I 
thanke  God  for  it.  In  fine,  it  could  bee  none  but  The  Knight 
of  the  Sorrowfull  Countenance,  that  discountenanced  me 
and  mine.  Sancho  grew  compassionate  to  heare  Master 
Peters  lamentation,  and  sayd;  Weepe  not,  nor  grieve, 
Master  Peter,  for  thou  breakest  my  heart ;  and  let  me  tell 
thee,  that  my  Master,  Don  Quixote,  is  so  scrupulous  and 
Catholicall  a  Christian,  that  if  hee  fall  into  the  reckoning, 
that  hee  have  done  thee  any  wrong,  hee  knowes  how,  and 
will  satisfie  it  with  much  advantage.  If  (sayd  Master  Peter) 
Signior  Don  Quixote  would  but  pay  mee  for  some  part  of 
the  Pieces  that  he  hath  spoyled,  I  should  bee  contented,  and 
his  Worship  might  not  bee  troubled  in  conscience  :  for  hee 
that  keepes  that,  that  is  another  mans,  against  the  Owners 
will,  and  restores  it  not,  can  hardly  be  saved. 

That 's  true  (quoth  Don  Quixote  :)  But  hitherto,  Master 
Peter,  I  know  not  whether  I  have  detained  ought  of  yours. 
No  ?  not  ?  said  Master  Peter,  why  these  poore  relikes  that 
lie  upon  the  hard  and  barren  earth,  who  scattered  and  anni- 
hilated them,  but  the  invincible  force  of  that  powerfull  arme? 
And  whose  were  those  bodies,  but  mine  ?  And  with  whom 
did  I  maintaine  my  selfe,  but  with  them  ?  Well,  I  now 
(sayd  Don  Quixote)  verily  beleeve,  what  I  have  done  often, 
that  the  Enchanters  that  persecute  me,  doe  nothing  but  put 
shapes  really,  as  they  are  before  mine  eyes,  and  by  and  by 
trucke  and  change  them  at  their  pleasures.  Verily,  my 
Masters,  you  that  heare  me,  I  tell  you,  all  that  heere  passed, 
seemed  to  me  to  be  really  so,  and  immediately  that  that 
Melisendra  was  Melisendra ;  Don  Gayferos,  Don  Gayferos ; 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

and  Marsilius,  Marsilius;  and  Charlemaine,  Charlemaine :    CHAPTER 
And  this  was  it  that  stirred  up  my  choller  ;  and  to  accom-        XXVI 
plish  my  Profession  of  Knight  Errant,  my  meaning  was  to  of  the 
succour  those  that  fled,  and  to  this  good  purpose  I  did  all  (1(l1 
that  you  have  scene,  which  if  it  fell  out  unluckily,  twas  no  j ),',?[ >^j, net- 
fault  of  mine,  but  of  my  wicked  persecutors  :  yet  for  all  this  ^\.iy}  .llu\ 
errour  (though  it  proceeded  from  no  malice  of  mine)  I  my  other  pleasant 
selfe  will  condemne  my  selfe  in  the  charge  ;  let  Master  Peter  matters. 
see  what  hee  will  have  for  the  spoyled  pieces,  and  I  will  pay 
it  all  in  present  currant  coyne  of  Castile. 

Master  Peter  made  him  a  low  leg,  saying ;  I  could  expect 
no  lesse  from  the  unheard  of  Christianity  of  the  most  valor- 
ous Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  the  true  Succourer  and 
Hulwarke  of  all  those  that  be  in  neede  and  necessity,  or 
wandring  Vagamundes,  and  now  let  the  Venter  and  the 
Grand  Sancho  bee  Arbitrators,  and  Price-setters  hetweene 
your  Worship  and  me,  and  let  them  say  what  every  tome 
piece  was  worth.  The  Venter  and  Sancho  both  agreed  : 
and  by  and  by  Mr.  Peter  reached  up  Marsilius  Kinu:  of  Sara- 
gosa  neadlesse,  and  sayd  ;  You  see  how  impossible  it  is  for 
this  Prince  to  returne  to  his  first  being,  and  therefore,  saving 
your  better  judgements,  I  thinke  fit  to  have  for  him  two 
shillings  and  three-pen 

On  then,  quoth  Don  Quixote.  Then  for  this  (quoth 
Master  Peter)  that  is  parted  from  head  to  foot,  taking  the 
Emperour  Charlemaine  up,  I  thinke  two  shillings  seven- 
pence  halfe-peny  is  little  enough.  Not  very  little,  quoth 
Sancho.  Nor  much  (sayd  the  Venter:)  but  moderate  the 
bargaine,  and  let  him  have  halfe  a  crowne.  Let  him  have 
his  full  asking  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  for,  for  such  a  mishap  as 
this,  wee  1  nere  stand  upon  three  halfe-pence  more  or  lesse  ; 
and  make  an  end  quickly,  Master  Peter,  for  it  is  neere 
supper-time,  and  I  have  certaine  suspitions  that  I  shall  eat. 
For  this  Puppet  (sayd  Mr.  Peter)  without  a  nose,  and  an  eye 
wanting,  of  the  faire  Melisendra,  I  aske,  but  in  Justice  foure- 
teene  pence  halfe-penny. 

Nay,  the  Devil  "s  in  it  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  if  Melisendra 
bee  not  now  in  France,  or  upon  the  borders,  at  least,  with 

203 


CHAPTER 
XXVI 

Of  the 
delightfull 
passage  of 
the  Puppet- 
play,  and 
other  pleasant 
matters. 


*As  we  say, 
To  catch  a 
Fox. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

her  Husband ;  for  the  horse  they  rode  on,  to  my  seeming, 
rather  flew  then  ran ;  and  therefore  sell  not  me  a  Cat  for 
a  Coney,  presenting  me  heere  Melisendra  nose-lesse,  when 
shee  (if  the  time  require  it)  is  wantonly  solacing  with  her 
Husband  in  France.  God  give  each  man  his  owne,  Mr. 
Peter,  let  us  have  plaine  dealing ;  and  so  proceed.  Master 
Peter,  that  saw  Don  Quixote  in  a  wrong  vaine,  and  that 
he  returned  to  his  olde  Theame,  thought  yet  he  should 
not  escape  him,  and  so  replied ;  Indeede  this  should  not 
be  Melisendra,  now  I  thinke  on't;  but  some  one  of  the 
Damozels  that  served  her,  so  that  five  pence  for  her  will 
content  me. 

Thus  he  went  on  prizing  of  other  torne  Puppets,  which 
the  Arbitrating  Judges  moderated  to  the  satisfaction  of 
both  parties,  and  the  whole  prices  of  all  were,  twenty-one 
shillings  and  eleven  pence,  which  when  Sancho  had  dis- 
bursed, Master  Peter  demanded  over  and  above  twelve-pence 
for  his  labour,  to  looke  the  Ape.  Give  it  him,  Sancho 
(sayd  Don  Quixote)  not  to  catch  his  Ape,  *but  a  Monkey, 
and  I  would  give  five  pound  for  a  reward,  to  any  body  that 
would  certainely  tell  me,  that  the  Lady  Melisendra  and  Don 
Gayferos  were  safely  arrived  in  France,  amongst  their  owne 
people. 

None  can  better  tell  then  my  Ape  (said  Master  Peter) 
though  the  Devill  himselfe  will  scarce  catch  him  ;  yet  I 
imagine,  making  much  of  him,  and  hunger,  will  force  him 
to  seeke  me  to  night,  and  by  morning  we  shall  come  together. 
Well,  to  conclude ;  the  storme  of  the  Motion  passed,  and 
all  supped  merrily,  and  like  good  fellowes,  at  Don  Quixotes 
charge ;  who  was  liberall  in  extremity.  Before  day,  the 
fellow  with  the  Lances  and  Halberds  was  gone,  and  some- 
what after,  the  Scholler  and  the  Page  came  to  take  leave  of 
Don  Quixote,  the  one  to  returne  homeward,  and  the  other 
to  prosecute  his  intended  voyage,  and  for  a  releefe  Don 
Quixote  gave  him  six  shillings. 

Master  Peter  would  have  no  more  to  doe  with  him ;  for 
hee  knew  him  too  well.  So  he  got  up  before  the  Sunne,  and 
gathering  the  relikes  of  the  Motion  together,  and  his  Ape, 

204 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

he  betooke  him  to  his  Adventures.     The  Venter  that  knew    CHAPTER 
not  Don  Quixote,  wondred  as  much  at  his  liberality,  as  his        XXVI 
madnes.     To  conclude,  Sancho  payd  him  honestly,  by  his  Of  the 
Masters  order,  and  taking  leave,  about  eight  of  the  clocke  deli&htfiill 
they  left  the  Vcnte,  and  went  on  their  way,  where  wee     pah   ^e>  e 
must  leave  them  ;  for  so  it  is  fit,  that  we  may  come 
to  other  matters  pertaining  to  the  true  de- 
claration of  this  famous  History. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

Who  Master  Peter  and  his  Ape  were,  with  the 
ill  successe  that  Don  Quixote  had  in  the  Adven- 
ture of  the  Braying,  which  ended  not  so 
well,  as  he  would,  or  thought  for. 

D  HAMETK,  the  Chronicler  of  this  famous 
History,  beginnes  this  Chapter  with  these 
words:  I  sweare  like  a  Catholike  Christian. 
To  which  the  Translatour  sayes,  That  Cid 
his  swearing  like  a  Catholike  Christian, 
bee  being  a  Moon-,  as  undoubtedly  he  was, 
was  no  otherwise  to  be  understood,  then 
that  as  the  Catholike  Christian,  when  hee 
sweares,  doth  or  ought  to  sweare  truth,  so  did  he,  as  if  he 
had  sworne  like  a  Catholike  Christian,  in  what  hee  meant  to 
write  of  Don  Quixote,  especially  in  recounting  who  Mr.  Peter 
and  the  prophesying  Ape  were,  that  made  all  the  Countrey 
astonisht  at  his  fore-telling  things.  He  sayes  then,  that  hee 
who  hath  read  the  former  part  of  this  History,  will  have  well 
remembred  that  same  Gines  de  Passamonte,  whom  Don  Quix- 
ote, amongst  other  Gally-s;  d  in  Sierra  Morena,  a 
benefit  for  which  afterward  hee  had  small  thankes,  and  worse 
payment,  from  that  wicked  and  ungratefull  Rowt. 

This  Gines  de  Passamonte,  whom  Don  Quixote  called 

205 


CHAPTER 
XXVII 

Who  Master 
Peter  and  his 
Ape  were, 
with  the  ill 
successe  that 
Don  Quixote 
had  in  the 
Adventure  of 
the  Braying, 
etc. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

Ginesillo  de  Parapilla,  was  hee  that  stole  SanchcTs  Dapple ; 
which,  because  neither  the  manner  nor  the  time  were  put  in 
the  first  part,  made  many  attribute  the  fault  of  the  Impres- 
sion, to  the  Authours  weakenesse  of  memory.  But  true  it 
is,  that  Gines  stole  him,  as  Sancho  slept  upon  his  backe, 
using  the  same  tricke  and  device  of  Brunelo's,  when  as  Sacri- 

Cte  being  upon  the  siege  of  Albraca,  he  stole  his  horse 
n  under  his  legs ;  and  after  Sancho  recovered  him  againe, 
as  was  shewed. 

This  Gines,  fearefull  of  being  found  by  the  Justices  that 
sought  after  him,  to  punish  him  for  his  infinite  villanies  and 
faults,  that  were  so  many  and  so  great,  that  him  selfe  made 
a  great  volume  of  them,  determined  to  get  him  into  the 
Kingdome  of  Aragon,  and  so  covering  his  left  eye,  to  apply 
himselfe  to  the  office  of  a  Puppet-man ;  for  this  and  juggling 
hee  was  excellent  at.  It  fell  out  so,  that  hee  bought  his  Ape 
of  certaine  captive  Christians  that  came  out  of  Barbary,  whom 
hee  had  instructed,  that  upon  making  a  certaine  signe,  hee 
should  leape  upon  his  shoulder,  and  should  mumble,  or 
seeme  to  doe  so,  at  least,  something  in  his  eare. 

This  done,  before  he  would  enter  into  any  towne  with  his 
Motion  or  Ape,  he  informed  himselfe  in  the  neerest  towne, 
or  where  hee  best  could,  what  particulars  had  happened  in 
such  a  place,  or  to  such  persons,  and  bearing  all  well  in 
minde,  the  first  thing  he  did,  was  to  shew  his  Motion,  which 
was  sometimes  of  one  Story,  otherwhiles  of  another  :  but  all 
merry,  delightfull,  and  familiarly  knowne. 

The  sight  being  finisht,  hee  propounded  the  rarities  of  his 
Ape,  telling  the  people  that  hee  could  declare  unto  them, 
all  things  past  and  present ;  but  in  things  to  come,  he  had 
no  skill :  For  an  answer  to  each  question  hee  demanded  a 
shilling ;  but  to  some  hee  did  it  cheaper,  according  as  hee  per- 
ceived the  Demanders  in  case  to  pay  him ;  and  sometimes 
he  came  to  such  places,  as  he  knew  what  had  happened  to 
the  Inhabitants,  who  although  they  would  demand  nothing, 
because  they  would  not  pay  him;  yet  he  would  straight 
make  signes  to  the  Ape,  and  tell  them,  the  Beast  had  told 
him  this  or  that,  which  fell  out  i  ust  by  what  hee  had  before 

206 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

heard,  and  with  this  hee  got  an  unspeakable  name,  and  all    CHAPTER 
men  flocked  about  him,  and  at  other  times  (as  he  was  very       XXVI  1 
cunning)  he  would  reply  so,  that  the  answers  fell  out  very  Who  Master 
fit  to  the  questions  :  and  since  no  body  went  about  to  sift,  ?eteand 


or  to  presse  him,  how  his  Ape  did  prophesie,  hee  gulled  wfth 

every  one,  and  filled  his  pouch.  successe  that 

As  soone  as  ever  he  came  into  the  Vente,  hee  knew  Don  Don  Quixote 
Quixote  and  Sancho,  and  all  that  were  there  :  but  it  had  had  in  the 
cost  him  deare,  if  Don  Quixote  had  let  his  hand  fall  some- 
what  lower,  when  hee  cut  off  King  Marsilius  his  head,  and  etc. 
destroyed  all  his  Chivalry,  as  was  related  in  the  antecedent 
Chapter.     And  this  is  all  that  may  be  sayd  of  Master  Peter 
and  his  Ape. 

And  returning  to  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  I  say,  that 
after  hee  was  gone  out  of  the  Vente,  hee  determined  first 
of  all  to  see  the  bankes  of  the  river  Heber,  and  all 
round-about,  before  hee  went  to  the  City  of  Saragosa,  since 
betweene  that  and  the  lusts  there,  he  had  time  enough  for 
all.  Heereupon  lice  wont  on  his  way,  which  he  passed 
two  dayes  without  lighting  on  any  thing  worth  writing,  till 
the  third  day,  going  up  a  Ridge-way,  hee  heard  a  sound  of 
Drummes,  Trumpets,  and  (inns  ;  ,-it  first,  hee  thought  some 
Regiment  of  Souldiers  passed  by  that  way  :  so,  to  see  them, 
he  spurred  Rozinante,  and  got  up  the  Ridge,  and  when  he 
was  at  the  top,  he  saw  (as  he  ghessed)  at  the  foot  of  it, 
neere  upon  two  hundred  men,  armed  with  different  sorts  of 
Armes,  to  wit,  Speares,Crosse-bowes,  Partizans,  Halberds,  and 
Pikes,  and  some  Guns,  and  many  Targets.  He  came  downe 
from  the  high  ground,  and  drew  neere  to  the  Squadron,  inso- 
much that  he  might  distinctly  perceive  their  Banners,  judged 
of  their  Colours,  and  noted  their  Impreses,  and  especially 
one,  which  was  on  a  Standard  or  Shred  of  white  Sattin, 
where  was  lively  painted  a  little  Asse,  like  one  of  your 
Sardinian  Asses,  his  head  lifted  up,  his  mouth  open,  and 
his  tongue  out,  in  act  and  posture  just  as  he  were  braying, 
about  him  were  these  two  verses  written  in  faire  letters  ; 

Twas  not  for  nought  that  day, 

The  oue  and  t'other  ludge  did  bray  : 

207 


CHAPTER 
XXVII 

Who  Master 


wfth  them 
successe  that 
Don  Quixote 
had  in  the 


etc. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

By  this  device  Don  Quixote  collected,  that  those  people 
belonged  to  the  Braying  Towne,  and  so  he  told  Sancho,  de- 
claring  likewise  what  was  written  in  the  Standard  ;  hee  told 

him  als°'  that  hee  that  told  them  the  StoiT'  was  in  the 
wrong,  to  say  they  were  two  Aldermen  that  brayed  :  for  by 

the  verses  of  the  Standard,  they  were  two  ludges.  To  which 
Sancho  answered,  Sir,  that  breakes  no  square,  for  it  may 
very  weu  be,  that  the  Aldermen  that  then  brayed,  might 

come  in  time  to  be  Iu.dges  of  the  Towne,  so  they  may  have 
beene  called  by  both  titles.  Howsoever,  tis  not  materiall  to 
the  truth  of  the  story,  whether  the  Brayers  were  Aldermen, 
or  ludges,  one  for  another,  be  they  who  they  would,  and  a 
ludge  is  even  as  likely  to  bray  as  an  Alderman. 

To  conclude,  they  perceived  and  knew,  that  the  towne 
that  was  mocked,  went  out  to  skirmish  with  another  that 
had  too  much  abused  them,  and  more  then  was  fitting  for 
good  neighbours.  Don  Quixote  went  towards  them,  to 
Sancho's  no  small  griefe,  who  was  no  friend  to  those  enter- 
prizes.  Those  of  the  squadron  hemmed  him  in,  taking  him 
to  be  some  one  of  their  side.  Don  Quixote  lifting  up  his 
Visor,  with  a  pleasant  countenance  and  courage,  came  toward 
the  Standard  of  the  Asse,  and  there  all  the  chiefest  of  the 
Army  gathered  about  him  to  behold  him,  falling  into  the 
same  admiration  as  all  else  did  the  first  time  they  had  scene 
him.  Don  Quixote  that  saw  them  attentively  looke  on  him, 
and  no  man  offering  to  speake  to  him,  or  aske  him  ought, 
taking  hold  on  their  silence,  and  breaking  his  owne,  hee 
raised  his  voyce,  and  said  : 

Honest  friends,  I  desire  you  with  all  earnestnesse,  that 
you  interrupt  not  the  discourse  that  I  shall  make  to  you, 
till  you  shall  see  that  I  eyther  distaste  or  weary  you  ;  which 
if  it  be  so,  at  the  least  signe  you  shall  make,  I  will  scale  up 
my  lips,  and  clappe  a  gagge  on  my  tongue.  All  of  them 
bade  him  speake  what  hee  would,  for  they  would  heare  him 
willingly. 

Don  Quixote  having  this  licence,  went  on,  saying,  I,  my 
friends,  am  a  Knight  Errant,  whose  exercise  is  Armes,  whose 
profession,  to  favor  those  that  need  favor,  and  to  helpe  the 

208 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

distressed.     I  have  long  knowne  of  your  misfortune,  and  the    CHAPTER 

cause  that  every  while  moves  you  to  take  Armes  to  bee  re- 

venged  on  your  enemies.     And  having  not  once,  but  many  Who  Ma-t.-r 


times  pondered  your  businesse  in  my  understanding,  I  fimle     •* 
(according  to  the  Lawes  of  Duell)  that  you  are  deceived  to  Wj7i,  thill 
thinke  your  selves  affronted;  for  no  particular  person  can  MHVC-M'  that 
affront  a  whole  Towne,  except   it    be    in   defying  them    for  Dim  Quixote 
Traitors  in  ^em-rail,  because  lie  knowes  not  who  in  particular  Ji;i(1  in  tlie 
committed  the  ltoMOH,  for  which  lie  defied  all  the  Towne.      ^ 

\Ve  have  an  example  of  this  in  Don  Diego  Ordonnez  de  etc< 
Lara,  who  defied  the  whole  towne  of  Zamora,  because  bee 
was   ignorant,  that  onely  Vellido  de  Olsos   eonimitted  the 
treason   in    killing    his    King;    so    lie   defied    them   all,   and 
the  revenge  and  answer  concerned  them  all  :  though  how- 
rei  Don  Diego  was  somewhat  too  hasty  and  too  forward  ; 
for  it  was   needlette    for   him    to   ha\e  defied  tile  dead,  or  the 
waters,  or  the  Corne,  or  the  children   nnborne,  with   many 
other  trifles  there  mentioned:  but  let  it  goe,  for  when  ('holler 
over-flowes,  the   tongue   hath    neyther   father,  govcrnour,  or 
guide  that  may  correct  it.     This   being  so  then,  that  one 
particular  person  cannot  affront  a  Kingdom,  Province,  Citv, 
Common-wealth,  or  Towne  onelv,  it  is   manifest,  that  the 
revenge  of  defiance  for  such  as  affront  is  needlesse,  since  it 
is  none;  for  it  were  a  goodly  matter  sure  that  those  of  the 
towne  of  Reloxa  should  every  foot  go  out  to  kill  those  that 
abuse  them   so  :    Or  that   your  *Ca/oteros,   Verengeneros,  *Se\erall 
Vallenatos,  Xanoneros,  or  others  of  these  kindes  of  Nick- 
names,  that  are  common  in   every   boyes   mouth,  and   the 
ordinary  sort  of  people:   twere  very  good,  I  say,  that  all  " 
these  famous  Townes  should  bee  ashamed,  and  take  revenue,  tradition,  and 
and  runne  with  their  swords  continually  drawne  like  Sack-  too  tedious 
buts,  for  every  slender  quarrell.     No,  no,  God  forbid  :   Men  to  bePut  »» 
of  wisedome  and  well-governed  Common-wealths,  ought  to  a 
take  Armes    for   foure    things,  and    so   to   endanger   their 
persons,  lives,  and  estates.     Fir>t,  to  defend  the  Uatholike 
Faith.     Secondly,  their  lives,  which  is  according  to  Divine 
and  Naturall  Law.     Thirdly,  to  defend  their  honour,  family, 
and  estates.     Fourthly,  to  serve  their  Prince  in  a  lawfull 

3  :  DD 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    warre,  and  if  we  will,  we  may  adde  a  fift  (that  may  serve 

XXVII       for  a  second)  to  defend  their  Country.    To  these  five  capitall 

Who  Master    causes,  may  be  joyned  many  others,  just  and  reasonable,  that 

Peter  and  his  mav  oblige  men  to  take  Armes :  but  to  take  them  for  trifles, 

with  Thrill      a      things  that  are  rather  fit  for  laughter  and  pastime  then 

successe  that    ^or  any  affront,  it  seemes  that  he  who  takes  them,  wants 

Don  Quixote    his  judgement.     Besides,  to  take  an  unjust  revenge,  (indeed 

had  in  the        nothing  can  be  just  by  way  of  revenge)  is  directly  against 

Adventure  of  Q.OC[S  Law  which  wee  professe,  in  which  we  are  commanded 

etc.  to  doe  well  to  our  enemies,  and  good  to  those  that  hate  us ; 

a  Commandement  that  though  it  seeme  difficult  to  fulfill, 

yet  it  is  not  onely  to  those  that  know  lesse  of  God  then 

the  world,  and  more  of  the  flesh  then  the  Spirit ;  for  lesus 

Christ,  true  God  and  man,  who  never  lyed,  neyther  could, 

nor  can,  being  our  Law-giver,  said  that  his  yoke  was  sweet, 

and  his  burden  light:   so  he  would  command  us  nothing 

that  should  be  unpossible  for  us  to  fulfill.     So  that,  my 

masters,  you  are  tied  both  by  Lawes  Divine  and  humane 

to  be  pacified. 

The  Devill  take  mee  (thought  Sancho  to  himselfe  at  this 
instant)  if  this  Master  of  mine  be  not  a  Divine,  or  if  not, 
as  like  one  as  one  egge  is  to  another. 

Don  Quixote  tooke  breath  a  while,  and  seeing  them  still 
attentive,  had  proceeded  in  his  discourse,  but  that  Sancho's 
conceitednesse  came  betwixt  him  and  home,  who  seeing  his 
Master  pawse,  tooke  his  turne,  saying : 

My  Master  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  sometimes  called 
The  Knight  of  the  sorrowfull  Countenance,  and  now  The 
Knight  of  the  Lyons,  is  a  very  judicious  Gentleman,  speakes 
Latin  and  his  mother-tongue  as  well  as  a  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
and  in  all  he  handleth  or  adviseth,  proceeds  like  a  man  of 
Armes,  and  hath  all  the  Lawes  and  Statutes  of  that  you 
call  Duell,  ad  unguem :  therefore  there  is  no  more  to  bee 
done,  but  to  governe  your  selves  according  to  his  direction, 
and  let  mee  beare  the  blame  if  you  doe  amisse.  Besides, 
as  you  are  now  told,  tis  a  folly  to  be  ashamed  to  heare 
one  Bray ;  for  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  could  have 
brayed  at  any  time  I  listed,  without  any  bodies  hinderance, 
210 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

which  I  did  so  truly  and  cunningly,  that  when  I  brayed,  all    CHAPTER 
the  Asses  in  the  Towne  would  answer  me  ;  and  for  all  this,       XXVII 
I  was  held  to  be  the  sonne  of  honest  parents,  and  though  Who  Master 
for  this  rare  quality  I  was  envied  by  more  then  foure  of  the  ^ete^*°g 
proudest  of  my  parish,  I  cared  not  two  strawes ;  and  that  ^.{^  ^e  jjj 
you  may  know  I  say  true,  doe  but  stay  and   hearken,  for  SUccesse  that 
this  science  is  like  swimming,  once- known,  never  forgotten,  Don  Quixote 
so  clapping  his  hand  to  his  nose  he  began  to  bray  so  strongly, 
that  the  vallies  neere-hand  resounded  againe.     But  one  of 
them  that  stood  neerest  him,  thinking  hee  had  flouted  them,  etc< 
lifted  up  a  good  Batte  he  had  in  his  hand,  and  gave  him 
such  a  blow,  that  he  tumbled  him  to  the  ground. 

Don  Quixote,  that  saw  Sancho  so  evill  intreated,  set  upon 
him  that  did  it,  with  his  Launce  in  his  hand;  but  there  came 
so  many  betwixt  them,  that  it  was  not  possible  for  him 
to  bee  revenged  :  rather  seeing  a  cloud  of  stones  comming 
towards  himselfe,  and  that  a  thousand  bent  Crosse-bowes 
be^ui  to  threaten  him,  and  no  lesse  quantity  of  gunnes ; 
turning  Ko/inantes  reines,  as  fast  as  he  could  gallop,  he  got 
from  among  them,  recommending  himselfe  heartily  to  God, 
to  free-  him  from  that  danger,  and  fearing  every  foot,  lest 
some  bullet  should  enter  him  behimle,  and  come  out  at  his 
hivst:  so  he  still  went  fetching  his  breath,  to  see  if  it  failed 
him.  But  they  of  the  squadron  were  satisfied  when  they 
saw  him  flie,  and  so  shot  not  at  him.  Sancho  they  set  upon 
his  Asse,  (scarce  yet  come  to  himselfe)  and  let  him  go  after 
his  Master,  not  that  he  could  tell  how  to  guide  him :  but 
Dapple  followed  Rozinantes  steppes,  without  whom  he  was 
nobody. 

Don  Quixote  being  now  a  pretty  way  off,  looked  backe, 

and  saw  that  Sancho  was  comming,  and  marked  that  nobody 

followed  him.     Those  of  the  squadron  were  there  till  darke 

night,  and  because  their  enemies  came  not  to  battell  with 

them,  they  returned  home  to  their  towne,  full  of  mirth 

and  jollity  :    and   if  they  had   knowne  the  ancient 

custome   of  the  Grecians,  they  would   have 

raised  a  Trophy  in  that  place. 

211 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

Of  things  that  Benengeli  relates,  which  he  that 

reades  shall  know,  if  he  read  them  with 

attention. 


HEN  the  Valiant  man  turnes  his  backe, 
the  advantage  over  him  is  manifest,  and 
it  is  the  part  of  wise  men  to  reserve  them- 
selves to  better  occasions.  This  truth 
was  verified  in  Don  Quixote,  who  giving 
way  to  the  fury  of  the  people,  and  to 
the  ill  intentions  of  that  angry  squadron, 
tooke  his  heeles,  and  without  remembring 
Sancho,  or  the  danger  he  had  left  him  in,  got  himselfe  so 
farre  as  he  might  seeme  to  be  safe.  Sancho  followed  layd 
a-thwart  upon  his  Asse,  as  hath  been  said.  At  last  he  over- 
took him,  being  now  come  to  himself,  and  comming  neere, 
he  fell  off  his  Dapple  at  Rozinantes  feet,  all  sorrowfull, 
bruised  and  beaten.  Don  Quixote  alighted  to  search  his 
wounds,  but  finding  him  whole  from  top  to  toe,  very  angrily 
he  said,  You  must  Bray  with  a  plague  to  you,  and  where 
have  you  found  that  tis  good  naming  the  Halter  in  the 
hanged  mans  house  ?  to  your  braying  musick,  what  counter- 
point could  you  expect  but  Bat-blowes  ?  And,  Sancho,  you 
may  give  God  thankes,  that  since  they  blessed  you  with  a 
cudgell,  they  had  not  made  the  Per  stgnum  cruets  on  you 
with  a  Scimitar. 

I  know  not  what  to  answer  (quoth  Sancho)  for  me-thinkes 
I  speake  at  my  backe,  pray  let "s  bee  gone  from  hence,  and 
He  no  more  braying :  yet  I  cannot  but  say,  that  your  Knight 
K mints  can  flye,  and  leave  their  faithfull  Squires  to  bee 
bruised  like  Privet  by  their  enemies. 
212 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

To   ivthv,  is  not  to  flye  (said  Don  Quixote)  for  know,    CHAPTER 
Saneho,  that  Valour  that  is  not  founded  upon  the  Basis  of       \\VIM 

4iled  Temerity,  and  the  rash  mans  actions  are  Of  things  that 
rather  attributed   to  good    fortune,  then  courage.      So  that   Btntn**Ht, 
I  00nfo0e  I  retired,  l>ut  fledde  not,  and  in  this  have  imitated  EJfSnSSS 
many  valiant    men,  that   ha\r  retorted   themselves  for  better  siiall  kn..u,  if 
times;    and    Histories   are  full   of  these,  which    because   now   h,-  n-:ul  them 
they   would   be  tedious  to  me,  and   unprofitable  to  thee,  1  with  »ttrn- 
relate  them  not  at  present. 

Hv  this  time  Sancho,  with  Don  Quixote's  help,  got  to 
horse;  ami  Don  Quixote  mounted  Ho/inante,  and  by  little 
and  little,  they  had  gotten  into  a  little  Elme-grove,  some 
quarter  of  a  league  oil':  now  and  then  Sancho  would  fetch  a 
most  deep  Heigho,  and  dolorous  sigho.  And  Don  Quixote 
demanding  tin-  rea>on  of  hi>  pittifidl  complaints  he-  saiil, 
that  from  the  point  of  his  backe-bonr,  to  the  to})  of  his 
crowne,  he  was  so  .son-,  that  he  knew  not  what  to  doe.  The 
cau>e  of  that  paine  undoubtedly  (quoth  Don  Quixote1)  is 
that  as  the  cudgell  with  which  they  banned  thee  ua>  long 
and  slender,  it  lighted  upon  those"  parts  of  thy  haeke  all 
along,  that  grceve  thee;  and  if  it  had  becnc  thieker,  it  had 
grieved  thee  more.  Truelv  (quoth  Saneho)  YOU  ha\ 
solved  nice  of  a  great  doubt,  and  in  nu»t  delicate  teanm-s 
declared  it  to  me.  Hodv  of  me,  was  the  cause  of  mv  griefe 
so  eoncealed,  that  you  must  neeils  tell  me  that  all  of  me 
was  sore  where  the  cudgell  lighted  ?  If  my  ankles  did  paine 
me,  I  warrant,  you  would  riddle  the  cause  of  it;  but  tis 
poore  riddling  to  tell  that  my  hrusing  gric\cs  me.  Yfaith, 
yfaith.  Master  mine,  other  liiens  ills  are  slightly  regarded. 
and  every  day  I  discover  land,  and  see  how  little  I  can  i 
peet  from  your  service;  for  if  at  this  time  you  suffered  me 
to  be  dry-beaten,  we  shal  come  a  hundred  and  a  hundred 
times  to  the  Hlanket-i  >u  wotte  of,  and  other  childish 

trickes,  which  if  they  now  lighted  on  my  shoulders,  thev  will 
after  come  out  at  mine  eyes.  It  were  a  great  deale  better 
for  mee,  but  that  I  am  a  beast,  and  shall  never  do  ought 
well  while  I  live.  It  were  a  great  deale  better  (I  say  again e) 
for  me  to  get  mee  home  to  my  Wife  and  Children,  to  main- 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    taine  and  bring  them  up  with  that  little  God  hath  given 

XXVIII      me?  an(j  no£  to  follow  you  up  and  downe  these  by-waies, 

Of  things  that  drinking  ill,  and  eating  worse.     And  for  your  bedde,  good 

Benengeh        honest  Squire,  even  count  mee  out  seven  foot  of  good  earth  ; 

he  that  reades  anc^  ^  vou  w^  nave  any  more,  take  as  many  more ;  for  you 

shall  know,  if  may  feed  at  pleasure,  stretch  your  selfe  at  your  ease.     I 

he  read  them   would  the  first  that  made  stitch  in  Knight  Errantry  were 

with  atten-       burned,  or  beaten  to  powder,  or  at  least  hee  that  first  would 

be  Squire  to  such  fooles,  as   all  your  Knight-Errants  in 

former  times  have  beene,  of  the  present  I  say  nothing ;  for 

your  selfe  being  one,  I  respect  them,  and  because  I  know 

that  you  know  an  Ace  more  then  the  Devill  in  all  you 

speake  or  thinke. 

I  durst  venter  a  good  wager  with  thee,  Sancho,  quoth 
Don  Quixote,  that  now  thou  talkest  and  no  body  controules 
thee,  thou  feelest  no  paine  in  all  thy  body  :  Talke  on,  childe 
mine,  all  that  is  in  thy  minde,  or  comes  to  thy  mouth,  for 
so  thou  beest  not  griev'd,  I  will  be  pleased  with  the  dis- 
taste that  thy  impertinencies  might  give  mee.  And  if  you 
desire  so  much  to  bee  at  home  with  your  wife  and  children, 
God  forbid  I  should  gainesay  it :  you  have  money  of  mine, 
and  see  how  long  tis  since  our  third  sally  from  home, 
and  how  much  is  due  to  you  for  every  moneth,  and  pay 
your  selfe. 

When  I  served  (quoth  Sancho)  Tome  Carrasco,  Father  to 
the  Bachelor  Carrasco,  whom  you  know  well,  I  had  two 
Ducats  a  moneth  besides  my  victuals :  of  you  I  know  not 
how  much  I  shall  have,  though  I  am  sure  it  is  a  greater 
toyle  to  be  a  Squire  to  a  Knight  Errant,  then  to  serve  a 
rich  Husbandman ;  for  indeed,  we  that  serve  Husbandmen, 
though  wee  labour  never  so  much  in  the  day  time,  if  the 
worst  come  to  the  worst,  at  night  we  sup  with  the  Pottage- 
pot,  and  lye  in  a  bed,  which  I  have  not  done  ever  since  I 
served  you,  except  it  were  that  short  time  wee  were  at  Don 
Diego  de  Miranda's  house,  and  after  when  I  had  the  cheere 
of  the  skimmings  of  Camacho's  pots,  and  when  I  ate  and 
drunke  and  slept  at  Basilius  his  house ;  all  the  rest  hath 
been  upon  the  cold  ground,  to  the  open  ayre,  and  subject, 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

as  you  would  say,  to  the  inclemencies  of  the  heavens,  onely    CHAPTER 
living  upon  bits  of  cheese,  and  scraps  of  bread,  and  drinking      XXVIII 
water,  sometimes  of  brookes,  sometimes  of  springs,  which  we  <>f  things  th.it 
met  withall  by  the  waies  we  went.  Benen^-li 

I  confcsse,  Sancho,  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  that  all  them  EeSS^dei 
sayest  may  be  true;  how  much  more  thinkest  thou  should  shall  know,  if 
I  give  thee,  then  Tome  Carrasco  ?  lie  read  them 

You  shall  please  me  (quoth  Sancho)  with  twelve-pence  wit^  atten- 
more  a  moneth,  and  that  concerning  my  wages  for  my  ser-  tlon> 
vice;  but  touching  your  word  and  promise  you  gave  mee, 
that  I  should  have  the  Government  of  an  Hand,  it  were  fit 
you  added  the  tother  three  shillings,  which  in  all  make  up 
fifteene. 

It  is  very  well,  said  Don  Quixote,  and  according  to  the 
wages  that  you  have  allotted  unto  your  selfe,  it  is  now 
twenty  five  daies  since  our  last  sallie,  reckon,  Sancho,  so 
much  for  so  much,  and  see  how  much  is  due  to  you,  and  pay 
your  selfe,  as  I  have  bidden  you. 

Body  of  mee  (said  Sancho)  you  are  cleane  out  of  the 
reckoning ;  for  touching  the  promise  of  governing  the  Hand, 
you  must  reckon  from  the  time  you  promised,  til  this  pre- 
sent. Why,  how  long  is  it  (quoth  hee)  since  I  promised  it  ? 
If  I  be  not  forgetfull  (said  Sancho)  it  is  now  some  twenty 
yeeres,  wanting  two  or  three  dayes.  Don  Quixote  gave 
himselfe  a  good  clappe  on  the  forehead,  and  began  to  laugh 
heartily,  saying,  Why,  my  being  about  Sierra  Morena,  and 
our  whole  travels  were  in  lesse  then  two  Moneths,  and  dost 
thou  say  it  was  twenty  yeeres  since  I  promised  thee  the  Hand  ? 
I  am  now  of  opinion,  that  thou  wouldst  have  all  the  mony 
thou  hast  of  mine,  consumed  in  paying  thee  wages :  which 
if  it  be  so,  and  that  thou  art  so  minded,  from  hence- forward 
take  it,  much  good  may  it  doe  thee;  for  so  I  may  not  be 
troubled  with  such  a  Squire,  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  poore,  and 
without  a  farthing.  But  tell  mee,  thou  Prevaricator  of  the 
Squirely  lawes  of  Knight -Errantry,  where  hast  thou  ever 
scene  or  read  of  any  Squire  belonging  to  Knight  Errant, 
that  hath  capitulated  with  his  Master,  to  give  him  thus 
much  or  so  much  ?  Lanch,  lanch,  thou  base  lewd  fellow, 

215 


CHAPTER 
XXVIII 

Of  things  that 
Benengeli 
relates,  which 
he  that  reades 
shall  know,  if 
he  read  them 
with  atten- 
tion. 


*A  Tricke  to 
give  a  tucke 
with  the 
thumbe  upon 
ones  lip,  as 
fresh  men 
are  used  in  a 
Vniversity. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

thou  Hobgoblin  ;  Lanch,  I  say,  into  the  Mare  magnum 
of  their  Histories ;  and  if  thou  finde  that  any  Squire  have 
sayd,  or  so  much  as  imagined,  what  thou  hast  sayd,  I  will 
give  thee  leave  to  brand  my  fore-head,  and  to  boot,  to  scale 
me  with  *foure  tuckes  in  the  mouth :  Turne  thy  reines,  or 
thine  Asses  halter,  and  get  thee  to  thy  house,  for  thou  shalt 
not  goe  a  step  further  with  me.  Oh  ill-given  bread,  and 
ill-placed  promises !  Oh  man  more  beast  then  man !  now 
when  I  thought  to  have  put  thee  into  a  fortune,  and  such 
a  one,  that  in  spite  of  thy  wife,  thou  shouldest  have  beene 
stiled,  'My  Lord ' :  Thou  leavest  me  ?  Now  doest  thou  goe, 
when  I  had  a  purpose  to  have  made  thee  Lord  of  the  best 
Hand  in  the  world  ?  Well,  well,  as  thou  thy  selfe  hast  sayd 
many  times ;  The  hony  is  not  for  the  Asses  mouth  :  An  Asse 
thou  art,  an  Asse  thou  wilt  be,  and  an  Asse  thou  shalt  die, 
and  till  then  wilt  thou  remaine  so,  before  thou  fallest  into 
the  reckoning  that  thou  art  a  beast. 

Sancho  beheld  Don  Quixote  earnestly,  all  the  while  hee 
thus  rated  him,  and  was  so  mooved,  that  the  teares  stood  in 
his  eyes,  and  with  a  dolorous  low  voyce  hee  sayd;  Master 
mine,  I  confesse  that,  to  be  altogether  an  Asse,  I  want  no- 
thing but  a  taile :  if  you  will  put  one  on  me,  I  will  be  con- 
tented, and  will  serve  you  like  an  Asse  all  dayes  of  my  life. 
Pardon  me,  Sir,  and  pitty  my  youth,  and  consider  my  folly ; 
for  if  I  speake  much,  it  proceedes  rather  out  of  simplicity 
then  knavery.  '  Who  erres  and  mends,  to  God  himselfe 
commends.'' 

I  would  be  sorry,  little  Sancho,  (quoth  Don  Quixote) 
but  that  thou  shouldst  mingle  some  by -pretty  Proverb 
in  thy  Dialogue.  Well,  He  pardon  thee  for  this  once, 
upon  condition  heereafter  thou  mend,  and  shew  not  thy 
selfe  so  covetous,  but  that  thou  rouze  up  thy  spirits,  and 
encourage  thy  selfe  with  hope  of  the  accomplishment  of 
my  promise;  For  better  late  then  not  at  all.  Sancho 
answered  him,  he  would ;  though  it  were  to  make  a  vertue 
of  necessity. 

Heereupon  they  put  into  the  Elme- grove,  and  Don 
Quixote  got  to  the  foot  of  an  Elme,  and  Sancho  to  the 

216 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

foot  of  a  Beech ;  for  these  kind  of  trees  and  such  like,  have    CHAPTER 
alwaies  feet,  but  no  hands.      Sancho  had  an  ill  night  on       XXVIII 
it;  for  his  Bat-blow  made  him  more  sensible  in  the  cold.  Of  things  that 
Don   Quixote  fell  into  his  usuall  imaginations:    yet  they  Bencugeli 
both  slept,  and  by  day-peepe  they  were  on  their  way, 
searching  after  the  famous  bankes  of  Heber,  where 
they  happened  upon  what  shall  be  told  in 
the  ensuing  Chapter. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

Of  the  famous  Adventure  of  the  Enchanted 
Barke. 

)N  QUIXOTE  and  Sancho,  by  their  com- 
putation, two  dayes  after  they  were  out 
of  thi1  Klme-grove,  came  to  the  River 
Heber,  whose  si«jht  was  very  delightsome 
ft  te*V/8?Jl||  to  Don  Quixote;  for  first  he  contem- 
*  Kfl?A2p^ I  plated  on  the  amenity  of  those  bankes, 
5fifc£<^Sll  (he  eleernesse  of  the  water,  the  gentle 
current,  and  the  abundancy  of  the  liquid 
Cristall,  whose  pleasing  sight  brought  a  thousand  amorous 
thoughts  into  his  head,  especially  hoe  fell  to  thinke  what  he 
had  scene  in  Montesino's  Cave:  for  though  Master  Peters 
Ape  had  told  him,  that  part  of  it  was  true,  and  part  false, 
he  leaned  more  to  the  truth  then  to  the  other,  contrary  to 
Sancho,  who  held  all,  as  false  as  Falshood  it  selfe. 

As  they  were  thus  going  on,  Don  Quixote  might  see  a 
little  Boat,  without  oares  or  any  other  kinde  of  tackling, 
which  was  tied  by  the  brinke  of  the  River,  to  a  trees  stump 
on  the  banke.  Don  Quixote  looked  round-about  him,  but 
could  see  no  body  ;  so,  without  more  adoe,  hee  alighted  from 
Rozinante,  and  commanded  Sancho  to  doe  the  like  from 
Dapple,  and  that  he  should  tye  both  the  Beasts  very  well, 
3:EE  217 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    to  the  root  of  an  Elme  or  Willow  there.     Sancho  demanded 

XXIX       Of  him  the   cause  of  that  sudden  lighting,  and   of  that 

Of  the  famous  tying.      Don  Quixote  made  answer;   Know,  Sancho,  that 

Adventure       this  Boat  thou  seest  directly  (for  it  can  bee  nothing  else) 


Enchanted       ca^s  an(*  inv^es  me  to  goe  and  enter  into  it,  to  give  ayde  to 
Barke.  some  Knight,  or  other  Personage  of  ranke  and  note,  that  is 

in  distresse  :  for  this  is  the  stile  of  bookes  of  Knight-hood, 
and  of  Enchanters  that  are  there  intermingled,  that  when 
any  Knight  is  in  some  danger,  that  he  cannot  bee  freed  from 
it,  but  by  the  hand  of  some  other  Knight,  although  the  one 
bee  distant  from  the  other,  two  or  three  thousand  leagues 
or  more,  they  either  snatch  him  into  a  cloud,  or  provide  him 
a  Boat  to  enter  in,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  either 
carry  him  thorow  the  aire,  or  thorow  the  sea,  as  they  list,  and 
where  his  assistance  is  needfull  ;  so  that,  Sancho,  this  Boat 
is  put  heere  to  the  same  effect,  and  this  is  as  cleare  as  day, 
and  before  wee  goe,  tye  Dapple  and  Rozinante  together,  and 
let  's  on  in  Gods  Name  :  for  I  will  not  faile  to  imbarke  my 
selfe,  though  Bare-foot  Friers  should  intreat  me. 

Well,  seeing  tis  so  (sayd  Sancho)  and  that  you  will  every 
foot  run  into  these  (I  know  not  what  I  shall  call  them)  fop- 
peries, there  's  no  way  but  to  obey,  and  lay  downe  the  necke, 
according  to  the  Proverbe  ;  Doe  as  thy  Master  commands 
thee,  and  sit  downe  at  Table  with  him  :  But  for  all  that, 
for  discharge  of  my  conscience,  let  me  tell  you,  that  (me 
thinkes)  that  is  no  Enchanted  Boat,  but  one  that  belongs  to 
some  Fisher-men  of  the  River  ;  for  heere  the  best  Saboga's 
in  the  world  are  taken. 

This  he  spoke  whilst  he  was  tying  his  Beasts,  leaving  them 
to  the  protection  and  defence  of  Enchanters,  which  greeved 
him  to  the  soule.  Don  Quixote  bad  him  he  should  not  bee 
troubled  for  the  leaving  those  beasts  ;  for  hee  that  should 
carry  them  thorow  such  longinque  wayes  and  regions,  would 
also  looke  to  the  other.  I  understand  not  your  Lognicke 
(quoth  Sancho)  neither  have  I  heard  such  a  word  in  all  the 
dayes  of  my  life.  Longinque  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  that  is, 
farre,  remote  :  and  no  marvell  thou  understandest  not  that 
word,  for  thou  art  not  bound  to  the  understanding  of  Latin, 
218 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

though  yee  have  some  that  presume  to  know  when  they  are    CHAPTER 

ignorant.     Now  they  are  bound  (sayd  Sancho)  what  shall 

we  doe  next  ?  ( >f  the  famous 

What  ?  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  blesse  our  selves  and  weigh 
anchor,  I  meane,  let  us  imbarke  our  selves,  and  cut  the  rone 
by  which  this  boat  is  tyed  :  so  leaping  into  it,  and  Sancho  narki«. 
following  him,  he  cut  the  cord,  and  the  Boat  faire  and  softly 
fell  off' from  the  Banke;  and  when  Sancho  saw  himselfe  about 
a  two  rods  length  within  the  Hiver,  hee  began  to  tremble, 
fearing  his  perdition  :  but  nothing  so  much  troubled  him,  as 
to  heare  Dapple  bray,  and  to  see  that  Rozinante  struggled  to 
unloose  himselfe:  and  hee  told  his  Master;  Dapple  brayes 
and  condoles  for  our  absence,  Rozinante  strives  to  bee  at 
liberty,  to  throw  himselfe  after  us.  Oh  most  deare  friends, 
remaineyou  there  in  safety,  and  may  the  madnesse  that  sev. 
us  from  you,  converted  into  repentance,  bring  us  back  to 
your  Presence :  and  with  that  he  began  to  weep  so  bitterly, 
that  Don  (Quixote,  all  moody  and  cholericke,  Ibegan  to  cry 
out ;  What  makes  thee  feare,  thou  cowardly  Impe  ?  what 
emit  thou  for,  tlum  heart  of  curds?  who  persecutes  I  her? 
who  baites  thee,  thou  soule  of  a  Milk-sop  r  or  what  wantrst 
thou  in  the  middest  of  all  abundance?  art  thou  happily 
to  goe  hare-foot  over  the  Riph.-i-an  mountaines  ?  Rather 
upon  a  seat  like  an  Arch-Duke,  thorow  the  calme  current 
of  this  delightful!  River  :  from  whence  we  shall  very  quickly 
pa-M-  into  the  maine  sea:  but  hitherto  wee  have  gone  and 
sayled  some  seven  or  eight  hundred  leagues,  and  if  I  had  an 
Astrolabe  heere,  to  take  the  height  of  the  Pole,  I  could  tell 
thee  how  farre  wee  have  gone,  though,  either  my  knowledge 
is  small,  or  wee  have  now,  or  shall  quickly  passe  the  yEqui- 
noctiall  Line,  which  divides  and  cuts  the  two  con  trapesed 
Poles  in  equall  distance. 

And  when  you  come  to  this  Line  you  speake  of,  how  farre 
shall  we  have  gone  ?  A  great  way  (answered  Don  Quixote  :) 
For  of  three  hundred  and  sixty  degrees,  which  the  whole 
Globe  containeth  of  Land  and  water,  according  to  Ptolomies 
Computation,  who  was  the  greatest  Cosmographer  knowne, 
we  shall  have  gone  the  halfe,  when  we  come  to  the  Line  I 

219 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    have  told  you  of.     Verily  (quoth  Sancho)  you  have  brought 

XXIX        me  a  pretty  witnesse,  to  confirme  your  saying,  *To  ly  my 

Of  the  famous  and    Comtation,   and    I    know   not   what.      Don    Quixote 

Adventure       laught  at  Sancho's  interpretation  he  had  given  to  the  name, 

Enchanted       anc^  ^°  ^ne  Computation  and  account  of  the  Cosmographer 

Barke.  Ptolomeus,  and  sayd  to  him ;  You  shall  understand,  Sancho, 

that  when  the  Spanyards,  and  those  that  imbarke  them- 

*Mistakes  of    selves  at  Cadiz,  to  goe  to  the  East  Indies,  one  of  the  greatest 

^Ptolomeo  and    s^gnes  they  nave>  to  know  whether  they  have  passed  the 

Computo:  for  ^Equinoctiall,  is,  that  all  men  that  are  in  the  ship,  their 

so  it  is  in  the  Lice  dye  upon  them,  and  not  one  remains  with  them,  nor 

Spanish.          in  the  Vessell,  though   they  would   give   their   waight  in 

gold  for  him :  so  that,  Sancho,  thou  mayst  put  thy  hand  to 

thy  thigh,  and  if  thou  meet  with  any  live  thing,  we  shall  be 

out  of  doubt ;  if  thou  findest  nothing,  then  we  have  passed 

the  Line. 

I  cannot  beleeve  any  of  this,  quoth  Sancho  :  but  yet  I  will 
doe  what  you  will  have  mee,  though  I  know  no  necessity  for 
these  trials ;  since  I  see  with  these  eyes,  that  we  have  not 
gone  five  rods  lengths  from  the  Banke  ;  for  there  Rozinante 
and  Dapple  are,  in  the  same  places  where  we  left  them,  and 
looking  well  upon  the  matter,  as  I  now  doe,  I  sweare  by  Me, 
that  wee  neither  moove  nor  goe  faster  then  an  Ant. 

Make  the  triall  that  I  bade  you,  and  care  for  no  other ; 
for  thou  knowest  not,  what  Columnes  are,  what  Lines,  Para- 
lels,  Zodiacks,  Clipticks,  Poles,  Solstices,  ^Equinoctials, 
Planets,  Signes,  Poynts,  and  Measures,  of  which  the  Celes- 
tiall  and  Terrestriall  Spheres  are  composed  :  for  if  thou 
knewest  all  these,  or  any  part  of  them,  thou  mightst  plainely 
see  what  Paralels  wee  have  cut,  what  Signes  we  have  seene, 
and  what  Images  we  have  left  behinde,  and  are  leaving  now. 
And  let  me  wish  thee  againe,  that  thou  search  and  feele  thy 
selfe :  for  I  doe  not  thinke,  but  that  thou  art  as  cleane  as  a 
sheet  of  white  smooth  paper. 

Sancho  began  to  feele,  and  comming  softly  and  warily 

with  his  hand  to  the  left  side  of  his  necke,  hee  lifted  up 

his  head,  and  sayd  to  his  Master;  Either  your  experience 

is  false,  or  else  we  are  not  come  neere  the  place  you  speake 

220 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

of,  by  many  leagues.     Why  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  hast  thou    CHAPTER 
met  with  some  thing?     I,  witn  some  things,  (sayd  hee)  and        XXIX 
shaking  his  fingers,  hee  washed  his  whole  hand  in  the  river;  Of  the  famous 
by  which,  and  in'  the   Current,  the  boat  softly  slid  along,  Adventure 

without  being  mooved  by  any  secret  influence,  or  hidden  V,  [ 

n  J        J          •,       ^f       f  ii  .bnchanted 

Enchantment,  but  toe  very  course  it  selre  01  the  water,  as  Barke. 

yet  soft  iiiul  < 

By  this  they  discovered  two  great  water-mils  in  the  midst 
of  the  Uiver :  and  Don  Quixote,  as  soone  as  hee  saw  them, 
eried  aloud  to  Sancho  ;  Seest  thou,  Friend,  that  City,  Castle, 
or  Fortresse  that  shewes  it  selfe,  where  some  Knight  is  sure 
oppressed,  or  some  Queene  or  Princesse  in  ill  plight,  for 
whose  succour  I  am  brought  hither? 

What  the  Devill  of  City,  Castle,  or  Fortresse,  Sir,  doe 
you  talke  of  (<jiu>th  Sancho)?  doe  you  not  see  that  those 
are  w.-iter-mils  in  the  River  to  grinde  corne  ?  Peace,  Sancho 
.  d  hee)  for  though  they  looke  like  Water-mills,  yet  they 
are  not,  and  I  have  told  thee  already,  that  these  Enchant- 
ments chop  and  change  things  out  of  their  naturall  being  : 
I  say  not  that  they  change  them  out  of  one  being  into 
another  really,  but  in  appearance, as  was  secne  by  experience 
in  the  transformation  of  Dulcinea,  the  onely  refuge  of  my 
hopes. 

Now  the  Boat  being  gotten  into  the  middest  of  the 
Current,  began  to  moove  somewhat  faster  then  before. 
They  of  the  Mills,  that  saw  the  Boat  come  downe  the 
river,  and  that  it  was  now  even  gotten  into  the  swift 
streame  of  the  wheeles,  many  of  them  came  running  out 
with  long  poles  to  stay  it :  and  as  their  faces  and  clothes 
were  all  covered  with  meale-dust,  they  made  a  strange  shew, 
and  cryed  out,  saying ;  Devils  of  men,  whither  goe  you  ? 
Are  you  mad  to  drowne  your  selves,  or  bee  beaten  to 
pieces  against  these  wheeles  ? 

Did  not  I  tell  thee,  Sancho  (sayd  Don  Quixote)  then, 
that  we  should  come  where  I  should  shew  the  force  of 
mine  Arme  ?  look  what  wicked  uncouth  fellowes  come  to 
encounter  mee ;  looke  what  a  troope  of  Hobgoblins  oppose 
themselves  against  mee  ;  looke  what  ugly  visages  play  the 

221 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  Bull-beggers  with  us  :  Now  you  shall  see,  you  Rascals  ;  and 
X^IX  standing  up  in  the  Boat,  he  began  aloud  to  threaten  the 
Of  the  famous  Millers,  saying;  You  base  Scumme  and  ill-advised,  free  and 
AfdthUtUre  Deliver  that  person,  which  is  in  your  Fortresse  or  Prison 
Enchanted  °PPrest,  bee  hee  high  or  low,  or  of  what  sort  or  quality 
Barke.  soever;  for  I  am  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  otherwise 

called,  The  Knight  of  the  Lyons,  for  whom  the  happy 
ending  of  this  Adventure  is  reserved  by  order  of  the  high 
Heavens :  and  this  sayd,  hee  layd  hand  to  his  sword,  and 
beganne  to  fence  in  the  aire  against  the  Millers,  who  hear- 
ing, but  not  understanding  those  madnesses,  stood  with 
their  poles  to  stay  the  Boat,  which  was  now  entring  the 
source  and  channell  of  the  wheeles.  Sancho  kneeled  de- 
voutly upon  his  knees,  praying  Heaven  to  free  him  from 
so  manifest  a  danger,  which  succeeded  happily,  by  the  quick- 
nesse  and  skill  of  the  Millers,  who  opposing  their  staves  to 
the  Boat,  stayd  it:  but  so,  that  they  overturned  it,  and 
Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  topted  into  the  River:  but  it 
was  well  for  Don  Quixote,  who  could  swimme  like  a  Goose, 
though  the  waight  of  his  Armes  carried  him  twice  to  the 
bottome,  and  had  it  not  beene  for  the  Millers,  who  leaped 
into  the  water,  and  pulled  them  out  both,  as  if  they  had 
waighed  them  up,  there  they  had  both  perished. 

When  they  were  both  on  land,  more  wet  then  thirsty, 
Sancho,  upon  his  knees,  with  joyned  hands,  and  his  eyes 
nailed  to  Heaven,  prayed  to  God  with  a  large  and  devout 
prayer,  to  free  him  from  thence-forward,  from  the  rash 
desires  and  enterprizes  of  his  Master.  And  now  the  Fisher- 
men came,  the  Owners  of  the  Boat,  which  was  broken  to 
pieces  by  the  wheeles,  who  seeing  it  spoyled,  began  to  dis- 
robe Sancho,  and  to  demand  payment  of  Don  Quixote,  who 
very  patiently,  as  if  he  had  done  nothing,  sayd  to  the 
Millers  and  Fisher-men,  that  hee  would  very  willingly  pay 
for  the  Boat,  upon  condition  they  should  freely  deliver  him, 
without  fraud  or  guile,  the  person  or  persons  that  were 
oppressed  in  their  Castle. 

What  person,  or  what  Castle  mad-man  ?  (sayd  one  of  the 
Millers)  will  you,  trow,  carry  away  those  that  came  hither 
222 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

to  grinde  their  come  ?     Enough,  thought  Don  Quixote  to    CHAPTER 

himselfe,  here  a  man  may  preach  in  a  wildernes,  to  reduce 

a  base  people  to  a  good  worke.     In  this  Adventure  two  Of  the  famous 

deep  Enchanters  have  met,  and  the  one  disturbes  the  other :  Adventure 

the  one  provided  me  the  Barke,  and  the  other  overthrew  Jj^hl 

me  out  of  it;  God  helpe  us,  all  this  world  is  tricks  and  iiarke. 

devices,  one  contrary  to  the  other ;  I  can  doe  no  more :  and 

raising  his  voyce,  he  went  on,  saying;  Friends,  whosoever 

you  are,  locked  up  in  this  prison,  pardon  mee ;  for,  by  my 

ill  fortune  and  yours,  I  cannot  deliver  you  from  your  pain  : 

this  Adventure  is  kept  and  reserved  for  some  other  Knight. 

When  he  had  said  this,  he  agreed  with  the  fishers,  and  paid 

25  shillings  for  the  boat,  which  Sancho  gave  with  a  very 

good  will,  saying,  With  two  of  these  boat-trickes  we  shall 

sinke  our  whole  stocke. 

The    Fishermen    and    the   Millers   were   in   a   great   ad- 
miration, to  see  two  such  strange  shapes,  quite  from  the 
ordinary  fashion   of  other   men,  and   never  understood   to 
what   purpose    Don    Quixote   used    all  those  discourses  to 
them  ;    so    holding    them    for   maddemen,  they  left  them, 
and  got  to  their  Milles,  and  the  Fishers  to  their  quar- 
ters.    Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  like  beastes  turne 
to  their  beasts :  and  this  end  had  the  Adven- 
ture of  the  Enchanted  Barke. 


223 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER    XXX 

What  happened  to  Don  Quixote  with  the 
faire  Huntresse. 


ERY  melancholy  and  ill  at  ease  went 
the  Knight  and  Squire  to  horse-backe, 
especially  Sancho,  for  it  grieved  him  at 
the  soule  to  meddle  with  the  stocke  of 
their  money ;  for  it  seemed  to  him,  that 
to  part  with  any  thing  from  thence,  was 
to  part  with  his  eye-balls.  To  be  briefe, 
without  speaking  a  word,  to  horse  they 
went,  and  left  the  famous  river.  Don  Quixote,  buried  in  his 
amorous  cogitations,  and  Sancho  in  those  of  his  prefer- 
ment ;  for  as  yet  hee  thought  he  was  farre  enough  off  from 
obtaining  it:  for  although  he  were  a  foole,  yet  hee  well 
perceived,  that  all  his  Masters  actions,  or  the  greatest  part 
of  them  were  idle ;  so  hee  sought  after  some  occasion,  that 
without  entring  into  farther  reckonings,  or  leave-taking 
with  his  Master,  hee  might  one  day  get  out  of  his  clutches, 
and  goe  home,  but  fortune  ordered  matters  contrary  to 
his  feare.  It  fell  out  then,  that  the  next  day  about  Sun- 
setting,  and  as  they  were  going  out  of  a  wood,  Don  Quixote 
spreads  his  eyes  about  a  green  meadow,  and  at  one  end 
of  it  saw  company,  and  comming  neere,  he  saw  they  were 
Falconers ;  he  came  neerer,  and  amongst  them  beheld  a 
gallant  Lady  upon  her  Palfrey,  or  milke-white  Nagge,  with 
greene  furniture,  and  her  Saddle-pummell  of  silver.  The 
Lady  her  selfe  was  all  clad  in  greene,  so  brave  and  rich, 
that  bravery  it  selfe  was  transformed  into  her.  On  her  left 
hand  shee  carried  a  Soare-Falcon,  a  signe  that  made  Don 
Quixote  think  she  was  some  great  Lady,  and  Mistresse  to  all 
the  rest,  as  true  it  was  :  so  hee  cried  out  to  Sancho ;  Runne, 


on 
™1 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

sonne  Sancho,  and  tell  that  Lady  on  the  Palfrey  with  the    CHAPTER 

Soare-hawke,  that  I,  The  Knight  of  the  Lyons,  doe  kisse         XXX 

her  most  beautifull  hands  ;  and  if  her  magnificence  give  nu'  What  hap- 

leave,  I  will   receive  her  commands,  and  be  her  servant  to  pened  to  D 

the  uttermost  of  my  power,  that  her  highnesse  may  please 

to  command   mee   in  ;  and   take  heede,  Sancho,  how  thou  Huntresse. 

speakest,  and   have  a  care  thou  mixe  not  thy  Ambassage 

with  some  of  those  Proverbs  of  thine.     Tell  me  of  that  ?  as 

if  it  were  now  the  first  time  that  I  have  carried  Embassies 

to   high  and   mighty  Ladies  in   my  life?     Except  it  were 

that  thou  carriedst  to  Dulcinea   (quoth    Don    Quixote)   I 

know  not  of  any  other  thou  hast  carried,  at  least  whilest 

thou   wert  with    nice.     That's   true,  said    Sancho;    but  a 

good  pay-master  needs  no  surety  :  and  where  there  is  plenty, 

the  ghests  are  not  emptv,  I  meane,  there  is  no  telling  nor 

advising   niee  ought;  tor  of  all  things  I  know  a  little.     I 

beli-eve  it  (said  Don  Quixote)  get  thee  gone  in  good  time, 

and  God  speed  tli 

Sancho  went  on,  putting  Dapple  out  of  his  pace  with  a 
Careere,  and  comming  where  the  faire  Huntresse  was,  alight- 
ing, he  kneeled   downe,  and  said  ;  Faire  Lady,  that  Knight 
you  see  there,  railed  The  Knight  of  the  Lyons,  is  my  Master, 
and   I  am   a  Squire  of  his,  whom  at  his  house  they  call 
Sancho  Pansa  ;  this  said  Knight  of  the  Lyons,  who  not  long 
since  was  called,  The  Knight  of  the  sorrowfull  Countenance, 
sends  me  to  tell  your  Greatnesse,  That  you  be  pleased  to 
give  him  leave,  that  with  your  liking,  good  will,  and  con- 
sent, he  put  in  practice  his  desire,  which  is  no  other  (as  he 
sayes,  and  I  beleeve)  then  to  serve  your  *  lofty  high-flying  *For  so  it  is 
beauty  ;  and  if  your  Ladiship  give  him  leave,  you  shall  doe  i  l  the  Spanish 
a  thing  that  may  redound  to  your   good,  and  hee  shall  g-^^g  Uj6re 
receive  a  most  remarkeable  favour  and  content.  speake 

Truely,  honest  Squire,  said  the  Lady,  thou  hast  delivered  absurdly 
thy  Ambassage  with  all   the  circumstances  that   such   an  enough,  for 
AmhassKige  requires  :   rise,  rise,  for  the  Squire  of  so  renowned  ^/^  the 
a  Knight  as  he  of  the  sorrowfull  countenance  (of  whom  wee  Author  makes 
have  heere  speciall  notice)  tis  not  fit  should  kneele  :  rise  up  him  say 
friend,  and  tell  your  Master  that  he  come  neere  on  Gods  Altaneria. 

15  :  FF 


CHAPTER 
XXX 

What  hap- 
pened to  Don 
Quixote  with 
the  faire 
Huntresse. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

name,  that  the  Duke  my  Husband  and  I  may  doe  him  service 
at  a  house  of  pleasure  we  have  heere. 

Sancho  rose  up  astonisht,  as  well  at  the  good  Ladies 
beauty,  as  her  court-ship  and  courtesie,  especially  for  that 
shee  told  him  she  had  notice  of  his  Master,  The  Knight  of 
the  sorrowfull  Countenance  ;  for  in  that  she  called  him  not 
Knight  of  the  Lyons,  it  was  because  it  was  so  lately  put 
upon  him.  The  Duchesse  asked  him  (for  as  yet  we  know  not 
of  what  place  shee  was  Duchesse)  tell  me,  Sir  Squire,  is  not 
this  your  Master,  one,  of  whom  there  is  a  History  printed, 
and  goes  by  the  name  of,  The  ingenious  Gentleman,  Don 
Quixote  de  la  MancJia,  the  Lady  of  whose  life  is  likewise,  one 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso  ?  The  very  self-same  (said  Sancho) 
and  that  Squire  of  his,  that  is,  or  should  be  in  the  History, 
called  Sancho  Pansa,  am  I,  except  I  were  changed  in  my 
cradle,  I  mean  that  I  were  changed  in  the  Presse.  I  am  glad 
of  all  this  (quoth  the  Duchesse  :)  goe,  brother  Pansa,  and 
tell  your  Master  that  he  is  welcome  to  our  Dukedome,  and 
that  no  newes  could  have  given  me  greater  content.  Sancho 
with  this  so  acceptable  an  answer,  with  great  pleasure  re- 
turned to  his  Master,  to  whom  he  recounted  all  that  the 
great  Lady  had  said  to  him,  extolling  to  the  heavens  her 
singular  beauty,  with  his  rusticall  tearmes,  her  affablenesse 
and  courtesie.  Don  Quixote  pranked  it  in  his  saddle,  sate 
stiffe  in  his  stirrops,  fitted  his  Visor,  rowsed  up  Rozinante,  and 
with  a  comely  boldnesse  went  to  kisse  the  Duchesses  hands, 
who  causing  the  Duke  her  husband  to  be  called,  told  him, 
whilest  Don  Quixote  was  comming,  his  whole  Embassie  :  so 
both  of  them  having  read  his  first  part,  and  understood  by 
it  his  besotted  humour,  attended  him  with  much  pleasure 
and  desire  to  know  him,  with  a  purpose  to  follow  his  humour, 
and  to  give  way  to  al  he  should  say,  and  to  treat  with  him 
as  a  Knight  Errant,  as  long  as  he  should  be  with  them,  with 
all  the  accustomed  ceremonies  in  bookes  of  Knight  Errantry, 
which  they  had  read,  and  were  much  affected  with. 

By  this,  Don  Quixote  came  with  his  Visor  pulled  up,  and 
making  shew  to  alight,  Sancho  came  to  have  held  his  stirrop  : 
but  he  was  so  unlucky,  that  as  hee  was  lighting  from  Dapple, 

226 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

one  of  his  feet  caught  upon  a  halter  of  the  packe-saddle,  so    CHAPTER 
that  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  clis-intangle  himself,  but         XXX 
hung  by  it,  with  his  mouth  and  his  brestto  the  ground-ward.  What  hnp- 
Don  Quixote,  who  used  not  to  alight  without  his  stirrops  l"Mlt'(1  t(l  1)on 
being  held,  thinking  Sancho  was  already  come  to  hold  it,  jjjf^**1* 
lighted  sodainely  downe,   but   brought  saddle   and  all  to  Himtresse. 
ground,  (belike  being  ill-<;irt)  to  his  much  shame,  and  curses 
inwardly  layd  upon  the  unhappy  Sancho,  that  had  still  his 
legge  in  the  stockes.     The  Duke  commanded   some  of  his 
Falconers  to  helpe  the  Knight  and  Squire,  who  raised  Don 
Quixote  in  ill  plight  with  his  fall,  and  limping,  as  well  us  he 
could,  he  went  to  kneele  before  the  two  Lordings  :   but  the 
Duke  would  not  by  any  meanes  consent,  rather  alighting 
from  his  horse,  he  embraced  Don  Quixote,  saying  : 

I  am  very  sorry,  Sir  Knight  of  the  sorrowfull  Countenance, 
that  your  first  fortune  hath  heene  so  ill  in  my  ground  ;  but 
the  carelesnesse  of  Squires  is  oft  the  cause  of  worse  successes. 
It  is  impossible,  valerous  Prince,  that  any  should  be  bad, 
since  I  nave  scene  you,  although  my  fal  had  cast  me  to  the 
profound  Abisme ;  since  the  glory  of  seeing  you  would  have 
drawne  mee  out,  and  raised  mee  up.  My  Squire  (a  curse 
light  on  him)  unties  his  tongue  better  to  speake  maliciously, 
then  hee  girts  his  horses  saddle  to  sit  firmely  :  but  howsoever 
I  am  downe  or  up,  on  foot  or  on  horsebacke,  I  will  alwaies  bee 
at  yours,  and  my  Lady  the  Duchesses  service,  your  worthy 
Consort,  the  worthie  Lady  of  beauty,  and  universal!  Prin- 
cesse  of  courtesie.  Softly,  my  Signior  (Don  Quixote  de  la 
Mancha)  quoth  the  Duke,  for  where  my  Lady  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso  is  present,  there  is  no  reason  other  beauties  should 
be  praised. 

Now  Sancho  Pansa  was  free  from  the  noose,  and  being  at 
hand,  before  his  Master  could  answer  a  word,  he  said,  It 
cannot  be  denied,  but  affirmed,  that  my  Lady  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso  is  very  faire ;  but  where  we  least  thinke,  there  goes 
the  Hare  away  :  for  I  have  heard  say,  that  shee  you  call 
Nature,  is  like  a  Potter  that  makes  vessels  of  Clay,  and  he 
that  makes  a  handsome  vessell,  may  also  make  two  or  three, 
or  an  hundred  :  this  I  say,  that  you  may  know,  my  Lady 

227 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  the  Dutchesse  comes  not  a  whit  behinde  my  Mistresse  the 
Lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso.  Don  Quixote  turned  to  the 
What  hap-  Duchesse,  and  said,  Your  Greatnesse  may  suppose  that  never 
pened  to  Don  anv  Knjgnt  in  the  world  had  ever  such  a  prater  to  his  Squire, 
Sefai^Wlt  nor  a  more  conceited  then  mine,  and  he  will  make  good  what 
Huntresse.  I  say>  if  your  Highnesse  shall  at  any  time  be  pleased  to 
nrake  triall.  To  which  (quoth  the  Duchesse)  that  honest 
Sancho  may  be  conceited,  I  am  very  glad,  a  signe  hee  is  wise  ; 
for  your  pleasant  conceits,  Signior,  as  you  very  wel  know, 
rest  not  in  dull  braines,  and  since  Sancho  is  witty  and  con- 
ceited, from  hence-forward  I  confirme  him  to  be  discreet : 
And  a  Prater,  added  Don  Quixote.  So  much  the  better  (said 
the  Duke)  for  many  conceits  cannot  be  expressed  in  few 
words  :  and  that  we  may  not  spend  the  time  in  many,  come, 
Sir  Knight  of  the  sorrowfull  Countenance :  of  the  Lyons, 
your  Highnesse  must  say  (quoth  Sancho  :)  for  now  we  have 
no  more  sorrowfull  countenance.  And  now  let  the  Lyons 
beare  countenance.  The  Duke  proceeded :  I  say  let  the 
Knight  of  the  Lyons  come  to  my  Castle,  which  is  neere 
heere,  where  he  shall  have  the  entertainment  that  is  justly 
due  to  so  high  a  personage,  and  that,  that  the  Duchesse 
and  I  are  wont  to  give  to  Knights  Errant  that  come  to  us. 

By  this  time  Sancho  had  made  ready  and  girded  Rozin- 
antes  saddle  well ;    and  Don  Quixote   mounting  him,  and 
the  Duke   upon  a  goodly  horse,  set  the  Duchesse  in  the 
middle,  and  they  went  toward  the  Castle.     The  Duchesse 
commanded  that  Sancho  should  ride  by  her,  for  she  was  in- 
finitely delighted  to  heare  his  discretions.    Sancho  was  easily 
entreated,  and  weaved  himselfe  betweene  the  three,  and  made 
a  fourth  in  their  conversation.     The  Duke  and  Duchesse 
were  much  pleased,  who  held  it  for  a  great  good  for- 
tune, to  have  lodged  in  their  Castle  such  a  Knight 
Errant  and  such  a  Squire  Erred. 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

CHAPTER    XXXI 

That  treates  of  many  and  great  affaires. 


RE  AT  was  the  joy  that  Sancho  conceived 
to  see  himselfe  a  favourite  to  the  Duchesse, 
as  he  thought ;  for  it  shaped  out  unto  him, 
that  he  should  finde  in  her  Castle,  as  much 
as  in  Don  Diego's,  or  that  of  Basilius :  for 
he  was  alwaies  affected  with  a  plentifull 
life,  and  so  layd  hold  upon  Occasions  locke, 
ever  when  it  was  presented.  The  History 
then  tells  us,  that  before  they  came  to  the  house  of  pleasure 
or  Castle,  the  Duke  went  before,  and  gave  order  to  all  his 
followers  how  they  should  behave  themselves  towards  Don 
Quixote,  who  as  he  came  on  with  the  Duchesse  to  the  Castle 
gates,  there  came  out  two  Lackeyes,  or  Palfrey-boyes,  clothed 
down  to  the  feete  in  coates  like  night-gownes,  of  fine  Crim- 
son Sattin,  and  taking  Don  Quixote  in  their  armes,  without 
hearing  or  looking  on  him,  they  said,  Goe,  and  let  your 
Greatnesse  help  my  Lady  to  alight.  Don  Quixote  did  so, 
and  there  was  great  complementing  betwixt  both  about  it : 
but  in  the  end,  the  Duchesses  earnestnesse  prevailed,  and  shee 
would  not  descend  or  alight  from  her  Palfrey,  but  in  the 
Dukes  armes,  saying ;  That  shee  was  too  unworthy  to  bee  so 
unprofitable  a  burden  to  so  high  a  Knight.  At  length  the 
Duke  helped  her,  and  as  they  entred  a  great  Base  Court, 
there  came  two  beautiful  Damozels,  and  cast  upon  Don 
Quixote's  shoulders,  a  faire  mantle  of  finest  Scarlet,  and  in 
an  instant  all  the  leads  of  the  Courts  and  entries  were 
thronged  with  men  and  maide-servants  of  the  Dukes,  who 
cried  aloud ;  Welcome,  oh  Flower  and  Creame  of  Knights 
Errant,  and  all  or  most  of  them  sprinkled  pots  of  sweet 
water  upon  Don  Quixote,  and  upon  the  Duke,  all  which 
made  Don  Quixote  admire,  and  never  till  then  did  he  truly 

229 


CHAPTER 
XXXI 

That  treates 
of  many  and 
great  affaires. 


*Lahiga: 
a  word  of 
disgrace. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

believe  that  he  was  a  Knight  Errant,  really  and  not  fantasti- 
cally, seeing  that  he  was  used  just  as  hee  had  read  Knights 
Errant  were  in  former  times. 

Sancho,  forsaking  Dapple,  shewed  himselfe  to  the  Duchesse, 
and  entered  into  the  Castle,  but  his  conscience  pricking  him, 
that  he  had  left  his  Asse  alone,  he  came  to  a  reverend  old 
waiting  woman,  that  came  out  amongst  others  to  wait  upon 
the  Duchesse,  and  very  softly  spoke  to  her,  Mistresse  Gon- 
salez,  or  what  is  your  name  forsooth  ?  Donna  Rodriguez  de 
Grishalva,  said  the  waiting  woman,  what  would  you  have, 
brother,  with  me  ?  To  which  (quoth  Sancho)  I  pray  will 
you  doe  me  the  favour  as  to  goe  out  at  the  Castle-gate, 
where  you  shall  finde  a  Dapple  Asse  of  mine,  I  pray  will  you 
see  him  put,  or  put  him  your  selfe  in  the  stable  ;  for  the 
poore  wretch  is  fearefull,  and  cannot  by  any  meanes  endure 
to  be  alone.  If  the  Master  (quoth  she)  be  as  wise  as  the  man, 
we  shall  have  a  hot  bargaine  on  it :  get  you  gone  with  a 
Murrin  to  you,  and  him  that  brought  you  hither,  and  looke 
to  your  Asse  your  selfe,  for  the  waiting  women  in  this  house 
are  not  used  to  such  drudgeries.  Why  truly  (quoth  Sancho) 
I  have  heard  my  Master  say,  who  is  the  very  Wizard  of 
Histories,  telling  that  story  of  Lanzarote,  when  he  came 
from  Britaine,  that  Ladies  looked  to  him,  and  waiting 
women  to  his  Courser  :  and  touching  my  Asse  in  particular, 
I  would  not  change  him  for  Lanzarotes  horse.  Brother 
(quoth  she)  if  you  be  a  lester,  keepe  your  witte  till  you  have 
use  of  it,  for  those  that  will  pay  you  ;  for  I  have  nothing  but 
this  *figge  to  give  you.  Well  yet  (said  Sancho)  the  figge 
is  like  to  be  ripe,  for  you  will  not  lose  the  Prima  vista  of 
your  yeeres  by  a  peepe  lesse.  Sonne  of  a  whore,  said  the 
waiting- woman  all  incensed  with  choller,  whether  I  am  olde 
or  no,  God  knowes,  I  shall  give  him  account,  and  not  to  thee, 
thou  rascal!,  that  stinkest  of  Garlicke :  all  this  shee  spoke  so 
loud,  that  the  Duchesse  heard  her,  who  turning,  and  seeing 
the  woman  so  altered,  and  her  eyes  so  bloudy  red,  she  asked 
her  with  whom  she  was  angry  ? 

Here  (said  shee)  with  this  Ideot,  that  hath  earnestly 
entreated  me  to  put  up  his  Asse  in  the  stable,  that  is  at  the 

230 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Castle-gate,  giving  mee  for  an  instance,  that  they  have  done    CHAPTER 
so  I  know  not  where,  that  certaine  Ladies  looked  to  one  Lan-        xxx ' 
zarote,  and  waiting  women  to  his  horse,  and  to  mend  the  That  tn 
matter,  in  mannerly  tearms  cals  me  *old  one.     That  wold  of  many  and 
more  disgrace  me  (quoth  the  Duchesse)  then  all  he  should  g 
say,  and  speaking  to  Sancho,  shee  said,  Looke  you  friend  *Vrieja:  a 
Sancho,  Donna  Rodriguez  is  very  young,  and  that  Stole  she  name  that  a 
weares,  is  more  for  authority,  and  for  the  fashion,  then  for  oJJJJ'Jan  not 
her  yeeres.     A  pox  on  the  rest  of  my  yeeres  I  have  to  live  endure  to 
(quoth  Sancho)  if  I  meant  her  any  ill,  I  onely  desired  the  heare  though 
kindnesse,  for  the  love  I  beare  to  mine  Asse,  and  because  I  shee  were  as 
thought  I  could  not  recommend  him  to  a  more  charitable  ™ej£  * 
person,  then  Mistris  Rodriguez.     Don  Quixote,  that  heard 
all,  sayd  ;    Are  these  discourses,  Sancho,  fit  for  this  place  ? 
Sir  (sayd  Sancho)  let  every  man  expresse  his  wants  where- 
soere  he  be.      Ileere  I  remcinbred  my  Dapple,  and  heere  I 
spoke  of  him,  and  if  I  had  remembred  him  in  the  stable, 
there  I  would  have  spoken. 

To  this  (quoth  the  Duke)  Sancho  is  in  the  right,  and 
there  is  no  reason  to  blame  him.  Dapple  shall  have  pro- 
vander,  as  much  as  he  will,  and  let  Sancho  take  no  care,  he 
shall  be  used  as  well  as  his  owne  person.  With  these  dis- 
courses, pleasing  unto  all  but  Don  Quixote,  they  went  up 
staires,  and  brought  Don  Quixote  into  a  goodly  Hall,  hung 
with  rich  cloth  of  Gold  and  Tissue,  six  Damo/els  un-armed 
him,  and  served  for  Pages,  all  of  them  taught  and  instructed 
by  the  Duke  and  Dutchesse,  what  they  should  doe,  and  how 
they  should  behave  themselves  towards  Don  Quixote,  that 
hee  might  imagine  and  see  they  used  him  like  a  Knight 
Errant. 

Don  Quixote  once  un-armed,  was  in  his  straight  trouses 
and  doublet  of  Chamois,  dry,  high,  and  lanke,  with  his  jawes, 
that  within  and  without  bussed  one  another ;  a  picture,  that 
if  the  Damozels  that  served  him,  had  not  had  a  care  to  hold 
in  their  laughter  (which  was  one  of  the  precise  orders  their 
Lords  had  given  them)  had  burst  with  laughing.  They 
desired  him  to  unclothe  himselfe,  to  shift  a  shirt :  but  he 
would  by  no  meanes  consent,  saying ;  That  honesty  was  as 

231 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 


CHAPTER 
XXXI 


of  many  and 
great  affaires. 


proper  to  a  Knight  Errant,  as  valour.     Notwithstanding,  hee 
^wv±        bad  them  give  a  shirt  to  Sancho  :  and  locking  himselfe  up 
That  treates     with  him  in  a  chamber,  where  was  a  rich  bed,  hee  pluckt  off 
his  clothes,  and  put  on  the  shirt ;  and  as  Sancho  and  he  were 
alone,  he  thus  spoke  to  him  : 

Tell  me  (moderne  Tester  and  old  lolt-head)  is  it  a  fit  thing, 
to  dishonour  and  affront  so  venerable  an  old  waiting- woman, 
and  so  worthy  to  be  respected,  as  she  ?  Was  that  a  fit  time 
to  remember  your  Dapple  ?  Or  thinke  you,  that  these  were 
Lords  to  let  Beasts  fare  ill,  that  so  neatly  use  their  Masters? 
For  Gods  love,  Sancho,  looke  to  thy  selfe,  and  discover  not 
thy  course  thred,  that  they  may  see  thou  are  not  woven  out 
of  a  base  web.  Know,  Sinner  as  thou  art,  that  the  Master 
is  so  much  the  more  esteemed,  by  how  much  his  servants  are 
honest,  and  mannerly ;  and  one  of  the  greatest  advantages 
that  great  men  have  over  inferiours,  is,  that  they  keep 
servants  as  good  as  themselves.  Know^st  thou  not,  poore 
fellow,  as  thou  art,  and  unhappy  that  I  am,  that  if  they  see 
thee  to  bee  a  grosse  Pesant,  they  will  thinke  that  I  am  some 
Mountibanke,  or  shifting  Squire  ?  No,  no,  friend  Sancho, 
shun,  shun  these  inconveniencies ;  for  he  that  stumbles  too 
much  upon  the  Prater  and  Wit-monger,  at  the  first  toe- 
knocke  fals,  and  becomes  a  scornefull  Jester :  bridle  thy 
tongue,  consider  and  ruminate  upon  thy  words,  before  they 
come  from  thee,  and  observe,  that  wee  are  now  come  to  a 
place,  from  whence,  with  Gods  helpe  and  mine  armes  valour, 
we  shall  goe  bettered  three-fold,  nay,  five-fold  in  fame  and 
wealth. 

Sancho  promised  him  very  truely,  to  sow  up  his  mouth, 
or  to  bite  his  tongue,  before  he  would  speake  a  word  that 
should  not  be  well  considered  and  to  purpose,  as  he  had 
commanded  ;  and  that  he  should  not  feare,  that  by  him  they 
should  ever  bee  discovered.  Don  Quixote  dressed  himselfe, 
buckled  his  sword  to  his  belt,  and  clapped  his  skarlet  mantle 
upon  him,  putting  on  a  Hunters  cap  of  greene  sattin,  which 
the  Damozels  had  given  him  :  and  thus  adorned  to  the  great 
chamber  he  went,  where  he  found  the  Damozels  all  in  a  row, 
six  on  one  side,  and  six  on  the  other,  and  all  with  provision 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

for  him  to  wash,  which  they  ministrcd  to  him  with  many    CIIAITKH 
courtesies  and  ceremonies. 

Betwixt  them  straight  they  got  him  full  of  pompe  and  That  treats 
Majesty,  and  carried  him  to  another  roome,  where  was  a  rich  °*  man>' ;m(l 
table,  with  service  for  fomv  persons.  The  Duke-  and  Dutcho 
came  to  the  doore  to  receive  him,  and  with  them  a  grave 
Clergy-man,  *one  of  those  that  governe  great  niens  houses,  *A  trnod 
one  of  those,  that  as  thev  are  not  borne  nobly,  so  they  know  Characterofa 
not  how  to  instruct  those  that  are  :  OIK-  of  those  that  would  1)0(J 
have  great  mens  liberalities,  measured  hy  the  straightnesse  of 
their  mindes  :  of  those,  that  teaching  those  UK -y  governe,  to 
bee  frugall,  would  make  them  miserable  :  such  a  one,  I  say, 
this  grave  Clergy-man  was,  that  came  with  the  Duke  to  re- 
ceive Don  Quixote  ;  there  passed  a  thousand  loving  comple- 
ments, and,  at  last,  taking  Don  Quixote  betweene  them,  they 
sate  downe  to  dinner. 

The  Duke  invited  Don  Quixote  to  the  upper  end  of  the 
table,  which,  though  he  refused  ;  yet  the  Duke  so  impor- 
tuned him,  that  he  was  forced  to  take  it.  Tin-  Clergy-man 
sate  over  against  him,  and  the  Duke  and  Duehesse  on  each 
side.  Sancho  was  by  at  all,  gaping  in  admiration,  to  see  the 
honour  those  Princes  did  to  his  Master,  and  seeing  the  manv 
ceremonies  and  intreaties,  that  passed  betwixt  the  Duke  and 
him,  to  make  him  sit  downe  at  the  tables  end,  he  sayd,  If 
your  Worships  will  give  mee  leave,  He  tell  you  a  tale  that 
happened  in  our  towne,  concerning  places.  Scarce  had 
Sancho  sayd  this,  when  Don  Quixote  began  to  shake,  heleev- 
ing  certainely  he  would  speake  some  idle  speech.  Sancho 
he-holding,  understood  him,  and  sayd,  Feare  not.  Sir,  that  I 
shall  be  unmannerly,  or  that  I  shall  say  any  thing  that  may 
not  bee  to  the  purpose  ;  for  I  have  not  forgotten  your  coun- 
sell,  touching  speaking  much  or  little,  well  or  ill. 

I  remember  nothing,  Sancho  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  speak e 
what  thou  wilt,  so  thou  speake  quickly.  Well,  what  I  shall 
speak  (quoth  Sancho)  is  as  true,  as  my  Master,  Don  Quixote, 
will  not  let  me  lie,  who  is  heere  present.  For  me  (replide 
Don  Quixote)  lie  as  much  as  thou  wilt,  for  He  not  hinder 
thee  :  but  take  heede  what  thou  speakest.  I  have  so  heeded 

3  :  GG  233 


CHAPTER 
XXXI 

That  treates 
of  many  and 
great  affaires. 


After  he  had 
begun  a  tale 
without  head 
or  foot,  hee 
askes  a 
question. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

and  re-heeded  it,  that  you  shall  see  I  warrant  yee.  Twere 
very  fit  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  that  your  Greatnesses  would 
command  this  Coxcombe  to  bee  thrust  out ;  for  he  will  talke 
you  a  thousand  follies. 

Assuredly  (quoth  the  Duchesse)  Sancho  shall  not  stirre  a 
jot  from  me;  for  I  know,  hee  is  very  discreet.  Discreet  yeeres 
live  your  Holinesse  (quoth  Sancho)  for  the  good  opinion  you 
have  of  me,  although  I  deserve  it  not,  and  thus  sayes  my  tale  : 
A  Gentle-man  of  our  towne,  very  rich  and  well  borne  ;  for 
hee  was  of  the  bloud  of  the  Alami  of  Medina  del  Campo,  and 
married  with  Donna  Mencia  de  Quinnones,  that  was  daughter 
to  Don  Alonso  de  Maranon,  Knight  of  the  order  of  Saint 
lacques,  that  was  drowned  in  the  Herradura,  touching  whom 
that  quarrel!  was  not  long  since  in  our  towne ;  for,  as  I 
remember,  my  Master,  Don  Quixote,  was  in  it,  where  little 
Thomas  the  Mad-cap,  sonne  to  Balvastro  the  Smith,  was 
wounded.  Is  not  all  this  true,  Master  mine?  Say  by 
your  life,  that  these  Lords  may  not  hold  me  for  a  prating 
Lier. 

Hitherto  (sayd  the  Clergy-man)  I  rather  hold  thee  for 
a  Prater,  then  a  Lier :  but  from  henceforward,  I  know  not 
for  what  I  shall  hold  thee.  Thou  givest  so  many  wit- 
nesses, and  so  many  tokens,  Sancho,  that  I  cannot  but  say 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  thou  tellest  true  :  on  with  thy  tale, 
and  make  an  end ;  for  I  thinke  thou  wilt  not  have  ended 
these  two  dayes.  Let  him  goe  on  (quoth  the  Duchesse) 
to  doe  me  a  pleasure,  and  let  him  tell  his  tale,  as  he  pleaseth, 
though  hee  make  not  an  end  these  six  dayes ;  for  if  they 
were  so  many  yeeres,  they  would  bee  the  best  that  ever  I 
passed  in  my  life. 

I  say  then,  my  Masters,  that  the  sayd  Gentle-man  I  told 
you  of  at  first,  and  whom  I  know,  as  well  as  I  know  one 
hand  from  another  (for,  from  my  house  to  his,  tis  not  a 
bow-shoot)  invited  a  poore,  but  honest  Husband-man.  On, 
Brother  (sayd  the  Clergy-man)  for,  mee  thinkes,  you  travell 
with  your  tale,  as  if  you  would  not  rest  till  the  next  world. 
In  lesse  then  halfe  this",  I  will,  if  it  please  God  (quoth  Sancho) 
and  so  I  proceed  :  The  sayd  Husband-man  comming  to  the 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

said  Gentle-man  Inviters  house,  (God  be  mercifull  to  him,    CHAPTER 
for  he  is  now  dead)  and  for  a  further  token,  they  say,  died        XXXI 
like  a  Lambe ;  for  I  was  not  by :  for  at  that  time  I  was  That  tn 
gone  to  another  towne  to  reaping.  of  many  nml 

I  prethee  (quoth  the  Clergy-man)  come  backe  from  your  &* 
reaping,  and  without  burying  the  Gentle-man  (except  you 
meane  to  make  more  obsequies)  end  your  tale.  The  busi- 
nesse  then  (quoth  Sancho)  was  this,  that  both  of  them  being 
ready  to  sit  downe  at  table;  for,  me  thinkes,  I  see  them 
now,  more  then  ever.  The  Dukes  received  great  pleasure,  to 
see  the  distaste  that  the  Clergy-man  tooke,  at  the  delay 
and  pawses  of  Sancho's  tale.  And  Don  Quixote  consumed 
himselte  in  eholler  and  rage.  Then  thus  (quoth  Sancho) 
both  of  them  being  ready  to  sit  downe,  the  Husband-man 
contended  with  the  Gcntle-inaii  not  to  sit  uppermost,  and 
lie  with  the  other,  that  he  should,  as  meaning  to  command 
in  his  owne  house :  but  the  Husband-man  presuming  to  be 
mannerly,  and  eourteou-,  m-ver  would,  till  the  Gentleman 
very  moody,  laying  hand*  upon  him,  made  him  sit  downe 
perforce,  saying.  Sit  downe,  you  Thresher;  for  where-soere 
I  sit,  that  shall  be  the  Tables  end  to  thee :  and  now  you 
have  m\  Tale,  and  truely  I  beleeve,  it  was  brought  in  heere 
pretty-well  to  the  purpose. 

Don  Quixote's  face  was  in  a  thousand  colours,  that  las- 
pered  upon  his  browe.  The  Lords  dissembled  their  laughter, 
that  Don  Quixote  might  not  be  too  much  abashed,  when 
they  perceived  Sanctions  knavery  :  and  to  change  discourse, 
that  Sancho  might  not  proceed  with  other  fooleries,  the 
Duchesse  asked  Don  Quixote  what  newes  he  had  of  the 
Lady  Dulcinea,  and  if  hee  had  sent  her  for  a  Present  lately, 
any  Gyants,  or  Bug-beares,  since  lie  could  not  but  have 
overcome  many.  To  which  Don  Quixote  answered,  Lady 
mine;  my  misfortunes,  although  they  had  a  beginning,  yet 
they  will  never  have  ending  :  Gyants,  Elves,  and  Bug-beares 
I  have  over-come  and  sent  her ;  but  where  should  they 
finde  her  that  is  enchanted,  and  turned  into  the  foulest 
creature  that  can  be?  I  know  not  (quoth  Sancho)  me- 
thinkes  she  is  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world,  at  least 

235 


*A  good 
mistake. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    I  know  well,  that  for  her  nimblenesse  and  leaping,  *sheere 
XXXI        give  no  advantage  to  a  Tumbler :  In  good  faith,  my  Lady 
That  treates     Duchesse,  shee  leapes  from  the  ground  upon  an  Asse,  as  if 
of  many  and     gjjg  were  a  Catte.     Have  you  scene  her  enchanted,  Sancho  ? 
res>   said  the  Duke.      How  ?  seene  her  ?  (quoth  Sancho)  Why, 
who  the  Devill  but  I  was  the  first  that  fell  into  the  tricke 
of  her  Enchantment?   shee  is  as  much  Enchanted  as  my 
Asse. 

The  Clergy-man  that  heard  them  talke  of  Gyants,  Elves, 
and  Bug-beares,  and  Enchantments,  fell  into  reckoning, 
that  that  was  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  whose  story  the 
Duke  ordinarily  read,  and  for  which  hee  had  divers  times 
reprehended  him,  telling  him,  twas  a  madnesse  to  read  such 
fopperies,  and  being  assured  of  the  certainty  which  he  sus- 
pected, speaking  to  the  Duke  very  angerly,  hee  said :  Your 
Excellency  ought  to  give  God  Almighty  an  account  for 
this  mans  folly.  This  Don  Quixote,  or  Don  Coxe-combe, 
or  how  doe  you  call  him,  I  suppose  hee  is  not  so  very 
an  Ideot  as  your  Excellency  would  make  him,  giving  him 
ready  occasions  to  proceed  in  his  empty-brain'd  madnesse. 
And  framing  his  discourse  to  Don  Quixote,  he  said  : 

And  who,  good-man  Dull-pate  hath  thrust  into  your 
braine,  that  you  are  a  Knight  Errant,  that  you  overcome 
Gyants,  and  take  Bug-beares  ?  get  you  in  Gods  name,  so  be 
it  spoken,  return  to  your  house,  and  bring  up  your  children 
if  you  have  them,  and  looke  to  your  stocke,  and  leave  your 
ranging  thorow  the  world,  blowing  bubbles,  and  making  all 
that  know  you,  or  not  know  you,  to  laugh.  Where  have 
you  ever  found  with  a  mischiefe,  that  there  have  beene,  or 
are  Knights  Errant  ?  where  any  Gyants  in  Spaine  ?  or  Bug- 
beares  in  Mancha  ?  or  Enchanted  Dulcinea's,  with  the  rest 
of  your  troope  of  simplicities  ? 

Don  Quixote  was  very  attentive  to  this  Venerable  mans 

discourse,  and  seeing  him  now  silent,  without  any  respect 

of  the  Dukes,  with  an  angry  countenance,  he  stood 

up  and  said,  But  his  answer  deserves  a 

Chapter  by  it  selfe. 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

Of  Don  Quixotes  answer  to  his  Reprehender, 
with  other  successes  as  wise  as  witty. 

ON  QUIXOTE  being  thus  upon  his  legges, 
and  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  like-  a 
man  filled  with  quicke-silver,  with  a  hast)' 
and  thieke  voyce,  said,  The  place,  and 
1'ivsence  before  whom  I  am,  and  the 
respect  I  have,  and  alwaies  had  to  men 
of  your  Coat,  do  binde  and  tye  up  the 
hands  of  my  just  wrath;  so  that  as  well 
tor  what  I  have  said,  as  for  I  know,  all  know  that  women, 
and  gowned  inens  weapons  are  the  same,  their  tongues :  I 
will  enter  into  single  combat  with  you  with  mine,  though  I 
rather  expected  good  counsaile  from  you,  then  infamous 
iwilings;  good  and  well-meant  reprehensions  require  and 
aske  other  circumstances,  other  points;  at  least,  your  pub- 
like  and  so  bitter  reprehensions  have  passed  all  limits,  and 
your  gentle  ones  had  beene  better :  neyther  was  it  fit  that 
without  knowledge  of  the  sinne  you  reprehend,  you  call  the 
sinner  without  more  adoe,  Cox-combe  and  Ideot.  Well, 
for  which  of  my  Coxcombrie>  seem-  in  mee,  doe  you  con- 
deinne  and  revile  mee,  and  command  me  home  to  my 
owne  house,  to  looke  to  the  governing  of  it,  my  wife  and 
children,  without  knowing  whether  I  have  any  of  the>e  ' 
Is  there  no  more  to  be  done,  but  in  a  hurry  to  enter  other 
mens  houses,  to  rule  their  owners  ?  nay  one  that  hath  beene 
a  poore  Pedagogue,  or  hath  not  scene  more  world  then 
twenty  miles  about  him,  to  meddle  so  roundly  to  give 
Lawes  to  Chivalry,  and  to  judge  of  Knights  Errant  ?  Is  it 
happily  a  vaine  plotte,  or  time  ill  spent,  to  range  thorow 
the  world,  not  seeking  it's  dainties,  but  the  bitternesse  of  it, 
whereby  good  men  aspire  to  the  seat  of  immortality?  If 

387 


CHAPTER 
XXXII 

Of  Don 

Quixotes 
answer  to  his 
Reprehender, 
with  other 
successes  as 
wise  as  witty. 


*He  blunders 
out  proverbs 
as  usually  to 
no  purpose, 
which  is 
Sancho's  part 
ulwaies. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

your  Knights,  your  Gallants,  or  Gentlemen  should  have 
called  me  Cox-comb,  I  should  have  held  it  for  an  affront 
irreparable :  but  that  your  poore  Schollers  account  mee  a 
madde-man,  that  never  trod  the  paths  of  Knight  Errantry, 
I  care  not  a  chip  ;  a  Knight  I  am,  a  Knight  He  die,  if  it 
please  the  most  Highest.  Some  goe  by  the  spacious  field 
of  proud  ambition,  others  by  the  way  of  servill  and  base 
flattery,  a  third  sort  by  deceitfull  hypocrisie,  and  few  by 
that  of  true  Religion :  but  I  by  my  starres  inclination  goe 
in  the  narrow  path  of  Knight-Errantry ;  for  whose  exercise  I 
despise  wealth,  but  not  honor.  I  have  satisfied  grievances, 
rectified  wrongs,  chastised  insolencies,  overcome  Gyants, 
trampled  over  Sprites  ;  I  am  enamoured,  onely  because  there 
is  a  necessity  Knights  Errant  should  bee  so,  and  though  I 
be  so,  yet  I  am  not  of  those  vicious  Amorists,  but  of  your 
chaste  Platonicks.  My  intentions  alwaies  aime  at  a  good 
end,  as,  to  doe  good  to  all  men,  and  hurt  to  none :  If  he 
that  understands  this,  if  he  that  performes  it,  that  practiseth 
it,  deserve  to  be  called  foole,  let  your  Greatnesses  judge, 
excellent  Duke  and  Duchesse. 

Well,  I  advise  you  (quoth  Sancho)  Master  mine,  speake  no 
more  in  your  owne  behalfe,  for  there  is  no  more  to  bee  said, 
no  more  to  be  thought,  no  more  persevering  in  the  world  : 
besides,  this  Signior,  denying  as  he  hath  done  that  there 
neyther  is,  nor  hath  beene  Knight  Errant  in  the  world,  no  mar- 
veil  though  hee  knowes  not  what  he  hath  said.  Are  you  trow 
(quoth  the  Clergy  man)  that  Pansa,  whom  they  say  your 
Master  hath  promised  an  Hand  ?  Marry  am  I  (said  he)  and 
I  am  hee  that  deserves  it,  as  well  as  any  other,  and  I  am  he 
that  *keepe  company  with  good  men,  and  thou  shalt  be  as 
good  as  they :  and  I  am  one  of  those  that :  Not  with  whom 
thou  wert  bred,  but  with  whom  thou  hast  fedde:  and  of 
those  that :  Leane  to  a  good  tree,  and  it  will  shadow  thee : 
I  have  leaned  to  my  Master,  and  it  is  many  moneths  since  I 
have  kept  him  company,  and  I  am  his  other  selfe.  If  God 
please,  live  he,  and  I  shall  live,  hee  shall  not  want  Empires 
to  command,  nor  I  Islands  to  governe. 

No  surely,  friend  Sancho,  straight,  said  the  Duke,  for  I  in 

238 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Signior  Don  Quixote's  name,  will  give  thee  an  odde  one  of    CHAPTER 

mine,  of  no  small  worth.      Kneele  downe,  Sancho,  quoth        \\.\I1 

Don  Quixote,  and  kisse  his  Excellencies  foot,  for  the  favour  Of  !><»n 

hee    hath    done    tliee:    which    Sancho   did:    but  when  the 

Cleargy-man  saw  this,  hee  rose  up  wonderfull  angry,  saying ; 

Jty  my  holy  Order,  I  am  about  to  say,  Your  Excellency  is  as  wit},  ,,ther 

mad  as  one  of  these  .sinners,  and  see  if  they  must  not  needs  su. 

bo   madde,  when   wise  men  canonize  their  madnesse;   your  wise  as  \\itty. 

Excellency  may  doe  well  to  stay  with  them,  for  whilest  they 

be  heere,  He  get  mee  home  and  save  a  labour  of  correcting 

what  I  cannot  amend,  and  without  any  more  adoe,  leaving 

the  rest  of  his  dinner,  he  went  away,  the  Duke  and  the 

Duchesse  not  being  able  to  pacific  him,  though  the  Duke 

said  not  much  to  him,  as  being  hindred  with  laughter  at  his 

unseasonable  choller. 

When  he  had  ended  his  laughter,  he  said  to  Don  Quixote, 
Sir  Knight  of  the  Lyons,  you  have  answered  so  deeply  for 
your  selfe,  that  you  left  nothing  unsatisfied  to  this  your 
grievance,  which  though  it  seeme  to  be  one,  yet  is  not ;  for 
as  women  have  not  the  power  to  wrong,  neyther  have  Church- 
men, as  you  best  know.  Tis  true  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  the 
cause  is,  that  hee  who  cannot  be  wronged,  can  doe  no  wrong 
to  any  body  ;  women,  children,  and  Churchmen,  as  they  can- 
not defend  themselves,  when  they  are  offended,  so  they  cannot 
sull'er  an  affront  and  a  grievance,  there  is  this  difference  i 
your  Excellency  best  knowes :)  The  affront  comes  from  one 
that  may  doe  it,  and  be  able  to  make  it  good,  the  grievance 
may  come  from  eyther  party  without  affronting.  For  i 
ample.  One  stands  carelesly  in  the  street,  some  ten  men 
come  armed,  and  bftstonadoing  him,  he  claps  hand  to  his 
sword,  and  doth  his  devoir :  but  the  multitude  of  his  assail- 
ants hinder  him  of  his  purpose,  which  is  to  bee  revenged  ; 
this  man  is  wronged,  but  not  affronted,  and  this  shal  be 
confirmed  by  another  example.  One  stands  with  his  backe 
turned,  another  comes  and  strikes  him,  and  when  he  hath 
done,  runnes  away,  th'other  followes,  but  overtakes  him  not : 
he  that  received  the  blow,  is  wronged,  but  not  affronted, 
because  the  affront  ought  to  have  beene  maintained  :  if  he 

239 


THE:  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    that  strooke  him  (though  he  did  it  basely)  stand  still  and 

XXXII       face  his  enemy,  then  hee  that  was  strooke  is  wronged  and 

Of  Don  affronted  both  together:   wronged,  because  he  was  strooke 

Quixotes          cowardly ;  affronted,  because  he  that  strooke  him,  stood  still 

J"s   to  make  good  what  he  had  done :  and  so  according  to  the 

wXother  ^  Lawes  of  cursed  Duel>  l  may  be  wronged,  but  not  affronted ; 

successes  as      for  children  nor  women  have  no  apprehension,  neyther  can 

wise  as  witty,   they  flye,  nor  ought  to  stand  still :  and  so  is  it  with  the 

Religious ;  for  those  kindes  of  people  want  Armes  offensive 

and  defensive,  so  that  though  they  be  naturally  bound  to 

defend  themselves,  yet  they  are  not  to  offend  any  body  :  and 

though  even  now  I  said  I  was  wronged,  I  saw  now  I  am  not ; 

for  hee  that  can  receive  no  affront,  can  give  none :  for  which 

causes  I  have  no  reason  to  resent,  nor  doe  I,  the  words  that 

that  good  man  gave  me ;  onely  I  could  have  wished  he  had 

stayed  a  little,  that  I  might  have  let  him  see  his  error,  in 

saying  or  thinking  there  have  beene  no  Knights  Errant  in 

the  world ;  for  if  Amadis  had  heard  this,  or  one  of  those 

infinite  numbers  of  his  linage,  I  know  it  had  not  gone  well 

with  his  Worship. 

He  sweare  that  (quoth  Sancho)  they  would  have  given 
him  a  slash,  that  should  have  cleaved  him  from  head  to  foot, 
like  a  Pomegranate,  or  a  ripe  Muske  Melon ;  they  were 
pretty  Youths  to  suffer  such  jests.  By  my  Holidam,  I 
thinke  certainely  if  Renaldos  de  Montalvan  had  heard  these 
speeches  from  the  poore  knave,  he  had  bung'd  up  his  mouth 
that  he  should  not  have  spoken  these  three  yeeres  ;  I,  I,  hee 
should  have  dealt  with  them,  and  see  how  he  would  have 
scaped  their  hands. 

The  Duchesse  was  ready  to  burst  with  laughter  at  Sancho, 
and  to  her  minde,  she  held  him  to  be  more  conceited,  and 
madder  then  his  Master,  and  many  at  that  time  were  of  this 
opinion. 

Finally,  Don  Quixote  was  pacified,  and  dinner  ended,  and 
the  cloth  being  taken  away,  there  came  foure  Damozels,  one 
with  a  silver  Bason,  the  other  with  an  Ewre,  a  third  with 
two  fine  white  Towels,  the  fourth  with  her  arms  tucked  up 
to  the  middle  and  in  her  white  hands  (for  white  they  were) 
240 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

a  white  Naples  washing  ball.     Shee  with  the  Bason  came    CHAPTER 

very  mannerly,  and  set  it  under  Don  Quixote's  ehinne,  who 

very  silent,  and  wondring  at  that  kinde  of  ceremony,  taking  ()f  ')("> 

it  to  bee  the  custome  of  the  Country,  to  wash  their  faces  in  (\!U1X(|U>S 

stead  of  their  hands,  he  st retch t  out  his  face  as  far  as  he  ^Sb^er 

could,  and  instantly  the  Ewre  began  to  rain  upon  him,  and  with  <»tlu>r 

the   Damozell   with   the  soape   ran    over   his   beard   apace,  successt 

raising  white  flakes  of  snow,  for  such   were   those  scowr-  wise  as  witty. 

ings,  not  only  upon  his  beard,   but  over  all  the  face  and 

eyes  of  the  obedient   Knight,  so  that  he  was  forced  to  shut 

them. 

The  Duke  and  Duchesse  that  knew  nothing  of  this,  stood 
expecting  what,  would  become  of  this  Lavatory.  The-  Barber 
Damozell,  when  she  hail  soaped  him  well  with  her  hand, 
feined  that  she  wanted  more  water,  and  made  her  with  the 
Kwre,  to  goe  for  it,  whilest  Signior  Don  (Quixote  expected; 
which  shee  did,  and  Don  (Quixote  remained  one  of  the 
strangest  pictures  to  move  laughter  that  could  be  imagined. 
All  that  wen-  present  (many  in  number)  beheld  him,  and 
they  saw  him  with  a  neck  halfe  a  yard  long,  more  then 
ordinary  swarthy,  hi  utte.  and  his  beard  full  of 

soape,  it  was  great  marvell,  ami  much  discretion,  they  could 
forbeare  laughing.  The  Damo/els  of  the  je>t  cast  downe 
their  eyes,  not  daring  to  looke  on  their  Lords  ;  whose  bodies 
with  cnoller  and  laughter  even  tickled  ngainc,  and  they 
knew  not  what  to  doe ;  eyther  to  punish  the  boldnes  of  the 
girles,  or  reward  them  for  the  pastime  they  received  to  see 
Don  Quixote  in  that  manner. 

Lastly,  she  with  the  Ewre  came,  and  they  made  an  end  of 
washing  Don  Quixote,  and  straight  she  that  had  the  towels, 
wiped  and  dried  him  gently,  and  all  foure  of  them  at  once 
making  him  a  low  courtesie,  would  have  gone:  but  the 
Duke,  because  Don  Quixote  should  not  fall  into  the  jest, 
called  to  the  Damozell  with  the  bason,  saying,  Come  and 
wash  me  too,  and  see  that  you  have  water  enough.  The 
wench,  that  was  wily  and  carefull,  came  and  put  the  bason 
under  the  Duke,  as  she  had  done  to  Don  Quixote,  and 
making  haste,  they  washed  and  scowred  him  very  well,  and 

3  :  HH  241 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    leaving  him  dry  and  cleane,  making  curtesies,  they  went 

XXXII       away.     After,  it  was  knowne  that  the  Duke  swore,  that  if 

Of  Don  they  had  not  washed  him  as  well  as  Don  Quixote,  he  would 

Quixotes          punish  them  for  their  lightnesse,  which  they  discreetly  made 

ReSTehendher    amends  for,  with  soaping  him. 

with  other    '       Sancho  marked  all  the  ceremonies  of  the  Lavatory,  and 

successes  as      said   to   himselfe ;   Lord   (thought   he)  if  it  be   the   cus- 

wise  as  witty,   tome  in  this  Countrie  to  wash  the  Squires  beards,  as  well 

as  the  Knights?   for  of  my  soule  and  conscience  I  have 

need  of  it,  and  if  they  would,  to  runne  over  me  with  a 

Rasor  too. 

What  saist  thou  to  thy  selfe,  Sancho  ?  said  the  Duchesse. 
I  say,  Madam,  (quoth  he)  that  I  have  heard  that  in  other 
Princes  Palaces  they  use  to  give  water  to  wash  mens  hands 
when  the  cloth  is  taken  away,  but  not  lie  to  scowre  their 
beards,  and  therefore  I  see  tis  good  to  live  long,  to  see 
much  ;  although  tis  said  also,  that  he  that  lives  long,  suffers 
much,  though  to  suffer  one  of  these  Lavatories,  is  rather 
pleasure  then  paine. 

Take  no  care  Sancho,  quoth  the  Duchesse,  for  He  make 
one  of  my  Damozels  wash  thee,  and  if  need  be,  lay  thee  a 
bucking.  For  my  beard  (quoth  Sancho)  I  should  bee  glad 
for  the  present,  for  the  rest,  God  will  provide  hereafter. 
Looke  you,  Carver,  said  the  Dutchesse,  what  Sancho  desires, 
doe  just  as  hee  would  have  you.  The  Carver  answered,  that 
Signior  Sancho  should  be  punctually  served,  and  so  he  went 
to  dinner,  and  carried  Sancho  with  him,  the  Dukes  and  Don 
Quixote  sitting  still,  and  conferring  in  many  and  severall 
affaires,  but  all  concerning  the  practice  of  Armes  and  Knight 
Errantry. 

The  Duchesse  requested  Don  Quixote,  to  delineate  and 
describe  unto  her  (since  he  seemed  to  have  a  happy  memory) 
the  beauty  and  feature  of  the  Lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso, 
for  according  to  Fames  Trumpet,  she  thought  that  shee 
must  needs  be  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world,  and  also  of 
the  Mancha. 

Don  Quixote  sighed  at  the  Duchesses  command,  and  sayd, 
If  I  could  take  out  my  heart,  and  lay  it  before  your  Great- 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

nesses  eyes,  upon  this  table  in  a  dish,  I  would  save  my  tongue    CHAPTER 
a  labour  to  tell  you  that,  which  would  not  be  imagined;  for       XXXI I 
in  my  heart,  your  Excellency  should  see  her  lively  depainted  :  Of  Don 
but  why  should  I  be  put  to  describe  and  delineate  exactly,  Quixotes 
piece  for  piece,  each  severall  beauty  of  the  peerelesse  Dul-  SJJJJ^der 
cinea,  a  burden  fitter  for  other  backes  then  mine ;  an  enter-  with  other 
pri/e,    in    which    the   pcnsils   of  Parrasius,  Timantes,  and  sun 
Aprlles,  and  the  tooles  of  Lisippus,  should  indeed  be  em-  wise  as  witty. 
ployed,  to  paint  and  carve  her  in  tables  of  Marble  and 
Brasse,  and  Ciceronian   and  Demosthenian  llhetoricke  to 
praise  her. 

What  meane  you  by  your  Demosthenian,  Signior  Don 
Quixote?  quoth  the  Duchesse.  Demosthenian  Rhetoricke 
(quoth  lice)  is  as  much  to  say,  as  the  Rhetoricke  of  De- 
mosthenes, as  Ciceronian  of  Cicero,  both  which  were  the 
two  greatest  Rhetoricians  in  the  world.  Tis  true  (quoth 
the  Duke)  and  you  shewed  your  ignorance  in  asking  that 
question :  but  for  all  that,  Sir  Don  Quixote  might  much 
delight  us,  if  he  would  paint  her  out;  for  He  warrant, 
though  it  bee  but  in  her  first  draught,  shee  will  appeare  so 
well,  that  the  most  faire  will  envy  her.  I  would  willingly 
(sayd  he)  if  mis-fortune  had  not  blotted  out  her  Idsea,  that 
not  long  since  he-foil  her,  which  is  such,  that  I  may  rather 
bi-waile  it,  then  describe  her;  for  your  Greatnesses  shall 
understand,  that  as  I  went  heeretofore  to  have  kissed  her 
hands,  and  receive  her  benediction,  leave  and  licence,  for  this 
my  third  sally,  I  found  another  manner  of  one  then  I  looked 
for,  I  found  her  enchanted,  and  turned  from  a  Princesse  to 
a  Countrey- wench,  from  faire  to  foule,  from  an  Angell  to 
a  Devill,  from  sweet  to  contagious,  from  well-spoken  to 
rusticke,  from  modest  to  skittish,  from  light  to  darknesse, 
and  finally  from  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  to  a  Pesantesse  of 
Sayago. 

Now  God  defend  us  (quoth  the  Duke)  with  a  loud  voyce, 
who  is  he  that  hath  done  so  much  hurt  to  the  world  ?  Who 
hath  taken  away  the  beauty  that  cheered  it  ?  the  quicknesse 
that  entertained  it?  and  the  honesty  that  did  credit  it? 
Who  ?  sayd  hee,  who  but  some  cursed  Enchanter  ?  one  of 

243 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  those  many  envious  ones  that  persecute  mee  ?     This  wicked 

XXXII  race   borne  in   the  world,   to   darken   and   annihilate  the 

Of  Don  exployts  of  good  men,  and  to  give  light  and  raise  the  deedes 

Quixotes  of  evill.     Enchanters  have  me  persecuted  :  Enchanters  me 

answer  to  his   persecu^e  .  an(j  Enchanters  will  mee  persecute,  till  they  cast 

Reprenencler.  "  .  '  ,  J 

with  other       me  and  my  lofty  Chivalry,  into  the  profound  Abisme  ot 

successes  as      forgetfulnesse,  and  there  they  hurt  and  wound  mee,  where 

wise  as  witty,    they  see  I  have  most  feeling ;  for  to  take  from  a  Knight 

Errant,  his  Lady,  is  to  take  away  his  eye-sight,  with  which 

hee  sees  the  sunne  that  doth  lighten  him,  and  the  food 

that  doth  nourish  him.     Oft  have  I  sayd,  and  now  I  say 

againe,  that  a  Knight  Errant  without  a  Mistris,  is  like  a 

tree  without  leaves,  like  a  building  without  cement,  or  a 

shadow  without  a  body,  by  which  it  is  caused. 

There  is  no  more  to  be  sayd  (quoth  the  Duchesse :)  but 
yet  if  we  may  give  credit  to  the  History  of  Don  Quixote, 
that  not  long  since  came  to  light,  with  a  generall  applause, 
it  is  sayd  (as  I  remember)  that  you  never  saw  Dulcinea,  and 
that  there  is  no  such  Lady  in  the  world ;  but  that  she  is  a 
meere  fantasticall  creature  ingendred  in  your  braine,  where 
you  have  painted  her  with  all  the  graces  and  perfections  that 
you  please. 

Here  is  much  to  be  sayd  (quoth  he),  God  knowes,  if  there 
be  a  Dulcinea  or  no  in  the  world,  whether  she  be  fantas- 
ticall, or  not :  and  these  be  matters,  whose  justifying  must 
not  be  so  far  searcht  into.  Neither  have  I  ingendred  or 
brought  foorth  my  Lady,  though  I  contemplate  on  her,  as  is 
fitting,  she  being  a  Lady  that  hath  all  the  parts  that  may 
make  her  famous  thorow  the  whole  world  :  as  these ;  faire, 
without  blemish;  grave,  without  pride;  amorous,  but  honest; 
thankful!,  as  courteous;  courteous,  as  well-bred :  And  finally, 
of  high  descent ;  by  reason  that  beauty  shines  and  marcheth 
upon  her  noble  bloud,  in  more  degrees  of  perfection,  then  in 
meane-borne  beauties. 

Tis  true  (sayd  the  Duke :)  but  Don  Quixote  must  give 

mee  leave,  to  say  what  the  History,  where  his  exployts  are 

written,  sayes ;  where  is  inferred,  that  though  there  be  a 

Dulcinea  in  Toboso,  or  out  of  it,  and  that  she  bee  faire  in 

244 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

the  highest  degree,  as  you  describe  her,  yet  in  her  highnesse    CHAPTER 
of  birth  shee  is  not  equall  to  your  *  Oriana's,  your  Alas- 
traxarea's,  or  your  Madasima's,  with  others  of  this  kinde,  of  Of  Dun 
which  your  Histories  are  full,  as  you  well  know.     To  this  I  Qul^°tes 
answer  you  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  Dulcinea  is  vertuous,  and  Kem-ehender 
Vertue  addes  to  Linage,  and  one  that  is  meane  and  vertuous,  wjth  other 
ought  to  be  more  esteemed,  then  another  noble  and  vicious  :  success.- 
besides,  Dulcinea  hath  one  shred  that  may  make  her  Queene  wist' :is  uitt.v- 
with  Crowne  and  Scepter :  for  the  merit  of  a  faire  and  ver-  *Names  of 
tuous  woman,  extends  to  doe  greater  miracles,  and  although  fained  Ladies 
not  formally,  yet  vertually  shee  hath  greater  fortunes  layd 
up  for  her. 

I  say,  Signior  Don  Quixote  (quoth  the  Duchesse)  that  in 
all  you  speake,  you  goe  with  your  leaden  plummet,  and,  as 
they  say,  with  your  sounding  line  in  your  hand,  and  that 
hence-forward  I  will  beleeve,  and  make  all  in  my  house  be- 
leeve,  and  my  Lord  the  Duke  too,  if  neede  be,  that  there  is 
a  Dulcinea  in  Toboso,  and  that  at  this  day  she  lives,  that 
she  is  faire,  and  well-borne,  and  deserves  that  such  a  Knight, 
as  Don  Quixote,  should  serve  her,  which  is  the  most  I  can, 
or  know  how  to  endeere  her.  But  yet  I  have  one  scruple  left, 
and,  I  know  not,  some  kind  of  inckling  against  Sancho  :  the 
scruple  is,  that  the  History  sayes,  that  Pansa  found  the  sayd 
Lady  Dulcinea  (when  he  carried  her  your  Epistle)  winnow- 
ing a  bag  of  wheat,  and  for  more  assurance,  that  it  was  red 
wheat,  a  thing  that  makes  mee  doubt  of  her  high  birth. 

To  which  Don  Quixote  replide :  Lady  mine,  you  shall 
know,  that  all  or  the  most  part  of  my  affaires,  are  cleane 
different  from  the  ordinary  course  of  other  Knights  Errant, 
whether  they  bee  directed  by  the  unscrutable  will  of  the 
Destinies,  or  by  the  malice  of  some  envious  Enchanter,  and 
as  it  is  evident,  that  all,  or  the  most  of  your  famous  Knights 
Errant,  one  hath  the  favor  not  to  be  inchanted ;  another, 
to  have  his  flesh  so  impenetrable,  that  he  cannot  be  wounded, 
as  the  famous  Roldan,  one  of  the  twelve  Peeres  of  France,  of 
whom  it  was  sayd,  that  hee  could  not  bee  wounded,  but  upon 
the  sole  of  his  left  foot ;  and  that  this  too  must  be  with 
the  poynt  of  a  great  Pin,  and  with  no  other  kinde  of  weapon ; 

245 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    so  that  when  Bernardo  del  Carpia  did  kill  him  in  Ronces- 
XXXII       valles,  seeing  he  could  not  wound  him  with  his  sword,  he 
Of  Don  lifted  him  in  his  armes  from  ground,  and  stifled  him,  as 

Quixotes  mindefull  of  the  death  that  Hercules  gave  Anteon,  that 
RepT-ehender,  horrid  Gtyant,  that  was  sayd  to  be  the  sonne  of  the  earth, 
with  other  '  From  all  this  I  infer,  that  it  might  be  I  might  have  had 
successes  as  some  of  these  favours,  as  not  to  be  wounded ;  for  many 
wise  as  witty,  times,  experience  hath  taught  mee,  that  my  flesh  is  soft 
and  penetrable,  or  that  I  might  have  the  power  not  to  be 
enchanted ;  but  yet  I  have  scene  my  selfe  clapt  in  a  cage, 
where  all  the  world  was  not  able  to  inclose  me,  had  it  not 
been  by  vertue  of  Enchantments ;  but  since  I  was  free,  I 
shall  beleeve  that  no  other  can  hinder  me :  So  that  these 
Enchanters,  who  see,  that  upon  me  they  cannot  use  their 
sleights,  they  revenge  themselves  upon  the  things  I  most 
affect,  and  meane  to  kill  me,  by  ill-treating  Dulcinea,  by 
whom  I  live :  and  so  I  beleeve,  that  when  my  Squire  carried 
my  Ambassage,  they  turned  her  into  a  Pesant,  to  bee  im- 
ployed  in  so  base  an  office,  as  winnowing  of  wheat :  but  I 
say,  that  wheat  was  neither  red,  nor  wheat ;  but  seedes  of 
Orientall  Pearles,  and  for  proofe  of  this,  let  me  tell  your 
Magnitudes,  that  comming  a  while  since  by  Toboso,  I  could 
never  finde  Dulcinea's  Palace ;  and  Sancho,  my  Squire, 
having  scene  her  before  in  her  owne  shape,  which  is  the 
fairest  in  the  world,  to  me  she  then  seemed  a  foule  course 
Country-wench,  and  meanly  nurtured,  being  the  very  Dis- 
cretion of  the  world  :  And  since  I  am  not  enchanted,  neither 
can  I  be  in  all  likely-hood,  she  is  she  that  is  enchanted, 
greeved,  turned,  chopped  and  changed,  and  my  enemies 
have  revenged  themselves  on  me  in  her,  and  for  her  I 
must  live  in  perpetuall  sorrow,  till  shee  come  to  her  pris- 
tine being. 

All  this  have  I  spoken,  that  no  body  may  stand  upon 
what  Sancho  sayd,  of  that  sifting  and  winnowing  of  hers : 
for  since  to  me  she  was  changed,  no  marvell  though  for  him 
shee  were  exchanged.  Dulcinea  is  nobly  borne,  and  of  the 
best  bloud  in  Toboso,  of  which,  I  warrant,  she  hath  no  small 
part  in  her  :  and  for  her,  that  towne  shall  be  famous  in  after- 
246 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

ages,  as  Troy  for  Helen,  and  Spaine  for  *  Cava,  though  with    CHAPTER 
more  honour  and  reputation:   On  the  other  side,  I  would        \\.\II 
have  your  Lordships  know,  that  Sancho  Pansa  is  one  of  the  on>«ni 
prettiest  Squires  that  ever  served  Knight  Errant:  sometimes  Qulx"tt>s 
he  hath  such  sharpc  simplicities,  that  to  thinke  whether  he  he  jjJJJSjJiJ 
Foole  or  Knave,  causeth  no  small  content:  hee  hath  maliee  \\ith  other 
enough  to  be  a  Knave;  but  more  ignorance  to  bee  thought  su< 
a  foole  ;    hee   doubts  of  every  thing,  and  yet  beleeves  all  :  wise  as  witt>'- 
when  I  thinke  sometimes  hee  will  tumble  headlong  to  the  *D:mjrhu>r  to 
foot,  hee  comes  out  with  some  kinde  of  discretion  that  lifts  the  Karle,  that 
him  to  the  clouds.  SSato  the 

Finally,  I  would  not  change  him  for  any  other  Squire,  ^f^ires. 
though  I  might  have  a  City  to  boot;  therefore  I  doubt,  VMr.Murinua. 
whether  it  bee  good  to  send  him  to  the  Government,  that  //M-  '/<-•  1kb. 
your  Greatnesse  hath  bestowed  on  him,  though  I  see  in  him 
a  certaine  fitnesse  for  this  you  call  governing;  for,  trimming 
his  understanding  but  a  very  little,  hee  would  procvede  with 
his  government,  as  well  as  the  King  with  his  customes : 
besides,  wee  know  by  experience,  that  a  Governour  needes 
not  much  learning,  or  other  abilities :  for  you  have  a 
hundred,  that  searce  can  read  a  word,  and  yet  they  governe 
like  ler- Falcons :  the  businesse  is,  that  their  meaning  be 
good,  and  to  hit  the  matter  aright  they  undertake ;  for 
they  shall  not  want  Counsellours,  to  teach  them  what  they 
shall  doe,  as  your  Governours  that  be  Sword-men,  and  not 
Schollers,  that  have  their  Assistants  to  direct  them.  My 
counsell  should  bee  to  him  :  That  neither  bribe  lie  take, 
nor  his  due  forsake,  and  some  other  such  toyes  as  these,  that 
I  have  within  mee,  and  shall  bee  declared  at  fit  time  to 
Sancho's  profit,  and  the  Hands  which  hee  shall  governe. 

To  this  poynt  of  their  discourse  came  the  Dune,  Duchesse, 
and  Don  Quixote,  when  straight  they  heard  a  great  noise  of 
people  in  the  Palace :  and  Sancho  came  in,  into  the  Hall, 
unlookt  for,  all  in  a  maze,  with  a  strainer  in  stead  of  a  Bib, 
and  after  him  many  Lads,  or  to  say  better,  Scullions  of  the 
kitchin,  and  other  inferior  people,  and  one  came  with  a 
little  kneading-tub  with  water,  that  seemed,  by  the  colour 
and  sluttishnesse,  to  bee  dish-water,  who  followed  and 

247 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER     persecuted    Sanc.ho,   and    sought   by   all    BMMM    to   joyne 
the  veMtell  to  his  chinne,  and  another  would  have  wa sin -d 

Of  J)<,a  him. 

What's  the  matter,  Ho.-  ('piotl.  tin-  Duchesse)  ?  What  doe 

Spreh^'r  ?''''  to  Ul)  '  '"""  l  "i;ui  •'  What.'  doe  yee  not  know  hee  is 
<  /overnour  Klec  t.  <  To  which  the  Harber-Sciillion  replide, 
•UCCMffMfl*  This  (f  ntle  man  will  not  suffer  hirnsejfe  to  bee  wa  lied, 
wiaeaw  witty.  according  to  th«-  CUftOOM^  I  my  Lord  tin-  Duke,  and  his 
M;i  .!(,  wf*.  \.  rn.-ir-ry  will  I  (sayd  Sancho)  in  a  #n-at 
hufl'-:  hut  I  would  have  cleaner  towels,  and  OMTft  '  udds, 
;ind  not  ',o  luttish  hands;  for  there  is  no  such  diff'en  lice 
hetwe< DC  rny  Master  and  nice,  that  they  should  wash  him 
with  rose-water,  and  me  with  the  Devili  lie:  the  rustorncs 
of  MM;J.|,  men,  Palaces  are  so  much  the  h<  tter,  hy  how  little 
tfouhle  lh«  y  cause:  but  your  I/tvatory  custome  heec 
worse  then  I'rm!  <nti;. ties,  rr»y  beard  i  and  I  neede 

no  suc.h    refreHhin^;    and    lice    that  comes    to   wa  h    HK-C,  or 
ton' h  ;i   haiic  olrny  he.ad    (of  my  beard,  I   .say)  sir-  reverence 
of  flu-  conifKi.ny,  He   ;-iv<-    him    SIK  h    a.    bo ••:«•,  that  He   set  my 
fiMt  in  hJH  »kull  ;    for    thec    kindc   of  c(temoiiie,   and    soape 
layin;'  ,,  ate  rather-  flouts,  then  cnt<  rl ,-i.irn -r  .  of  ^hcHtH. 

The    DuchcHHf    wa«    ready    to    die    with     laughter,    to    see 

•icho's  choller,and  to  hean    his  reasons;  but  Don  (Quixote 

was  not  very  well   |)|e/i  <-d    |<>   ,<•••  him  so   ill  dressed  with  his 

jaHperd    towell,  and    hemmed    in    by  so   many  of  the    Kilchin 

l'<  n  loru-rs  ;  so   making  a   low    I In  Ih.     |)nl.<  •  ,  as   if  he 

ml.-ndcfl    I.,,  with    a.    "ra.v<-    voyce    h<     spoke    l«»    the 

:,k  on  rif  I  r  els 

llarke,  ye    (icnlli  MM  n.   piay   lei    tin     Youth   alone,  and  ^et 
yon  ye   OMB0J   i<"  you    please,   for   my   Scjnirr   is  as 

d.anlv  -'  •  anollier,  and  lhe,r  I  roughs  are  as  :hai;dil  and 
<  lose  lor  him,  as  your  little  red  clay  drink  in;-;  cups  lake  my 
cnun s/tile  and  leave  him,  for  neil  hei  In  nor  I  can  abide  jesl  . 
Sancho  <au.'dil  bin  words  out  of  his  mouth,  and  went  on, 
saying;  No,  let  urn  come  lo  make  p'»rl  with  I  he  setting 
do;';»e,  and  !!«•  Id  uiu  alone,  as  sure  a  ,  it  I  now  ni^hl.  ;  lei 
tim  bun;'  a  ((.nib  hilliei,oi  what  they  wil,  and  curry  my 
IM  nd  and  if  they  Hridc  any  thin^  foule  in  if,  lei  um 


HlSTOKirOF  PON  QU\OTF. 

mo  to  tittors.     Then  quoth  the  Duehes- 

laugh::-       "•        10  saves  well,  he  is  eleane,  as  he  sayes,  and 

mviies  no  was! 

him  i^l'st 

uc  rery  slaeko  atul  eaivle>-  iirtr-uler* 

may  say,  pivsumptuo,  nonage  and  with  other 

sueli  >on  aiul   ! 

aiul  I  les  anil  dis 

but   vou  are  unmannerly  raskals,  a 

nt. 

The  raskall  i\  v'Ame 

i  them,  thought  \orilv  the  P.iehesse  was  in  earnest:  to 

they    toi>ke    the   si\e~olotl>  v  \  en 

ashanuHl  wont   their  waies,  aiul   left   him,  ^  m- 

solfeoutoft':  thought  aigxT,  kn. 

the   Uuehess, 

still  -i.  this  tli 

eannot  !  (h  lesse,  the:, 

self  an  arnunl    Knight 

i>f  m\   life  in  the  ser\ 

.!man.  ui\  u'ho    Tans^i,  ehiU: 

ami  sen.  S  ar 

itnesso,  1  ^ili 

^ell  seeiu  .  quoth  t! 

learnt    to  I 

nieane,  it  seemes  well.  ->i  ha\e  boon  nursovl  at    P. 

Qni\  -^  ho  is  the  I Yennu  .tul  the 

tlou 

Serxant  ,    the  one  N  ;\e 

i^ther  fiM-   the  S  S  •  *ul 

Saneho,    for    [    will    I  ui    makv 

.1    the    Puke  as  soono  as  he  can.  perfi»rme    the    | 
he  hath  mail.  1'  the  llaiul. 

\\  ;!i  this,  tii,  eaaed) and  Don  Qub  i  ti> 

Ins  afler-noo:  ,  anil  the  Piu 

if  he  were  not  \er\   sleepie,  hoe  wouUl   iv\sse   tho 
II 


CHAPTER 
XXXII 

Of  Don 

Quixotes 
answer  to  his 
Reprehender, 
etc. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

with  her  and  her  Damozels  in  a  coole  roome.  Sancho  answered, 
that  though  true  it  were,  that  he  was  used  in  the  afternoones 
to  take  a  some  five  houres  nappe,  yet  to  doe  her  goodnesse  ser- 
vice, hee  would  do  what  he  could,  not  to  take  any  that  day, 
and  would  obey  her  command :  so  he  parted.     The  Duke 
gave  fresh  order  for  Don  Quixote^s  usage,  to  be  like 
a  Knight  Errant,  without  differing  a  jot  from 
the  ancient  stile  of  those  Knights. 


*The 
Spaniards 
lowsie 
humility. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

Of  the  wholesome  discourse  that  passed  betwixt 

the   Duchesse   and   her   Damozels   with 

Sancho  Pansa,  worthy  to  be  read 

and  noted. 

ELL  the  Storie  tells  us,  that  Sancho  slept 
not  that  day,  but  according  to  his  pro- 
mise, came,  when  he  had  dined,  to  see 
the  Duchesse,  who  for  the  delight  shee 
received  to  heare  him,  made  him  sit 
downe  by  her  in  a  low  chaire,  though 
Sancho,  out  of  pure  mannerlinesse  would 
not  sit :  but  the  Duchesse  bade  him  sit  as 
he  was  Governour,  and  speake  as  hee  was  Squire,  though  in 
both  respects  he  deserved  the  very  seate  of  Cid  Ruydiaz  the 
Champion. 

Sancho  *  shrunke  up  his  shoulders,  obeyed  and  sate  downe, 
and  all  the  Duchesses  Waiting-women  and  Damozels  stood 
round  about  her,  attending  with  great  silence  to  Sancho's 
discourse  :  but  the  Duchesse  spake  first,  saying  ; 

Now  that  we  are  all  alone,  and  that  no  body  heares  us,  1 

would,  Signior  Governor  would  resolve  me  of  certaine  doubts 

I  have,  arising  from  the  printed  History  of  the  Graund  Don 

Quixote,  one  of  which  is,  that  since  honest  Sancho  never  saw 

250 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

i 

Dulcinea,  I  say,  the  Lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  neither    CHAPTER 
carried   her  Don  Quixotes   letter,   for   it  remained  in  the       XXXIII 
note-booke   in   Sierra   Morena,    how    he   durst   feigne    the  Of  the  whole- 
answer,  and  that  he  found  her  sifting  of  wheat;  this  being  s"Im>  <1'*- 
a  mocke  and  a  lye,  and   so  prejudiciall  to  the  Lady  Dili-  JJ^JJJbft. 
cinea's   reputation,  and   so    unbefitting  the   condition  and  t \Vixt  the 
fidelity  of  a  faithful  1  Squire.  Duclu— «•  .-mil 

Here  Sancho  rose  without  answering  a  word,  and  softly  her  P.-mm/.rls 
crooking  his  body,  and  with  his  linger  upon  his  lippes,  he  p^ 
went    up  and  downe   the    rooine,  lifting  up   the  hangings:  to  be  read 
which  done,  he  came  anil  sate  downe  againe,  and  said.  Now  I  and  noted. 
see,  Madam,  that  nobody  lies  in  wait  to  heare  us,  besides  the 
hv-standiTs,  I   will  answer  you  without  feare  or  fright,  all 
that  you  have  asked,  and  all  that  you  will  aske  nice.     And 
first  of  all  I  say,  that  I  hold  my  Master   Don  Quixote,  for 
an  incureable   Maddc-man,  though  sometimes    he   speak 
things,  that,  in  my  opinion,  and  so  in  all  theirs  that  heare 
him,  are  so  discreet,  ami  carried   in  so  even  a  trackc,  that 
the    Devill    himselfe  cannot   speake  better;    but  truely  and 
without  scruple,  I  take  him  to  be  a  MTV  Frantieke;   for  so  I 
have  it  in  my  ma/ard,  I  dare  make  him  beleeve  that,  that 
hath  neither  head  nor  foot,  as  was  the  answer  of  that  letter, 
and  another  thing  that  hapned  some  eight  dayes  agoe,  which 
is  not  yet  in  print,  to  wit,  the  Enchantment  of  my  Lady 
Dulcinea;  for  I  made  him  beleeve  she  is  enchanted,  it  being 
as  true,  as  the  Moone  is  made  of  givcne  chei 

The  Duchcsse  desired  him  to  tell  her  that  Enchantment 
and  conceit:  which  he  did,  just  as  it  passed:  at  which  the 
hearers  were  not  a  little  delighted.  And  prosecuting  her 
discourse,  the  Duchesse  sayd,  I  have  one  scruple  leapes  in 
my  minde,  touching  what  Sancho  hath  told  mee,  and  a 
certaine  bu/./,e  comming  to  mine  cares,  that  tels  me ;  If  Don 
Quixote  de  la  Mancha  be  such  a  shallow  mad-man  and 
U'idgin,  and  Sancho  Pansa  his  Squire  know  it;  yet  why  for 
all  that,  he  serves  and  followes  him,  and  relies  on  his  vaine 
promises;  doubtlesse,  hee  is  as  very  a  Mad-man  and  Block- 
Dead,  as  his  Master,  which  being  so  as  it  is,  it  will  bee  very 
unfitting  for  my  Lord  the  Duke,  to  give  Sancho  an  Hand 

251 


CHAPTER 
XXXIII 

Of  the  whole- 
some  dis- 


twixtthe 
Duchesseand 
her  Damozels 
with  Sancho 


and  noted. 


*Their 
Limiste  breed 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

to  governe;  for  hee  that  cannot  governe  himselfe,  will  ill 
governe  others. 

By  'r  Lady  (quoth  Sancho)  that  scruple  comes  in  pudding- 
time  :  but  bid  your  Buzze  speake  plaine,  or  how  hee  will  ; 

for  l  kn°W  he  Sa^GS  trUG  ;  a"d  if  *  had  beene  wise>  l  might 
l°ng  since  nave  kft  my  Master:  but  twas  my  lucke,  and 
this  wilde  Errantry,  I  cannot  doe  withall,  I  must  follow 
him,  wee  are  both  of  one  place,  I  have  eaten  his  bread,  I 
jove  ^im  well,  he  is  thankfull,  hee  gave  me  the  Asse-colts, 
anc^  above  all,  I  am  faithfull,  and  it  is  impossible  any  chance 
should  part  us,  but  death  :  and  if  your  Altitude  will  not 
bestow  the  Government  on  mee,  with  lesse  was  I  borne,  and 
perhaps,  the  missing  it  might  bee  better  for  my  conscience  ; 
for  though  I  be  a  foole,  yet  I  understand  the  Proverbe  that 
sayes,  The  Ant  had  wings  to  doe  her  hurt,  and  it  may  bee, 
Sancho  the  Squire  may  sooner  goe  to  Heaven,  then  Sancho 
the  Governour.  Heere  is  as  good  bread  made,  as  in  France  ; 
and  in  the  night  lone  is  as  good  as  my  Lady  ;  and  unhappy 
is  that  man,  that  is  to  breake  his  fast  at  two  of  the  clocke 
in  the  after-noone  ;  and  there  's  no  heart  a  handfull  bigger 
then  another  ;  and  the  stomacke  is  filled  with  the  coursest 
victuals  ;  and  the  little  Fowles  in  the  aire,  have  God  for 
their  Provider  and  Cater  ;  and  foure  yards  of  course  Cuenca 
cloth,  keepe  a  man  as  warme,  as  foure  of  fine  *Limiste  wooll 
of  Segovia  ;  and  when  wee  once  leave  this  world,  and  are 

Put  into  the  earth>  the  Prince  goes  in  as  narrow  a  path  as 
the  lourney-man  ;  and  the  Popes  body  takes  up  no  more 
roome  then  a  Sextons,  though  the  one  be  higher  then  the 
other  ;  for  when  we  come  to  the  pit,  all  are  even,  or  made 
so  in  spite  of  their  teethes,  and  good-night. 

Let  mee  say  againe,  If  your  Lady-ship  will  not  give  mee 
the  Hand,  as  I  am  a  foole,  lie  refuse  it,  for  being  a  wise-man  : 
for  I  have  heard  say,  The  neerer  the  Church,  the  further 
from  God  ;  and,  All  is  not  gold  that  glistreth  ;  and  that 
from  the  oxen,  plough  and  yokes,  the  Husband-man  Bamba 
was  chosen  for  King  of  Spaine  :  and  that  Rodrigo,  from  his 
tissues,  sports,  and  riches,  was  cast  out  to  be  eaten  by  snakes 
(if  we  may  beleeve  the  rimes  of  the  old  Romants,  that  lye  not.) 

252 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Why,  no  more  they  doe  not  (sayd  Donna  Rodriguez,  the    ('HAITI'.!! 
Wayting-  woman,  that  was  one  of  the  Auditours)  for  you       -V\*'l 
have  one  Romant  that  sayes,  that  Don  Rodrigo  was  put  Of  tin-  u  hole- 
alive  into  a  Tombe  full  of  Toades,  Snakes,  and  Lizards,  and 
some  two  dayes  after,  from  within  the  Tombe,  hee  cryed 


with  a  low  and  pitifull  voyce.  '  Now  they  eat,  now  they  eat  t  \\-\\\  the 
me  in  the  place  where  I   .sinned  most':    and  according   to  l>uch<'^<>  ami 

this,   this  man   hath    reason    to  say,  he   had   rather    be    a  ^S'J^noJel- 
T    ,'  .     j     .1       -.1  •          with  Sancho 

labourer  then  a  King,  to  nee  eaten  to  death  with  veniiine.     p,.,,^,  W(,rthv 

The  Duchesse  could  not  forbeare  laughing,  to  see  the  to  IK-  read 
simplicity  of  her  woman,  nor  to  admire  to  heare  Sanchn's  and  n..tr<l. 
proverbiall  reasons,  to  whom  she  sayd  ;  Honest  Sanclio 
knowes,  that  when  a  (ientle-man  once  makes  a  promise,  he 
will  performe  it,  though  it  cost  him  his  life.  My  Lord  and 
Husband  the  Duke,  though  he  be  no  Errant,  yet  hee  is  a 
Knight,  and  so  hee  will  accomplish  his  promise  of  the  Island, 
in  spight  of  envy  or  the  worms  malice.  Be  of  good  cheere, 
Sancho;  for  when  thou  least  dreamest  of  it,  thou  shalt  be 
seated  in  the  Chayre  of  thy  Hand,  and  of  Estate,  and  shalt 
claspe  thy  Government  in  thy  robes  of  Tissue.  All  that  I 
charge  thee,  is,  that  you  looke  to  the  governing  your  Vassals. 
tor  vou  must  know,  they  are  all  well-borne  and  loyall. 

For  governing  (quoth  Sancho)  there  ^s  no  charging  nice  ; 
for  I  am  naturally  charitable  and  compassionate  to  the 
poorc,  and  of  him  that  does  well  they  will  not  speake  ill, 
and  by  my  Holidam  they  shall  play  me  no  false  play  :  I  am 
an  old  dog,  and  understand  all  their  Hist,  hist  :  and  I  can 
snuffe  my  selfe  when  I  see  time,  and  I  will  let  no  cobwebs 
fall  in  my  eyes,  for  I  know  where  my  shoo  wrings  me  :  this 
I  say,  because  honest  men  shall  have  hand  and  heart,  but 
wicked  men  neyther  foot  nor  fellowship.  And  me-thinkes 
for  matter  of  Government,  there  is  no  more  but  to  begin, 
and  in  fiftecne  daies  Governour,  I  could  manage  the  pla. 
and  know  as  well  to  governe,  as  to  labour,  in  which  I  was 
bredde.  You  have  reason,  Sancho,  quoth  the  Duchesse,  for 
no  man  is  borne  wise,  and  Bishops  are  made  of  men,  and 
not  of  stones.  But  turning  to  our  discourse  that  wee  had 
touching  the  Lady  Dulcinea's  Enchantment,  I  am  more 

253 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    then  assured,  that  that  imagination  that  Sancho  had  to  put 

XXXIII      a  tricke  upon   his   Master,  and  to  make  him  thinke  the 

Of  the  whole-  Country  wench  was  Dulcinea,  that  if  his  Master  knew  her 

not,  all  was  invented  by  some  of  those  Enchanters  that  per- 

paS  be-*      secute  Signior  Don  Quixote ;  for  I  know  partly,  that  that 

twixt  the         Country  wench  that  leapt  upon  the  Asse-colt,  was,  and  is 

Duchesse  and  Dulcinea,  and  Sancho  thinking  to  be  the  deceiver,  is  himselfe 

her  Damozels  deceived ;  and  there  is  no  more  to  be  doubted  in  this,  then 

Pansa  worth     in  thinSs  that  WG  neV6r  SaW  :    and  knOW»  Sancho>  that  here 

to  be  read        we  nave  our  Enchanters  too,  that  love,  and  tell  us  plainely 

and  noted.       and  truly,  what  passeth  in  the  world,  without  trickes  or 

devices;  and  beleeve  me,  Sancho,  that  leaping  wench  was, 

and  is   Dulcinea,  who  is   enchanted  as  the   Mother   that 

brought  her  forth,  and  when  we  least  thinke  of  it,  we  shall 

see  her  in  her  proper  shape,  and  then  Sancho  will  thinke  he 

was  deceived. 

All  this  may  be  (quoth  Sancho)  and  now  will  I  beleeve  all 
that  my  Master  told  me  of  Montesino's  Cave,  where  he  said 
he  saw  our  Mistresse  Dulcinea,  in  the  same  apparell  and 
habit,  that  I  said  I  had  scene  her  in,  when  I  enchanted  her 
at  my  pleasure ;  and  it  may  be,  Madam,  all  is  contrary 
(as  you  say)  for  from  my  rude  witte,  it  could  not  be  pre- 
sumed that  I  should  in  an  instant  make  such  a  witty  lye ; 
neyther  doe  I  beleeve  that  my  Master  is  so  madde,  that 
with  so  poore  and  weake  a  perswasion  as  mine,  he  should 
beleeve  a  thing  so  incredible :  but  for  all  that,  good  Lady, 
doe  not  thinke  me  to  be  so  malevolent,  for  such  a  Leeke  as 
I  am,  is  not  bound  to  boare  into  the  thoughts  and  malicious- 
nesse  of  most  wicked  Enchanters.  I  fained  that,  to  scape 
from  my  Masters  threats,  and  not  with  any  purpose  to  hurt 
him,  and  if  it  fell  out  otherwise,  God  is  above  that  judgeth 
all  harts.  Tis  true,  said  the  Duchesse,  but  tell  me,  Sancho, 
what  is  that  you  said  of  Montesinos  Cave  ?  I  should  be  glad 
to  heare  it.  Then  Sancho  began  to  tell  word  for  word,  all 
that  passed  in  that  Adventure.  Which  when  the  Duchesse 
heard,  shee  said,  Out  of  this  successe  may  be  inferred,  that 
since  the  Grand  Don  Quixote  saves  that  he  saw  there  the 
same  labouring  wench  that  Sancho  saw  at  their  comming 
254 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

from  Toboso,  without  doubt  it  is  Dulcinea,  and  that  in  this    CHAPTER 
the  Enchanters  bee  re  are  very  lislning  and  wary.     This  I       XXXIII 
said  (quoth   Saneho)  that   it'  my  Ladv  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  Of  the  \\hole- 
be  enchanted,  at  her  peril  bee  it,  for  lie  have  nothing  to  doe  M>mt>  (ll>j~ 
with   my  Masters   Knemie>,  who  are  many,  and  bad   ones,  j'.^^'l  ^ 
True  it  is,  that  she  that  I  saw  was  a  Country  wench,  and  so  twixt  the 
1    held    her,  and   so   I  judged   her  to  be;   and   if  that  were  Dm- 
Duleinea,  He  not  meddle  with  her,  neyther  shall  the  Blow/e  lll.'r 

passe  upon  my  account.      I,  I,  let's  have  jjivin«j  and  taking  p!   ' 

P     .         :       |  .  i    ..  |        i .  ]    r?      ,  '     ,  r  i  uiiSej 

v  foot.     Saneho  said  it,  Sancho  did  it,  Sancho  turned,  to  be  n 

Saneho  returned,  as  if  Saneho  were  a  dish-clout,  and  not  the  and  noted. 

same  Saneho  Pansa  that  is  now  in  Print  all  the  world  over, 

as  Samson  Carra>co  told   mee,  who  at  least  is  one  that  is 

Bachclori/ed  in  Salamanca,  and  such  men  cannot  lye,  but 

when  they  list,  or  that  it  much  concernes  them  :  so  there  is 

no    reason   any  man   should  deale  with  me,  since  I  have  a 

good  report,  and  as   I  have   heard   my  Master  say,  Better 

have  an  honest  name  then  much  wealth.     Let  urn  joy  IK-  mee 

to  this  Government,  and  they  shall  see  wonders  :  for  fiee  that 

hath  beene  a  good  Squire,  will  easily  be  a  good  (iovernour. 

Whatsoever  Saneho  hither  to  hath  said  (quoth  thcDuclh 
is  Catoniau  sentences,  or  at  least  taken  out  of  the  very  en- 
trailes  of  Michael  Verinus,  Morcntihux  occidit  t/niii.\:  Well, 
well,  to  speake  as  thou  dost,  a  badde  cloake  often  hides 
good  drinker.  Truly  Madam,  said  Saneho,  I  never  drunke 
excessively  in  my  life,  to  quench  my  thirst  sometimes  I  have, 
for  I  am  no  hypocrite,  I  drinke  when  I  am  dry,  and  when  I 
am  urged  too,  for  I  love  not  to  be  nice  or  unmannerly;  for 
what  heart  of  marble  is  there,  that  will  not  pledge  a  friends 
carowse  ?  but  though  I  take  my  cup,  I  goe  not  away  drunke  : 
besides,  your  Knight  Errants  Squires  ordinarily  drinke  water, 
for  they  alwaies  travell  by  Forrests,  Woods,  Medowes,  Moun- 
taines,  cragy  Rockes,  and  meete  not  with  a  pittance  of  wine, 
though  they  would  give  an  eye  for  it. 

I  beleeve  it,  said  the  Duchesse,  and  now,  Saneho,  thou 
maist  repose  thy  selfe,  and  after  we  will  talke  at  large,  and 
give  order  how  thou  maist  be  joyned,  as  thou  saist,  to  the 
Government. 

255 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  Sancho  againe  gave  the  Duchesse  thankes,  but  desired  her 
XXXIII  she  would  doe  him  the  kindnesse,  that  his  Dapple  might 
Of  the  whole-  bee  well  lookt  to.  What  Dapple  (quoth  shee)  ?  My  Asse 
some  dis-  (said  gancho)  for  not  to  call  him  so,  I  say  my  Dapple  :  and 
passed  be-  when  I  came  into  the  Castle,  I  desired  this  waiting  woman 
twixt  the  to  have  a  care  on  him,  and  she  grew  so  loud  with  me,  as 
Duchesse  and  if  I  called  her  ugly  or  old,  for  I  held  it  fitter  for  them  to 
herDamozels  provender  Asses,  then  to  authorize  Roomes:  Lord  God,  a 
with  poncho  G.entleman  of  my  towne  could  not  endure  these  waiting 
Pansa,  worthy  J  .IT*  -n  j  •  .1  •• 

to  be  read        women,      borne  .resant,  quoth  Donna  Hodnguez  the  wait- 

and  noted.  ing  woman ;  for  if  he  had  beene  a  Gentleman,  and  well 
bredde,  hee  would  have  extolled  them  above  the  Moone. 
Goe  too,  no  more  (quoth  the  Duchesse)  Peace  Rodriguez, 
and  be  quiet,  Sancho,  and  let  mee  alone  to  see  that  Sancho^s 
Asse  bee  made  much  of;  for  being  Sancho's  houshold-stuffe, 
I  will  hold  him  on  the  Apples  of  mine  eyes.  Let  him  be  in 
the  stable  (quoth  Sancho)  for  neither  hee  nor  I  am  worthy 
to  be  so  much  as  a  minute  upon  those  Apples  of  your  Great- 
nesse  eyes,  and  I  had  as  liefe  stabbe  my  selfe,  as  consent  to 
that ;  for  although  my  master  sayes,  that  in  courtesies  one 
should  rather  lose  by  a  card  too  much,  then  too  little ;  yet 
in  these  Asse-like  courtesies,  and  in  your  Apples,  it  is  fit  to 
bee  wary  and  proceed  with  discretion.  Carry  him  Sancho 
(quoth  the  Duchesse)  to  thy  Government,  for  there  thou 
maist  cherish  him  at  thy  pleasure,  and  manumit  him  from 
his  labour.  Doe  not  thinke  you  have  spoken  jestingly,  Lady 
Duchesse,  (quoth  Sancho)  for  I  have  scene  more  then  two 
Asses  goe  to  Governments,  and  'twould  be  no  novelty  for 
me  to  carry  mine. 

Sancho's  discourse  renewed  in  the  Duchesse  more  laughter 
and  content,  and  sending  him  to  repose,  shee  went  to  tell 
the  Duke   all  that  had  passed  betweene   them,  and  both 
of  them  plotted  and  gave  order,  to  put  a  jest  upon  Don 
Quixote  that  might  be  a  famous  one,  and  suting  to  his 
Knightly  stile,  in  which  kind  they  played  many  prankes 
with  him,  so  proper  and  handsome,  that  they  are 
the  best  conteined  amongst  all  the  Adven- 
tures of  this  Grand  History. 

256 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

How  notice  is  given  for  the  dis-enchanting  of 

the  peerelesse  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  which 

is  one  of  the  most  famous  Adventures 

in  all  this  booke. 

REAT  was  the  pleasure  the  Duke  and 
Duchesse  received  with  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  Pansa's  conversation,  and  they  re- 
solved to  play  some  trickes  with  them, 
that  might  carry  some  twi-  lights  and 
appearances  of  Adventures.  They  tooke 
for  a  Motive  that  which  Don  Quixote  had 
told  unto  them  of  Monlcs.inos  Cave,  he- 
cause  they  would  have  it  a  famous  one:  but  that  which  the 
Duchesse  most  admired  at,  was,  that  Sancho's  simplicity 
should  be  so  great,  that  he  should  heleeve  for  an  infallible 
truth,  that  Dulcinea  was  enchanted,  lice  himselfe  having 
beene  the  Enchanter,  and  the  Impostor  of  that  businesse : 
So  giving  order  to  their  servants  for  all  they  would  have 
done,  some  weeke  after  they  carried  Don  Quixote  to  a  Boare- 
hunting,  with  such  a  troope  of  wood-men  and  hunters,  as 
if  the  Duke  had  beene  a  crowned  King.  They  gave  Don 
Quixote  a  hunters  sute,  and  to  Sancho  one  of  finest  greene 
cloth  :  but  Don  Quixote  would  not  put  on  his,  saying;  That 
shortly  hee  must  returne  againe  to  the  hard  exercise  of 
Arme>.  and  that  therf'ore  he  could  carry  no  Wardrobes  or 
Sumpters.  Hut  Sancho  tooke  his,  meaning  to  sell  it  with 
the  first  occasion  offered. 

The  wisht-for  day  being  come,  Don  Quixote  armed  him- 
selfe, and  Sancho  clad  himselfe,  and  upon  his  Dapple,  (for 
hee   would   not  leave   him,  though  they  had  given   him  a 
horse)  thrust  himselfe  amongst  the  troope  of  the  Wood- 
3  :  KK  257 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    men.     The  Duchesse  was  bravely  attired,  and  Don  Quixote 

XXXIV       out  of  pure  courtesie  and  manners,  tooke  the  reines  of  her 

How  notice      Palfrey,  though  the  Duke  would  not  consent :  at  last  they 

is  g^en  came  to  a  wood  that  was  betweene  two  high  mountaines, 

enchanting  of  wnere  taking  their  stands,  their  lanes  and  paths,  and  the 

the  peerelesse  hunters  devided  into  severall  stands,  the  chase  began  with 

Dulcinea  del    great  noyse,  hooting  and  hollowing,  so  that  one  could  scarce 

Toboso,  which  heare  another,  as  well  for  the  cry  of  the  dogges,  as  for  the 

moTfamous    sound  of  the  Homes.     The  Duchesse  alighted,  and  with  a 

Adventures  in  sharpe  lavelin  in  her  hand,  shee  tooke  a  stand,  by  which 

all  this  booke.  she  knew  some  wilde  Boares  were  used  to  passe.     The  Duke 

also  alighted  and  Don  Quixote,  and  stood  by  her.     Sancho 

stayed  behinde  them  all,  but  stirred  not  from  Dapple,  whom 

hee  durst  not  leave,  lest  some  ill  chance  should  befall  him, 

and  they  had  scarce  lighted,  and  set  themselves  in  order 

with  some  servants,  when  they  saw  there  came  a  huge  Boare 

by  them,   baited   with   the   dogges,  and   followed   by  the 

hunters,  gnashing  his  teeth  and  tuskes,  and  foaming  at  the 

mouth :  and  Don  Quixote  seeing  him,  buckling  his  shield 

to  him,  and  laying  hand  on  his  sword,  went  forward  to 

encounter  him :  the  like  did  the  Duke  with  his  lavelin ;  but 

the  Duchesse  would  have  beene  formost  of  all,  if  the  Duke 

had  not   stopped  her.      Onely  Sancho,  when   he   saw  the 

valiant  Beast,  left  Dapple,  and  began  to  scudde  as  fast  as 

hee  could,  and  striving  to  get  up  into  a  high  Oake,  it  was 

not  possible  for  him,  but  being  even  in  the  middest  of  it, 

fastned  to  a  bough,  and  striving  to  get  to  the  toppe,  he  was 

so  unlucky  and  unfortunate,  that  the  bough  broke,  and  as 

he  was  tumbling  to  the  ground,  he  hung  in  the  ayre  fastned 

to  a  snagge  of  the  Oake,  unable  to  come  to  the  ground,  and 

seeing  himselfe  in  that  perplexity,  and  that  his  greene  coat 

was  torne,  and  thinking,  that  if  that  wilde  beast  should 

come  thither,  he  might  lay  hold  on  him,  be  began  to  cry 

out  and  call  for  helpe  so  outragiously,  that  all  that  heard 

him,  and  saw  him  not,  thought  verily  some  wilde  beast  was 

devouring  him. 

Finally,  the  Tuskie  Boare   was   laid   along,  with   many 
javelins  points,  and  Don  Quixote  turning  aside  to  Sancho's 
258 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

noyse,  that  knew  him  by  his  note,  he  saw  him  hanging  on    <  IIAITKIl 
the  Oake,  and  his  head  downward,  and  Dapple  close  l>y  him, 
that  never  left  him  in  all  his  calamity,  and  Cid  namete  Ilmv  ""tier 
sayes,  that   hee   seldome   saw   Sancho  without  Dapple,   or  l^1.?'11,. 

ix  i  •     I  i  .11  1      i'    •  1    1    •         I()r  tlH'   U1-- 

Dapple  without  Sancho,  such  was  the  love  and  friendship  ,MM.|i;i!itiii.r,,f 
betwixt  the  couple.  the  peer, 

Don  Quixote  went  and  unhung  Sancho,  who  seeing  him-  DulrimM  .k-1 
selfe  free,  and  on  the  ground,  beheld   the  tonic  place  of  liis  J^JjJJjJJ? 
hunting  sute,  and  it  grieved  him  to  the  soule,  for  hee  thought  mogt  famous 
hee  had  of  that  sute  at  least  an  inheritance.     And  now  they  Adventures  in 
layed  the  Boare  athwart  upon  a  great  Mule,  and  covering  all  this  hooke. 
him  with  Rose-mary  bushes,  and  Myrtle  houghes,  he  wu- 
carried  in  signe  of  their  victorious  spoiles,  to  a  great  field- 
Tent,  that   was  set   up  in   the   midst   of  the   wood,   win 
the  Tables  were  set  in  order,  and  a  dinner  made  ready,  >o 
plentifull  and  well  drest,  that  it  well  shewed  the  bounty  and 
magnificence  of  him  that  gave  it. 

Sancho,  shewing  the  wounds  of  his  torn  garment,  to  the 
Duchesse,  said,  If  this  hail  bcene  hunting  of  the  Han-,  my 
coate  had  not  scene  it  selfe  in  this  extremity:  I  know  not 
what  pleasure  there  can  be  in  looking  for  a  beast,  that  if 
he  reach  you  with  a  tuske,  he  may  kill  you  :  I  have  often 
heard  an  olde  song,  that  saves,  'Of  the  Beares  maist  thou 
be  eat;  as  was  Favila  the  great/  He  was  a  Gothish  King 
(quoth  Don  Quixote)  that  going  a  hunting  in  the  moun- 
taines,  a  Beare  eate  him.  This  I  say  (said  Sancho)  I  would 
not  that  Kings  and  Princes  should  thrust  themselves  into 
such  dangers,  to  enjoy  their  pleasure;  for  what  pleasure  can 
there  be  to  kill  a  beast  that  hath  committed  no  fault? 

You  are  in  the  wrong,  Sancho,  quoth  the  Duke;  for  the 
exercise  of  beast-hunting  is  the  necessariest  for  Kings  and 
Princes  that  can  bee.  The  chase  is  a  shew  of  \Varre,  wh< 
there  be  stratagems,  crafts,  deceits,  to  overcome  the  enemy 
at  pleasure ;  in  it  you  have  sufferings  of  cold  and  intolerable 
heates,  sleepe  and  idlenesse  are  banisht,  the  powers  are 
corroborated,  the  members  agilitated.  In  conclusion,  tis 
an  exercise  that  may  be  used  without  prejudice  to  any 
body,  and  to  the  pleasure  of  every  body,  and  the  best  of 

259 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER  it  is,  that  it  is  not  common,  as  other  kindes  of  sports  are, 

XXXIV  except  flying  at  the  fowle,  onely  fit  for  Kings  and  Princes. 

How  notice  Therefore  (Sancho)  change  thy  opinion,  and  when  thou  art 

is  given  a  Governour,  follow  the  chase,  and  thou  shalt  be  a  hundred 

enUantkTof  times  the  better- 

the  peerelesse       Not  so>  °LU°th  Sancho,  tis  better  for  your  Governour,  to 
Dulcinea  del    have  his  legges  broken,  and  be  at  home :  twere  very  good 
Toboso,  which  that  poore  suiters  should  come  and  seeke  him,  and  hee  should 
is  one  of  the     j^  taking  his  pleasure  in  the  woods :  'twould  bee  a  sweet 
Adventures  in  Government  yfaith.      Good  faith  sir,  the  Chase  and  Pas- 
all  this  booke.  times   are   rather   for   idle   companions   then   Governours : 
My  sport   shall   be   Vyed   Trumpe   at   Christmas,  and   at 
Skettle  pinnes  Sundaies  and  Holidaies;  for  your  hunting 
is  not  for  my  condition,  neyther  doth  it  agree  with  my 
conscience. 

Pray  God,  Sancho  it  be  so  (quoth  the  Duke)  for  to  doe 
and  to  say,  goe  a  severall  way.  Let  it  be  how  'twill,  (said 
Sancho)  for  a  good  paymaster  needes  no  pledge,  and  Gods 
helpe  is  better  then  early  rising,  and  the  belly  carries  the 
legges,  and  not  the  legges  the  belly ;  I  meane,  that  if  God 
helpe  mee,  and  I  doe  honestly  what  I  ought,  without  doubt 
I  shall  governe  as  well  as  a  ler-Falcon,  I,  I,  put  your  finger 
in  my  mouth,  and  see  if  I  bite  or  no. 

A  mischiefe  on  thee,  cursed  Sancho,  quoth  Don  Quixote, 
and  when  shall  wee  heare  thee  (as  I  have  often  told  thee) 
speake  a  wise  speech,  without  a  Proverbe?  My  Lords,  I 
beseech  you  leave  this  Dunce,  for  he  will  grinde  your  very 
soules,  not  with  his  two,  but  his  two  thousand  Proverbs, 
so  seasonable,  as  such  be  his  health  or  mine,  if  I  hearken 
to  them. 

Sancho's  Proverbs  (quoth  the  Duchesse)  although  they 
bee  more  then  Mallaras,  yet  they  are  not  lesse  to  be  esteemed 
then  his,  for  their  sententious  brevity.  For  my  part,  they 
more  delight  mee  then  others,  that  bee  farre  better,  and 
more  fitting. 

With  these  and  such  like  savoury  discourses,  they  went 
out  of  the  tent  to  the  wood,  to  seeke  some  more  sport,  and 
the  day  was  soone  past,  and  the  night  came  on,  and  not  so 
260 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

light  and  calnie  as  the  time  of  the  yeere  required,  it  being    CHAPTER 
about   Mid-summer:    but   a   certaine    dismalnesse   it   had,        \\-\l\ 
agreeing  much  with  the  Dukes  intention,  and  so  as  it  grew  How  notice 
to  be  quite  dark,  it  seemed  that  upon  a  sudden,  all  the  wood        ' 
was  on  h're,  thorow  everv  part  of  it,  and  there  were  heard 
luvre  and  there,  this  way  and  that  way,  an  infinite  com-  the 
pany  of  Cornets,  and   other  warlike  instruments,  and   many  Dulciiieu  iU-1 
troopes  of  horse  that  passed  thorow  the  wood  ;  the  light  of  Toli.»<».  which 
the  fire,  and  the  sound  of  the  warlike  instruments,  did  as  1^^,^ 
it  were'  blinde,  and  stunned   the  eyes  and  eares  of  the  In-  Adventures  in 
slanders,  and  of  all  those  that  were  in  the  wood.     Straight  all  this  booke. 
they  heard  a  company  of  *  Moorish  cry es,  such  as  they  use 

when  they  joyne  battell,  Drums  and  Trumpets  sounded,  and  f.f''''/!™'    . 

n         XL  •  j        f    i    it.   J.  i      it     ,   like  the  cries 

rites,  all,  as  it  were,  in  an  instant,  and  so  fast,  that  he  that  Of  tlie  wildc- 

had  had  his  sences,  might  have  lost  them,  with  the  con-  Irish, 
fused  sound  of  these  instruments. 

The  Duke  was  astonisht,  the  Duehesse  dismayd,  Don 
Quixote  wondred,  Sancho  trembled  :  And  finally,  even  they 
that  knew  the  occasion,  were  frighted  :  their  lea  re  caused 
a  generall  silence,  and  a  Post  in  a  Devils  weede  passed 
before  them,  sounding,  in  stead  of  a  Cornet,  a  huge  hollow 
Home,  that  made-  a  hoaree  and  terrible  novse.  Harke 
you,  Post,  quoth  the  Duke,  What  are  you:'  Whither  goe 
you  ?  And  what  men  of  warre  are  they  that  crosse  over  the 
wood?  To  which  the  Post  answered,  with  a  horrible  and 
free  voyce;  I  am  the  Devill,  I  goe  to  seeke  Don  Quixote  de 
la  Mancha,  and  they  which  come  heere,  are  >i\  troopes  of 
Enchanters,  that  bring  the  peerelesse  Dulcinea  del  Toboso 
upon  a  triumphant  Chariot,  she  comes  here  enchanted  with 
the  brave  French  man  Montesinos,  to  give  order  to  Don 
Quixote,  how  she  may  be  dis-enchanted. 

If  thou  wert  a  Devill,  as  thou  sayest  (quoth  the  Duke) 
and  as  thy  shape  shewes  thee  to  bee,  thou  wouldst  have 
knowne  that  Knight  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha  :  for  hee  is 
heere  before  thee.  In  my  soule  and  conscience  (quoth  the 
Devill)  I  thought  not  on  it ;  for  I  am  so  diverted  with  my 
severall  cogitations,  that  I  quite  forgot  the  chiefe,  for  which 
I  came  for.  Certainely  (sayd  Sancho)  this  Devill  is  an  honest 

261 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    fellow,  and  a  good  Christian  ;  for  if  he  were  not,  he  would 
XXXIV       not  have  sworne  by  his  soule  and  conscience :    And  now 
How  notice      I  beleeve,  that  in  Hell  you  have  honest  men.     Straight  the 
is  given  Devill,  without  lighting,  directing  his  sight  toward  Don 

forthedis-  nuixote  say(j .  ^he  unlucky,  but  valiant  Knight  Monte- 
enchantmffof  .  '  ,  J  .,  ^.  J^r  .  ,  ,  „  ,,  T  &  //. 

the  peerelesse  smos,  sends  mee  to  thee,  O  Knight  of  the  Lyons  (for  mee 
Dulcinea  del  thinkes  now  I  see  thee  in  their  pawes)  commanding  mee  to 
Toboso,  which  tell  thee  from  him,  that  thou  expect  him  heere,  where 

mosTfamous     he    Wil1    mGet    theG  '    f°r    he    hath    Wlth    him    Dulcinea    del 

Adventuresin  Toboso,  and   meanes  to  give  thee   instruction,  how  thou 

all  this  booke.  shalt  dis-enchant  her ;  and  now  I  have  done  my  message,  I 

must  away,  and  the  Devils  (like  me)  be  with  thee :   and 

good  Angels  guard  the  rest.     And  this  sayd,  he  winds  his 

monstrous  Home,  and  turned  his  backe,  and  went,  without 

staying  for  any  answer. 

Each  one  began  afresh  to  admire,  especially  Sancho  and 
Don  Quixote.  Sancho,  to  see  that  in  spite  of  truth,  Dul- 
cinea must  be  enchanted  :  Don  Quixote,  to  thinke  whether 
that  were  true  that  befell  him  in  Montesino^s  Cave,  and 
being  elevated  in  these  dumps,  the  Duke  sayd  to  him ; 
Will  you  stay,  Signior  Don  Quixote  ?  Should  I  not  ?  quoth 
he.  Heere  will  I  stay  couragious  and  undanted,  though  all 
the  Devils  in  Hell  should  close  with  mee.  Well  (quoth 
Sancho)  if  I  heare  another  Devill  and  another  Home,  1 1e 
stay  in  Flanders  as  much  as  heere. 

Now  it  grew  darker,  and  they  might  perceive  many  lights 
up  and  downe  the  wood,  like  the  dry  exhalations  of  the 
earth  in  the  skie,  that  seeme  to  us  to  be  shooting-stars : 
besides,  there  was  a  terrible  noyse  heard,  just  like  that  of 
your  creaking  wheeles  of  Oxe-waines,  from  whose  piercing 
squeake  (they  say)  Beares  and  Wolves  doe  flye,  if  there  be 
any  the  way  they  passe.  To  this  tempest,  there  was  another 
added,  that  increast  the  rest,  which  was,  that  it  seemed, 
that  in  all  foure  parts  of  the  wood,  there  were  foure  en- 
counters or  battels  in  an  instant :  for  there  was  first  a  sound 
of  terrible  Canon-shot,  and  an  infinite  company  of  Guns  were 
discharged,  and  the  voyces  of  the  Combatants  seemed  to  bee 
heard  by  and  by  a  farre  off,  the  Moorish  cries  reiterated. 
262 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Lastly,   the    Trumpets,   Cornets,   and    Homes,   Drums,    CHAPTER 
Canons,  and  Guns,  and  above  all,  the  fcarcfull  noyse  of      XXXIV 
the  Carts,  all  together  made  a  most  confused  and  horrid  H<>\v  notice 
sound,   which  tried    Don   Quixotes    uttermost   courage,  tols£nt'u 
suffer  it:  but  Sancho  was  quite  gone,  and  fell  in  a  swound  J^h  anting  of 
upon  the    Duchesses   coats,  who    received    him,   and    com-  t}u,  jH.l.rt.K.<>l. 
manded   they   should  cast  cold   water  in   his   face;    which  Dull -inca  del 
done,  lie  came  to  himselfe,  just  as  one  of  the  Carts  of  those  Toboso,  which 
whistling  wheeles  came  to  the  place,  foure  lazie  Oxen  drew  is<>»eofthe 

i        -,i     i  i      i          i    .1  ,111   most  famous 

it,  covered  with  blacke  clothes;  at  every  home  they  had  Adventures  in 
a  lighted  Torch  tyed,  and  on  the  top  of  the  Cart  there  all  this  book* 
was  a  high  seat  made,  upon  which  a  venerable  old  man  sate, 
with  a  beard  as  white  as  snow,  and  so  long,  that  it  reached 
to  his  girdle  :  his  garment  was  a  long  gowne  of  blacke 
buckoram ;  for  because  the  Cart  was  full  of  lights,  all 
within  it  might  very  well  bee  discerned  and  scene:  two 
ugly  spirits  guided  it,  clad  in  the  said  buckoram,  so  mon- 
strous, that  Sancho,  after  hee  had  scene  them,  winked, 
because  he  would  see  um  no  more :  when  the  Cart  drew 
neere  to  their  standing,  the  venerable  olde  man  rose  from 
his  seat,  and  standing  up  with  a  loud  voyce,  sayd ;  I  am  Un- 
wise Lyrgander :  and  the  Cart  passed  on,  hee  not  speaking 
a  word  more-. 

After  this,  there  passed  another  Cart  in  the  same  manner 
with  another  olde  man  inthroni/ed  ;  who  making  the  Cart 
stay,  with  a  voyce  no  lesse  lofty  then  the  other,  sayd  ;  I  am 
the  wi>c-  Alquife,  great  friend  to  the  ungratefull  Vrganda ; 
and  on  he  went :  and  straight  another  Cart  came  on,  the 
same  pace;  but  hee  that  sate  in  the  chiefe  seat,  was  no 
old  man  (as  the  rest)  but  a  good  robustious  fellow,  and  ill- 
favoured,  who  when  hee  came  neere,  rose  up,  as  the  rot  ; 
but  with  a  voyce  more  hoarce  and  divellish.  sayd  ;  I  am 
Archelaus  the  Enchanter,  mortall  enemy  to  Amadis  de 
Gaulc,  and  all  his  kindred  :  And  so  on  hee  passed,  all  three 
of  these  Carts  turning  a  little  forward,  made  a  stand, 
and  the  troublesome  noyse  of  their  wheeles  ceased,  and 
straight  there  was  heard  no  noyse,  but  a  sweet  and  con- 
senting sound  of  well- formed  musike,  which  comforted 

263 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

CHAPTER    Sancho,  and  hee  held  it  for  a  good  signe,  and  hee  sayd 
XXXIV      thus  to  the  Duchesse,  from  whom  hee  stirred  not  a  foot, 
How  notice      not  a  j  ot. 

is  given  Madam,  where  there  is  musike,  there   can   bee  no   ill. 

enchantinS"of  Neither  (quoth  the   Duchesse)  where   there   is   light   and 
the  peerelesse  brightnesse.     To  which  (sayd  Sancho)  the  fire  gives  light, 
Dulcinea,  etc.  and  your  bon-fires  (as  we  see)  and  perhaps  might  burne  us  : 
but  musike  is  alwayes  a  signe  of  feasting  and  jollity. 
You   shall  see  that  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  for  he 
heard  all,  and  he  sayd  well,  as  you  shall 
see  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

Where  is  prosecuted  the  notice,  that  Don  Quixote 

had,  of  dis-enchanting  Dulcinea,  with  other 

admirable  accidents. 


HEN  the  delightfull  musike  was  ended,  they 
might  see  one  of  those  you  call  triumphant 
chariots  come  towards  them,  drawne  by 
six  dun  Mules,  but  covered  with  white 
linnen,  and  upon  each  of  them  came  a 
Penitentiary  with  a  Torch,  clothed  like- 
wise all  in  white :  the  Cart  was  twice  or 
thrice  as  big  as  the  three  former,  and  at 
the  top  and  sides  of  it,  were  twelve  other  Penitentiaries,  as 
white  as  snow,  all  with  their  torches  lighted,  a  sight  that 
admired  and  astonish t  joyntly :  and  in  a  high  throne  sate  a 
Nymph,  clad  in  a  vaile  of  cloth  of  silver,  a  world  of  golden 
spangles  glimmering  about  her,  her  face  was  covered  with 
a  fine  cloth  of  Tiffany,  for  all  whose  wrinkles  the  face  of 
a  most  delicate  Damozell  was  seene  thorow  it,  and  the 
many  lights,  made  them  easily  distinguish  her  beauty  and 
yeeres,  which  (in  likely-hood)  came  not  to  twenty,  nor  were 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

under  seventeene  :  Next  her  came  a  shape,  clad  in  a  go  win-    CIIAITKK 
of  those  you   call    Side-garments,   downe   to   her   foot,  her         XXX\ 
head   was  covered    with   a   blacke    vavle  :    hut   even  as  the  U'here  is  pro- 
Cart  came  to   bee  just   over-against    tlie    Dukes   and    Don  S('('uti-<l  the 
<<)uixote,  the  musike  of  the    Hoboyei  CCMcd,  and  the  Harps  J^kjj^ 
and    Lutes   that  came  in    the  Cart   began,  and    the  gowned  had,  of  dis- 
shape  rising  up,  unfolding   her  garment    on   both   sides,  and   enchanting 
taking  her  vaile  oil'  from   her  head,  shut-  discovered    plainelv   1)lll('1! 
the    picture    of  raw-honed    Death,    at    which    Don    Quixote  J^StaSe' 
was  troubled,  ami  Saneho  afrayd,  ami  the  Dukes  made  shew  accident* 
of  some  timorous  resenting.     This  live   Death  standing  up, 
with  a  drow/ie  voice,  and  a  tongue  not  much  waking,  began 
in  this  manner: 

I  Merlin  am,  he  that  in  Hist",  Verses  made 

The)   say,  the  Hevill  to  my  Father  I  on  j>ur|>< 

(A  tale  !  •  eedinir  authori/.ed)  al»urdl\  . 

The  Prince  and  Monarch  of  the  Mairicke  Art.  thesulijr 

And  Register  of  daepe  Astn>h>i:ie.  quired,  and  so 

Succeeding  a:ies,  since,  me  emulate,  translated  ml 

That  onely  seeke  to  >iiiiT  and  l>la/on  fnorth  ,iiin. 

The  rare  exployts  of  those  Kni-rhts  Errant  hrave. 
To  whom  I  hore,  and  l>are  a  likiiiir  irreat. 

Aud  h(»\vsoevei  of  Kni-hanters,  and 
Those  that  are  NVi/.ards  or  M.i^ieiap 
Hard  the  condition  ronirh  and  divelli>-h 
Yet  mine  is  tender,  soft,  and  amorous. 
And  unto  all  friendly,  to  doe  them  i_rood. 

In  the  ohseure  and  darkest  Caves  oi 
Whereas  my  soule  hath  still  heene  enterUin'd 
In  forming  Cirrles  and  of  (  harartt 
1  heard  the  lamentable  note,  of  faire 
And  i»eerele>se  Dulcinea  del  Toln»>o. 

I  knew  of  her  Encliantment  and  hard  hap, 
Her  transformation,  from  a  goodly  Dame 
Into  a  Rustirke  wench.  1  >orry  MM, 
And  shutting  u]>  my  spirit  within  this  hollow. 
This  terrible  and  tierce  Anatomy, 
When  I  had  turn'd  a  hundred  thousand  1> 
Of  this  my  divellish  Science  and  uncouth, 
I  come  to  give  the  remedy  that's  tit. 
To  such  a  griefe,  and  to  an  ill  so  great. 
3:LL 


CHAPTER 
XXXV 

Where  is  pro- 
secuted the 
notice,  that 
Don  Quixote 
had,  of  dis- 
enchanting 
Dulcinea, 
with  other 
admirable 
accidents. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

Oh  Glory  thou  of  all,  that  doe  put  on 

Their  coats  of  steele  and  hardest  Diamond, 

Thou  light,  thou  Lanthorne,  Path,  North-star,  and  Guide 

To  those  that  casting  of  their  sluggish  sleepe, 

And  feather-beds,  themselves  accommodate 

To  use  the  exercise  of  bloody  Armes, 

To  thee,  I  say,  oh  never  prais'd  enough, 

Not  as  thou  ought'st  to  be  :  oh  Valiant ! 

Oh  joyntly  Wise  !  to  thee,  oh  Don  Quixote, 

The  Mancha's  Splendour,  and  the  Star  of  Spain, 

That  to  recover  to  her  first  estate, 

The  peerelesse  Dulcinea  del  Tobos. 

It  is  convenient  that  Sancho  thy  Squire, 

Himselfe  three  thousand,  and  three  hundred  give 

Lashes,  upon  his  valiant  buttocks  both 

Vnto  the  aire  discover'd,  and  likewise 

That  they  may  vex,  and  smart,  and  grieve  him  sore  ; 

And  upon  this,  let  all  resolved  be, 

That  of  her  hard  misfortunes  Authors  were 

My  Masters,  this  my  cause  of  comming  was. 

By  Gad  (quoth  Sancho)  I  say  not  three  thousand ;  but  J 
will  as  soone  give  my  selfe  three  stabs,  as  three  ;  the  Devill 
take  this  kinde  of  dis-enchanting.  What  have  my  buttocks 
to  doe  with  Enchantments  ?  Verily,  if  Master  Merlin  have 
found  no  other  meanes  to  dis-enchant  the  Lady  Dulcinea 
del  Toboso,  shee  may  goe  enchanted  to  her  grave. 

Good-man  Rascall  (quoth  Don  Quixote)  you  Garlicke 
stinkard;  I  shall  take  you,  and  binde  you  to  a  tree,  as 
naked  as  your  mother  brought  you  forth,  and  let  mee  not 
say  three  thousand  and  three  hundreth,  but  He  give  you 
sixe  thousand  and  sixe  hundred,  so  well  layd  on,  that  you 
shall  not  claw  them  off  at  three  thousand  and  three  hundred 
plucks,  and  reply  not  a  word,  if  thou  dost,  He  teare  out  thy 
very  soule. 

Which  when  Merlin  heard,  quoth  he,  It  must  not  be 
so,  for  the  stripes  that  honest  Sancho  must  receive,  must 
bee  with  his  good  will,  and  not  perforce,  and  at  what  time 
hee  will,  for  no  time  is  prefixed  him :  but  it  is  lawfull  for 
him,  if  he  will  redeeme  one  halfe  of  this  beating,  he  may 
receive  it  from  anothers  hand  that  may  lay  it  on  well. 

266 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

No  other,  nor  laying  on  (quoth  Sancho)  no  hand  shall    CHAPTER 
come  neere  me  :  am  I  Dulcinea  del  Toboso^s  Mother  trow       *  *  \  ^ 
ye?  that  my  buttocks  should   pay  for  the  offence  of  her  Where  is  pro- 
eyes?     My  Master  indeed,  he  is  a  part  of  her,  since  every  8e<?tedtill<I 
stitch  while,  liee  calls  her.  My  life,  my  soule,  my  sustenance,  Don  duixote 
my  prop;  hee  may  bee  whipped  for  her,  and  doe  all  that  had,  ofdis- 
is  fitting  for  her  dis-enchanting,  but  for  me  to  whip  my  enchanting 
selfe,  I  *bernounce.  Dulcinea, 

Sancho  scarce  ended  his  speech,  when  the  silver  Nymph  ^^j^i" 
that  came  next  to  Merlins  Ghost,  taking  off  her  thin  vaile,  accidents, 
she  discovered  her  face,  which  seemed  unto  al  to  be  extra-  *^|jgtak 
ordinary  faire,  and  with  a  manly  grace,  and  voice  not  very  stead  of  re- 
amiable,  directing  her  speech  to  Sancho,  she  said,  Oh  thou  nounce,  for  so 
unhappy  Squire,  soul  of  lead,  and  heart  of  corke,  and  en-  it  goes  in  the 
trailes  of  flint,  if  thou  hadst  bin  bidden,  thou  face-flaying 
theefe,  to  cast  thy  selfe  from  a  high  towre  downe  to  the 
ground  :    if  thou    hadst  been   wisht,  enemy  of  mankinde, 
to  eat  a  dozen  of  Toads,  two  of  Lizardes,  and  three  of 
Snakes  :    if  thou  hadst  beene   perswaded  to  kill  thy  wife 
and  children  with  some  truculent  and  sharpe  Scimitar :  no 
marvel    though    thou    sjiouldst   shew    thy   selfe    nice    and 
squeamish  ?   but  to  make  a  doe  for  three   thousand   and 
three  hundred   lashes  (since  the  poorest  schoole-boy  that 
is,    hath    them    every    moneth)    admires,    astonishes,    and 
affrights  all  the   pittifull   entrailes  of  the   Auditors,  and 
of  all  them  that  in  processe  of  time  shall  come  to  the  heare 
of  it :    Put,  oh  miserable  and  flinty  brest :    put,  I  say,  thy 
skittish  Moyles  eyes,  upon  the  bals  of  mine,  compared  to 
shining  stars,  and  thou  shalt  see  them  weep  drop  after  drop, 
making  furrowes,  careeres  and  paths,  upon  the  faire  fields 
of  my  cheekes.     Let  it  moove  thee,  knavish  and  untoward 
Monster,  that  my  flourishing  age  (which  is  vet  but  in  it's  ten, 
and  some  yeeres ;  for  I  am  nineteene,  ana  not  yet  twenty) 
doth  consume  and   wither  under  the  barke  of  a  rusticke 
Labourer :  and  if  now  I  seeme  not  so  to  thee,  tis  a  par- 
ticular favour  that  Signior  Merlin  hath  done  me  who  is 
heere  present,  onely  that  my  beauty  may  make  thee  relent ; 
for  the  teares  of  an  afflicted  fairenesse,  turne  rockes  into 

267 


CHAPTER 
XXXV 

Where  is  pro- 
secuted the 
notice,  that 
Don  Quixote 
had;  of  dis- 
enchanting 
Dulcinea, 
with  other 
admirable 
accidents. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

cotton,  and  Tygres  into  Lambes.  Lash,  lash  that  thicke 
flesh  of  thine,  untame  beast,  and  rowze  up  thy  courage  from 
sloth,  which  makes  thee  onely  fit  to  eat  till  thou  burst,  and 
set  my  smooth  flesh  at  liberty,  the  gentlenesse  of  my  condi- 
tion, and  the  beauty  of  my  face,  and  if  for  my  sake  thou 
wilt  not  bee  mollified,  and  reduc't  to  some  reasonable  termes, 
yet  doe  it  for  that  poore  Knight,  that  is  by  thee ;  for  thy 
Master  (I  say)  whose  soule  I  see  is  traversed  in  his  throte, 
not  ten  fingers  from  his  lips,  expecting  nothing,  but  thy 
rigid  or  soft  answer,  either  to  come  out  of  his  mouth,  or 
to  turne  backe  to  his  stomacke. 

Don  Quixote  hearing  this,  felt  to  his  throte,  and  turning 
to  the  Duke,  sayd;  Before  God,  Sir,  Dulcinea  hath  sayd 
true;  for  my  soule  indeed  is  traversed  in  my  throte,  like 
the  nocke  of  a  crosse-bow.  What  say  you  to  this,  Sancho  ? 
quoth  the  Duchesse.  I  say  what  I  have  sayd  (quoth  Sancho) 
that  the  lashes  I  bernounce.  Renounce  thou  wouldst  say, 
Sancho,  sayd  the  Duke.  Let  your  Greatnesse  pardon  me, 
sayd  Sancho,  I  am  not  now  to  looke  into  subtilties,  nor 
your  letters  too  many,  or  too  few ;  for  these  lashes  that  I 
must  have,  doe  so  trouble  mee,  that  I  know  not  what  to 
doe  or  say :  but  I  would  faine  know  of  my  Lady  Dulcinea 
del  Toboso,  where  shee  learnt  this  kinde  of  begging  shee 
hath:  shee  comes  to  desire  mee  to  teare  my  flesh  with 
lashes,  and  cals  mee  Leaden  Soule,  and  Vntamed  Beast, 
with  a  Catalogue  of  ill  names,  that  the  Devill  would  not 
suffer.  Doz  shee  thinke  my  flesh  is  made  of  brasse?  Or 
will  her  dis-enchantment  bee  worth  any  thing  to  me  or 
no?  What  basket  of  white  linnen,  of  shirts,  caps,  or  socks 
(though  I  weare  none)  doth  shee  bring  with  her,  to  soften 
me  with?  onely  some  kinde  of  railing  or  other,  knowing 
that  the  usuall  proverbe  is,  An  Asse  laden  with  gold,  will 
go  lightly  up  hill;  and  that  Gifts  doe  enter  stone- wals ; 
and  Serve  God,  and  work  hard ;  and,  Better  a  bird  in  the 
hand,  then  two  in  the  bush.  And  my  master  too,  that 
should  animate  mee  to  this  task,  and  comfort  me,  to  make 
me  become  as  soft  as  wool,  he  saies,  that  he  will  tye  me 
naked  to  a  tree,  and  double  the  number  of  my  lashes,  and 

268 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

therefore  these  compassionate  Gentles  should  consider,  that    CHAPTER 
they  doe  not  onely  wish  a  Squire  to  whip  himselfe,  but  a        -\\-\\ 
Governour  also,  as  if  it  were  no  more,  but  drinke  to  your  Where  is  jir«>- 
Cherries,  let  um  learnc,  let  urn  learne  with  a  pox,  to  know  ^'"ted  the 
how  to  aske,  and  to  demand ;  for  all  times  are  not  alike,  ^^SubS 
and  men  are  not  alwayes  in  a  good  humor :  I  am  now  ready  }i.l(i   Ofdis- 
to  burst  with  greefe,  to  see  my  torne  coat,  and  now  you 
come  to  bid  mee  whip  my  selfe  willingly,  I  being  as  farre 
from  it,  as  to  turne  *Cacicke. 

By  my  faith,  Sancho  (quoth  the  Duke)  if  you  doe  not  accidents. 
make  your  selfe  as  soft  as  a  ripe  fig,  you  finger  not  the  #.,    . 
Government.     Twcre  good  indeede,  that  I  should  send  a  ^r  ".^j", 
cruell  flinty-hearted  Governour  amongst  my  Ilanders,  that  amongst  the 
will  not  bend  to  the  teares  of  afflicted  Damozels,  nor  to  the 
intreaties,  of  discreet,  imperious,  ancient,  wise  Enchanters. 
To  conclude,  Sancho,  either  you  must  whip  your  selfe,  or 
bee  whipt,  or  not  bee  Governour. 

Sir  (quoth  Sancho)  may  I  not  have  two  dayes  respite  to 
consider?  No,  by  no  meanes,  quoth  Merlin,  now  at  this 
instant,  and  in  this  place  this  businesse  must  bee  dispatcht, 
or  Dulcinea  shall  returne  to  Montesino's  Cave,  and  to  her 
pristine  being  of  a  Country-wench,  or  as  >]R  is,  she  shall  be 
carried  to  the  Elyzian  fields,  there  to  expect  till  the  number 
of  these  lashes  be  fulfilled.  Goe  to,  honest  Sancho,  sayd  the 
Duchesse,  be  of  good  cheere,  shew  your  love  for  your  Masters 
bread  that  you  have  eaten,  to  whom  all  of  us  are  indebted 
for  his  pleasing  condition,  and  his  high  Chivalry.  Say  I, 
sonne,  to  this  whipping-cheere,  and  hang  the  Devill,  and  let 
feare  goe  whistle,  a  good  heart  conquers  ill  fortune,  as  well 
thou  knowest. 

To  this,  Sancho  yeelded  these  foolish  speeches,  speaking 
to  Merlin  :  Tell  me,  Signior  Merlin,  sayd  he,  when  the  Devill- 
Post  passed  by  heere,  and  delivered  his  message  to  my  Master 
from  Signior  Montesinos,  bidding  him  from  him  hee  should 
expect  him  heere,  because  he  came  to  give  order,  that  my 
Lady  Dulcinea  should  be  dis-enchanted,  where  is  he,  that 
hitherto  wee  have  neither  scene  Montesinos,  or  any  such 
thing  ? 

269 


CHAPTER 
XXXV 

Where  is  pro- 
secuted the 
notice,  that 
Don  Quixote 
had,  of  dis- 
enchanting 
Dulcinea, 
with  other 
admirable 
accidents. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE 

To  which,  said  Merlin,  Friend  Sancho ;  The  Devill  is  an 
Asse,  and  an  arrant  Knave,  I  sent  him  in  quest  of  your 
Master :  but  not  with  any  message  from  Montesinos,  but 
from  me,  for  he  is  still  in  his  Cave,  plotting,  or  to  say 
truer,  expecting  his  dis-enchantment,  for  yet  he  wants  some- 
thing toward  it ;  and  if  hee  owe  thee  ought,  or  thou  have 
any  thing  to  doe  with  him,  He  bring  him  thee,  and  set  him 
where  thou  wilt :  and  therefore  now  make  an  end,  and 
yeeld  to  his  disciplining,  and  beleeve  me  it  will  doe  thee 
much  good,  as  well  for  thy  minde  as  for  thy  body  :  for  thy 
minde,  touching  the  charity  thou  shalt  performe,  for  thy 
body,  for  I  know  thou  art  of  a  sanguine  complection,  and 
it  can  doe  thee  no  hurt  to  let  out  some  bloud. 

What  a  company  of  Physicians  there  be  in  the  world,  said 
Sancho,  even  the  very  Enchanters  are  Physicians.  Well, 
since  every  body  tells  me  so,  that  it  is  good  (yet  I  cannot 
thinke  so)  I  am  content  to  give  my  selfe  three  thousand  and 
three  hundred  lashes,  on  condition  that  I  may  bee  giving 
of  them  as  long  as  I  please,  and  I  will  be  out  of  debt  as 
soone  as  tis  possible,  that  the  world  may  enjoy  the  beauty 
of  the  Lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  since  it  appeares,  contrary 
to  what  I  thought,  that  shee  is  faire.  On  condition  likewise 
that  I  may  not  draw  bloud  with  the  whip,  and  if  any  lash 
goe  by  too,  it  shall  passe  for  currant:  Item,  that  Signior 
Merlin,  if  I  forget  any  part  of  the  number  (since  he  knowes 
all)  shall  have  a  care  to  tell  them,  and  to  let  me  know  how 
many  I  want,  or  if  I  exceed.  For  your  exceeding,  quoth 
Merlin,  there  needs  no  telling,  for  comming  to  your  just 
number,  forth-with  Dulcinea  shall  be  dis-enchanted,  and 
shall  come  in  all  thankefulnesse  to  seeke  Sancho,  to  gratifie 
and  reward  him  for  the  good  deed.  So  you  need  not  bee 
scrupulous,  eyther  of  your  excesse  or  defect,  and  God  forbid 
I  should  deceive  any  body  in  so  much  as  a  haires  breadth. 

Well  (quoth  Sancho)  a  Gods  name  bee  it,  I  yeeld  to  my 
ill  fortune,  and  with  the  aforesaid  conditions  accept  of  the 
penitence. 

Scarce  had  Sancho  spoken  these  words,  when  the  Waites 
began  to  play,  and  a  world  of  guns  were  shot  off,  and  Don 

270 


HISTORIE  OF  DON  QUIXOTE 

Quixote  hung  about  Sancho's  necke,  kissing  his  cheekes  and    CHAPTER 
forehead  a  thousand  times.     The  Duke,  the  Duchcssc,  and  *v 

all    the    by-standers,   were  wonderfully   delighted,    and    the  Whm>  i*  pro- 
Cart   bega'n   to  go   on,  and    passing  by,  the   faire   Dulcinea  st'n.1^''1  tlu> 
inclined   her  head  to  the  Dukes,  and   made  a  low  courtsie  n"^n( 
to  Sancho,  and  by  this  the  merry  morne  came  on  apace,  and  had,  of  dis- 
thc  ilowers  of  the  field  began  to  bloome  and   rise  up,  and  tMu-han' 
the  liquid  Cristall  of  the  brookes,  murmuring  thorow   tin-  l^l'-ii'i'.-i, 
gray  pebbles,  went  to  give  tribute  to  the  Rivers,  that  ex-  ^j^^hh,' 
peeled  them,  the  sky  was  cleere,  and  the  ayre  wholesome,  accidents, 
the    light  perspicuous,  each   by  it  selfe,  and  all   together 
shewed  manifestly,  that  the  day,  whose  skirts  Aurora  came 
trampling  on,  should  be  bright  and  cleere. 

And  the  Dukes   being  satisfied  with  the  Chase,  and   to 
have    obtained    their    purpose   so   discreetly   and    happily, 

Ihev    returned    to    their   Castle,   with    an    intention   to 

second  their  jeast;  for  to  them  there  was  no  earnest 

could  give  them  more  content. 


271 


EDI NBURGH 

T.   6*  A.    CONSTABLE 

Printers  to  Her  Majesty 

1896 


6329 
A2 
1896 
v.3 


Cervantes  Saavedra,  Miguel  de 
The  ^history  of  Don  Quixote 
•of  the  Mancha 


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