CHAP. I.

CID Hamet Benengeli tels vs in the second part 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 giue him comforting meats to eat, good for his heart and braine, from whence in likeli-hood all his ill proceeded. They answe­red, [Page 2] that they did so, and would doe it with all possible loue and care: For they perceiued that their Master continually gaue signes of being in his entire iudgement; at which the two re­ceiued great ioy, 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 vpon any point of Knight Errantry; because they would not endanger the ripping vp of a sore, whose stitches made it yet tender.

At length they visited him, whom they found set vp in his bed, clad in a Waste-coat of greene bayes, on his head a red To­ledo bonet, so dried and withered vp, as if his flesh had beene mommied. He welcommed them, & they asked him touching his health: of it and himselfe he gaue them good account, with much iudgement and elegant phrase, and in processe of dis­course, they fell into State-matters, and manner of Gouern­ment, correcting this abuse, and condemning that; reforming one custome, and reiecting another; each of the three making himselfe a new Law-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 Examinants vndoubtedly beleeued, he was quite well, and in his right minde. The Neece and the old wo­man were present at this discourse, and could neuer giue God thankes enough, when they saw their Master with so good vn­derstanding: But the Vicar changing his first intent, which was, not to meddle in matters of Cauallery, would now make a thorow triall of Don Quixotes perfect recouery; and so now and then tels him newes from Court, and amongst others, that it was giuen 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 discharge it selfe: and that all Chri­stendome was affrighted with this terrour he puts vs in with his yeerely Alarme: Likewise, that his Maiesty had made strong [Page 3] the coasts of Naples, Sicilie, and Malta. To this (sayd Don Quixote) his Maiesty hath done like a most politique Warrior, in looking to his Dominions in time, lest the enemy might take him at vnawares: but if my counsaile might preuaile, I would aduise him to vse a preuention, 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 aduice it was he would giue? for peraduenture (sayd he) it is such an one as may bee put in the roll of those many idle ones that are vsually giuen to Princes. Mine, Good-man Shauer (quoth Don Quixote) is no such. I spoke not to that intent (re­plyed the Barber) but that it is commonly seene, that all or the most of your proiects that are giuen to his Maiesty, are either impossible, or friuolous, either in detriment of the King or Kingdome. Well, mine (quoth Don Quixote) is neither impos­sible, nor friuolous; but the plainest, the iustest, the most ma­nageable and compendious, that may bee contained in the thought of any Proiectour. You are long a telling vs it, M^r. Don Quixote, sayd the Vicar. I would not (replyed hee) tell it you heere now, that it should bee earely to morrow in the eares of some priuy Councellour, and that another 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 M^r. Barber is an honest man. If he were not (sayd the Vicar) I would make it good, and vndertake for him, that he shall be dumb in this busines, vnder paine of excommunication. And who shall vndertake for you, M^r. 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 [Page 4] done then, but that the King cause proclamation to bee made, that at a prefixed day, all the Knights Errant that roue vp 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 are full of those maruels? You should haue braue Don Belianis aliue now, with a pox to me, for Ile curse no other; or some one of that in­uincible linage of Amadis de Gaul: for if any of these were liuing at this day, and should affront the Turke, I faith I would not be in his coat: but God will prouide for his people, and send some one, if not so braue a Knight Errant as those formerly, yet at least that shall not be inferiour in courage; and God knowes my meaning, and I say no more. Alasse (quoth the Neece at this instant) hang me, if my master haue not a desire to turne Knight Errant againe. Then cryed Don Quixote, I must die so, march the Turke vp and downe when he will, and as powerfully as he can, I say againe, God knowes my meaning. Then sayd the Barber, Good Sirs, giue me leaue to tell you of a briefe tale of an accident in Seuil, which because it fals out heere so pat, I must needs tell it. Don Quixote was willing, the Vicar and the rest gaue their attention, and thus he began.

In the house of the mad-men at Seuil, there was one put in there by his kindred, to recouer 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 haue 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 deliuer him from that misery in which hee liued, since by Gods mercy, he had now recouered his lost vnderstanding: 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 [Page 5] 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 perceiued he was in his wits, hee should giue 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 rauing, as might equall his former discretion (as hee told him) he might perceiue by discoursing with him. The Chap­laine would needes make triall, and comming to him, talked with himan houre and more, and in all that time the mad-man neuer gaue him a crosse, nor wilde answer, but rather spoke ad­uisedly, that the Chaplaine was forced to beleeue him to be sen­sible enough; and amongst the rest he told him, the Rector had an inckling against him, because hee would not lose his kin­dreds Presents, that hee might say he was madde by fittes: withall hee said, that his Wealth vvas the greatest vvrong to him in his euill Fortune, since to enioy that, his ene­mies defrauded 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 Rector to bee suspe­cted, and his kindred thought couetous and damnable per­sons, and himselfe so discreet, that the Chaplaine determined to haue 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 giue 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 aduice preuailed nothing with the Chaplaine, to make him leaue him; so hee was forced to giue way to the Arch-bishops order, and to giue him his apparell, which was new and handsome: and when the madde man saw himselfe ci­uilly cladde, and his mad-mans weedes off, hee requested the Chaplaine, that in charity he would let him take his leaue of the mad-men his companions. The Chaplaine told him that hee would likewise accompany him, and see the madde-men that were in the house. So vp they went, and with them some o­thers [Page 6] 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 vnto Gods power nothing is vnpossible. Be of good comfort, trust in him, that since he hath turned mee to my former estate, he will doe the like to you, if you trust in him. I will be carefull to send you some dainty to eat, and by any meanes eat it; for let me tell you what I know by experience, that all our madnesse proceeds from the emptinesse of our stomacks, that fills our brains vvith aire: Take heart, take heart; for this deiecting in misery, les­sens the health, and hastens death. Another madde-man in a Cage ouer-against, heard all the Bachelors discourse, and ray­sing himselfe vpon an olde Matresse vpon which hee lay starke naked, asked aloud, who it was that was going away sound and in his wits. The Bachelor replied: It is I, brother, that am go­ing, for I haue no need to stay heere any longer; for which I render infinite thankes to God, that hath done me so great a fa­uour. Take heed what you say, Bachelor, reply'd the madde-man, let not the Deuill deceiue you; keepe still your foot, and be quiet heere at home, and so you may saue 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 euent will try; God be with you: but I sweare to thee by Iupi­ter, whose Maiesty I represent on earth, that for this dayes of­fence, I will eat vp all Seuill, for deliuering thee from hence, and saying thou art in thy wits; I will take such a punishment on this City, as shall be remembred for euer and euer, Amen. Knowest not thou, poore rascall Bachelor, that I can doe it, since (as I say) I am thundering Iupiter, that carry in my hands the scorching bolts, with which I can, and vse 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 [Page 7] 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 gaue attention 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: for if he be Iupiter and will not raine, I that am Neptune the Fa­ther and god of the waters, will raine as oft as I list, and need shall require. To which (quoth the Chaplaine) Nay, M^r. Neptune, it were not good angring M^r. Iupiter. I pray stay you here still, and some other time, at more leisure and opportunitie, we wil returne for you againe. The Rector and standers by began to laugh, and the Chaplaine grew to bee halfe abashed: the Bachelor was vn­clothed, there remained, and there the Tale ends.

Well; is this the Tale, M^r. Barber (quoth Don Quixote) that because it fell out so pat, you could not but relate it? Ah, goodman Shauester, goodman Shauester, how blind is he that sees not light through the bottome of a Meale-siue? and is it possible that you should not know, that comparisons made betwixt wit, & wit, va­lour and valour, beauty and beauty, and betwixt birth and birth, are alwayes odious & 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 vnderstand the errour it is in, in not renewing that most happy Age, in w^ch the Order of Knight Errantry did flourish: But our depraued times deserue not to en­ioy so great a happines, as former Ages, when Knights Errant vn­dertook 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 siluer, and such rich stuffes as these they weare, rather then Maile, with which they should arme themselues. You haue no Knight now that will lye vpon the bare ground, subiect to the rigour of the ayre, armed Cap a Pie: None now that vpright on his stirrops, & leaning on his Launce, striues to be head sleepe (as they say your Knights Er­rant did:) You haue none now, that comming out of this wood, enters into that mountaine, and from thence tramples ouer a bar­ren and des [...]rt shore of the Sea, most commonly stormy and vn­quiet; and finding at the brinke of it some little Cock-boat, with­out [Page 8] Oares, Saile, Mast, or any kinde of tackling, casts himselfe in­to it with vndanted courage, yeelds himselfe to the implacable waues of the deepe Maine, that now tosse him as high as Heauen, and then cast him as low as hell, & he exposed to the ineuitable tempest, when he least dreames of it, findes himselfe at least three thousand Leagues distant from the place where he embarqued himselfe: and leaping on a remote and vnknowne shore, lights vpon successes worthy to be written in brasse, & not parchment. But now sloth triumphs vpon industry, idlenesse on labour, vice on vertue, presumption on valour, the Theorie on the Practice of Armes, which onely liued 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 vndaunted then Perian of Gaule? who a greater vndertaker 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 inuincible 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 Maiesty would bee well serued, and might saue 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 deliuers mee not, and his Iupiter (as goodman Barber talkes) raines not; heere am I that will raine when I list: this I speake, that goodman Bason may know I vnderstand him.

Truly M^r: 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 whether I ought or no, Sir, replyed Don Quixote. Then (quoth the Vicar) well, goe to: I haue not spoken a word hitherto, I would not willingly [Page 9] remaine with one scruple which doth grate and gnaw vpon my conscience, sprung from what M^r. Don Quixote hath here told vs. For this and much more you haue full liberty, good Master Vicar (said Don Quixote) and therefore tell your scruple, for sure it is no pleasure to continue with a scrupulous conscience. Vnder correction (quoth the Vicar) this it is, I can by no means be perswaded that all that troope of Knights Errant which you named, were euer 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 haue falne, who belieue not that there haue beene such Knights in the world: and I my selfe many times in diuers companies, and vpon seuerall occasions, haue laboured to shew this common mistake, but sometimes haue failed in my pur­pose, at [...]thers not; supporting it vpon the shoulders of Truth, which is so infallible, that I may say, that with these very eyes I haue 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 iust as I haue delineated A­madis, I might in my iudgement paint and decipher out as ma­ny Knights Errant, as are in all the Histories of the world: for 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 M^r. Don Quixote (quoth the Barber) might Gy­ant Morgante be? Touching Gyants (quoth Don Quixote) there be different opinions whether there haue beene any or no in the world: but the holy Scripture, which cannot erre a iot in the truth, doth shew vs plainely that there were, telling vs the story of that huge Philistine Golias, that was seuen cubits and a halfe high, which is an vnmeasurable greatnesse. Besides, in the Ile of Sicilia, there haue beene found shanke-bones, and shoulder-bones so great, that their bignesse shewed their ow­ners to haue beene Gyants, and as huge as high towers, which Geometry will make good. But for all this, I cannot easily tell [Page 10] you how big Morgante was, though I suppose he was not very tall; to which opinion I incline, because I finde in his history, where there is particular mention made of his Acts, that many times hee lay vnder 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 twelue 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 exceptions and extremely cholericke, a louer of theeues 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 behaued. If Orlando (said the Vicar) was so sweet a youth as you describe him, no maruell though the faire Angelica disdained him, and left him, for the handsome, briske and conceited beard-budding Medor, and that she had rather haue 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 giue her in token of his thankfulnesse to his friends loue, 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,

And vndoubtedly this was a kinde of prophesie, for Poets are called Ʋates, that is, South-sayers: and this truth hath beene cleerely seene, for since that time, a famous Andaluzian Poet wept; and sung her teares: and another famous and rare Poet of [Page 11] Castile her beauty. But tell mee, M^r. Don Quixote (quoth the Barber) was there euer any Poet that wrote a Satyre against this faire Lady, amongst those many that haue written in her praise? I am well 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 fained Mistresses, (fained indeed, because they faine they loue them) to reuenge themselues with Satyres & Li­bels; a reuenge truely vnworthy noble spirits: but hitherto I haue not heard of any infamatory verse against the Lady Ange­lica, that hath made any hurly burly in the world. Strange, quoth the Vicar. With that they might beare the Neece and the olde woman (who were before gone from them) keep a noyse without in the Court: so they went to see what was the matter.

CHAP. II.

THe 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 stroue with them for entrance to see Don Quixote, who kept the doore against him. What will this bloud-hound haue heere? sayd they, Get you home to your own house, for you are he & 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 distracted, ring-led, and carried astray, and not your Ma­ster: twas he that led mee vp and downe the world, and you deceiue you selues and vnderstand by halues: 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 gouerne, better then foure [Page 12] Cities, or foure of the Kings Iudges. For all that (sayd the olde woman) you come not in heere, you bundle of mischiefe and sacke of wickednesse, get you home and gouerne there, and sow your graine, and leaue seeking after Ilands 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 vpon poynts that might not be for his reputation, he called him to him, and commanded the women to be silent, and to let him in. Sancho entred, and the Vicar and Barber tooke leaue of Don Quixote, of whose recouery they di­spaired, seeing how much he was bent vpon his wilde thoughts, and how much he was besotted with his damned Knights Er­rant. So (quoth the Vicar to the Barber) you shall quickly, Gos­sip, perceiue, when we least thinke of it, that our Gallant takes his slight againe by the riuer. No doubt (sayd the Barber) but I wonder not so much at the Knights madnesse, as the Squires simplicity, that belieues so in the Ilands, and I thinke all the Art in the world will not driue that out of his noddle. God mend them (sayd the Vicar) and let vs expect what issue the mul­titude of this Knight and Squires absurdities will haue: for it seemes they were both framed out of one forge, at it were, for the Masters madnes without the Seruants folly, 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 vs all when they haue done, for they are not so mannerly as not to harken. In the Interim, Don Quixote locked in Sancho, & thus discoursed with him: I am very sorry, Sancho, you should affirme and make good, that I was hee that drew you from your dog-hole cottage, knowing that I willing­ly left mine, a Palace in comparison; wee went out ioyntly, so we marched on, & so we held our whole peregrination; both of vs hauing vndergone the same lot, the same fortune; & if once thou wast tossed in a blanket, I haue beene banged an hundred times, and heerein haue I the aduantage 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 [Page 13] art deceiued, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote: for according to the saying, Quando caput dolet, &c. I vnderstand no other language but mine owne, said Sancho. Why I mean (replied 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 seruant, in which respect, the ill that touch­eth me, must concerne and grieue thee, and so thine me. Indeed (quoth Sancho) it ought to bee so: but when I was tossed in the blanket, my head stood aloofe, like a part, beholding me fly in the aire, without any feeling my griefe, and since the mem­bers are bound to suffer for the head, the head in requitall should also suffer for them. You meane, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) that I had no feeling of your being tossed? And if you meane so, doe not, neither imagine any such thing: for at that time, I was more vext in spirit, then thou couldst bee in body: but leaue we this for the present; for wee shall haue 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 restoring to the world, the long forgotten order of Knight Errantry? To con­clude, I would haue 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 seruants, to tell the naked truth to their Masters, in its natiue colour, without increasing it by flattery, or diminishing it for any other vaine respect; And I would haue 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 haue another manner of world, and other ages would be called iron, and not ours, and this would bee the golden age. And let mee aduise 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) vpon condition that you shall not bee angry at what I shall tell you, since you will haue the naked truth, without any other clothing then what I haue seene her with. By no meanes will I [Page 14] 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 ordinary Gentle-men say, that not containing your selfe within the limits of Gentrie, you will needs be-Don your selfe, and be a man of honour, ha­uing but three or foure acres of land, and a rag before, and ano­ther behinde. The Knights say, they would not haue your poore Squires bee ranked with them, that clout their owne shooes, and take vp a stitch in their owne blacke stockings with greene silke. That concernes not me (quoth Don Quixote) for thou seest that I goe alwaies well clad, and neuer 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 vnfortunate: a third sort, that you are affable, but impertinent: and thus they descant vpon vs, that they leaue neither you nor me a sound bone. Why looke thee, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) wheresoeuer vertue is emi­nent, it is persecuted: few or none of those braue Hero's that haue liued, haue scaped malicious calumniation. Iulius Caesar, that most couragious, most wise, most valiant Captaine, was no­ted to be ambitious, and to be somewhat slouenly in his appar­rell and his conditions. Alexander, who for his exploits ob­tained the title of Great, is said to haue beene giuen to drunken­nesse: Hercules, hee with his many labours, was said to haue beene lasciuious and a Striker: Don Galaor, brother to Amadis de Gaul, was grudged at for being offensiue: and his Brother for a sheepe-biter. So that, Sancho, since so many worthy men haue beene calumniated, I may well suffer mine, if it haue 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, Ile bring you one hither by and by, that shall tell vm you all with­out [Page 15] missing a scrap; for last night Bartholomew Carrasco's sonne arriued, that comes from study from Salamanca, and hath pro­ceeded Bachelour, and as I went to bid him welcome home, he told me that your History was in print, vnder the Title of the most Ingenious Gentle-man Don Quixote de la Mancha; and hee tels mee that I am mentioned too, by mine owne name of Sancho Pansa, and Dulcinea del Toboso is in too, and other mat­ters that passed betwixt vs, at which I was amazed, and blessed my selfe how the Historian that wrote them, could come to the knowledge of them. Assure thee, Sancho (said Don Quixote) the Author of our History is some Sage Enchanter: for such are not ignorant of all secrets they write. Well (said Sancho) if hee were wise and an Enchanter, I will tell you according as Samson Carrasco told me (for thats the mans name that spoke with me) that the Authors name of this History is Cid Hamete It should be Benengeli, but Sancho simply mistakes, as followeth in the next note. Beregena. That is the name of a Moore, sayd Don Quixote. It is very like (quoth Sancho) for your Moores are great louers of Berengena is a fruit in Spain, which they boyle with sod meat, as we do carrats, and here was Sancho's simpli­city in mista­king, and to thinke that name was gi­uen the Au­thor for lo­uing the fruit. Beren­gens. Sancho (said Don Quixote) you are out in the Moores sir­name, which is Cid Hamete Benengeli, and Cide in the Arabicke signifieth Lord. It may bee so (quoth Sancho) but if you will haue the Bachelour come to you, Ile bring him to you flying. Friend (quoth Don Quixote) thou shalt doe mee a speciall plea­sure, for I am in suspence with what thou hast told me, and will not eat a bit till I am informed of all. Well, I goe for him (sayd Sancho;) And leauing his Master, went for the Bachelor, with whom a while after hee returned, and the three had a passing pleasant Dialogue.

CHAP. III.

DOn Quixote was monstrous pensatiue, expecting the Bachelour Carrasco, from whom he hoped to heare the newes of himselfe in print (as Sancho had told him) and [Page 16] he could not be perswaded that there was such a History, since yet the bloud of enemies, killed by him, was scarse dry vpon his sword blade, and would they haue his noble acts of Chiualry already in the Presse? 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 the most remarkable of any Knight Errant: If an enemy, to an­nihilate them, and clap vm beneath the basest and meanest that euer were mentioned of any inferior Squire, although (thought he to himselfe) no acts of Squire were euer 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 Loue with some indecency, that might redound to the lessening and preiudice of his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso's honesty, he desired that he might declare his constancy, and the decorum that hee had euer kept toward her, contemning Queenes and Empresses, and Damo­sels of all sorts, keeping distance with violencies of naturall mo­tions. Sancho and Carrasco found him thus tossed and turmoy­led in these & many such like imaginations, whom Don Quixote receiued with much courtesie.

This Bachelour, though his name was Samson, was not very tall, but a notable Wag-halter, leane-faced, but of a good vnder­standing; he was about foure and twenty yeeres of age, 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 vpon his knees be­fore him, saying, Good M^r. Don Quixote, giue me your Great­nesse his hand, for by the habit of S^t. Peter, which I weare, you are, Sir, one of the most complete Knights Errant, that hath beene, or shall be vpon the roundnesse of the earth. Well fare, Cid Hamete Benengeli, that left the stories of your Greatnesse to posterity, and more then well may that curious Author fare, that [Page 17] 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 [...] is (quoth Samson) that vpon my knowledge, at this day, there bee printed aboue twelue thousand copies of your History: if not, let Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia speak, where they haue beene printed, and the report goes, that they are now printing at Antwerp, and I haue 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 giue a man vertuous and eminent content in, is, to see him­selfe liuing, and to haue a good name from euery 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 attempting of dangers, your pati­ence in aduersities, & your sufferance as well in misfortunes, as in your wounds, your honesty and constancy in the so Platonick loues of your selfe, and my Lady Donna Dulcinea del Toboso. I neuer (replied Sancho) heard my Lady stiled Don before, onely the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and there the History erreth som­what. This is no obiection of moment (said Carrasco.) No tru­ly (quoth Don Quixote) but tell me, Signior Bachelour, which of the exploits of mine are most ponderous in this History?

In this (said the Bachelour) there bee different opinions, as there bee different tastes: Some delight in the aduenture of the winde-mils, that you tooke to be Briareans and Gyants: Others in that of the fulling-hammers: This man in the description of the two Armies, which afterwards fell out to be two flockes of sheepe; That man doth extoll your aduenture of the dead man, that was carried to be buried at Segouia: One saith, that that of the freeing of the gally-slaues goes beyond them all: Another, that none comes neere that of the Benitian Gyants, with the [Page 18] combate of the valorous Biscayner. Tell mee (said Sancho) S^r. Bachelour, comes not that in of the Yangnesian Carriers? when our precious Rozinante longed for the forbidden fruit? The wise man (said Samson) left out nothing, he sets downe all most punctually, euen to the very capers that Sancho fetcht 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 Cauallery, which can neuer bee full of prosperous successes. For all that (replied the Bachelour) there be some that haue read your History, that would bee glad the Authors had omitted some of those infinite bastings, that in di­uers encounters, were giuen S^r. 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 must redound to the misprizing of the chiefe per­son of the History. Aeneas i'faith was ne're so pitifull, as Virgil paints him out: Nor Vlisses so subtill, as Homer describes him. True it is (sayd Samson) but it is one thing to write like a Poet, and another like an Historian; the Poet may say or sing things, not as they were, but as they ought to haue beene: And the Hi­storian must write things, not as they ought to bee, but as they haue beene, without 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 neuer tooke measure of his Worships shoulders, but they tooke it of all my body too: but no maruell, for as my Master himselfe saith, the rest of the parts must participate of the heads griefe. Sancho, you are a Crack-rope (quoth Don Quixote) I'faith you want no memory, when you list to haue it. If I would willingly forget those cudgellings that I haue had, the bunches yet fresh on my ribs would not con­sent. Peace, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) and interrupt not the Bachelour, whom I request to proceede, and tell mee what is [Page 19] 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. Personages, and not Parsonages, you would say Sancho (qd. 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 haue some, that had as liefe heare you speake, as the best there: though others will not sticke to say, you were too credulous to beleeue, that your gouernment of the Iland offered by S^r. Don Quixote heere present, might be true.

There is yet sun-shine vpon the wals (quoth Don Quixote) and when Sancho comes to be of more yeeres, with the experi­ence of them, he will be more able and fit then now, to bee a Gouernour. By the Masse (said Sancho) if I bee not fit to go­uerne an Iland at these yeeres, I shall neuer gouerne, though I come to be as old as Methusalem; the mischiefe is, that the said Iland is delaid I know not how, and not that I want braine to gouerne it. Leaue all to God, Sancho (said Don Quixote) for all will be well, and perhaps better then you thinke for; and the leaues in the tree mooue not without the will of God.

Tis true indeed (said Samson) for if God will, Sancho shall not want a thousand Ilands, much lesse one. I haue seene (sayd Sancho) of your Gouernours in the world, that are not worthy to wipe my shooes, and for all this, they giue vm titles, and are serued in plate. Those are not Gouernours of Ilands (replied Samson) but of other easier Gouernments: for they that gouerne Ilands, must bee at least Grammarians. For your Gra, I care not, but your Mare I could like well enough: but leauing this gouernment to Gods hands, let him place me where he pleaseth: I say, S^r. 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 speakes of me, doe not cloy the Reader, for by the faith of a Christian, if he had spoken any thing of mee not befitting an In Spanish Christiano [...]ie [...]o, a name they desire to be distinguisht from the Moores by. old Christian as I am, I should make deafe men heare on't. That were to worke miracles, said Samson. Mira­cles or not miracles (quoth Sancho) euery man looke how hee speaks or writes of men, and set not down each thing that comes [Page 20] into his noddle in a mingle-mangle. One of the faults that they say (said Carrasco) is in that History, is this; that his Author put in it a certaine Nouell or Tale, intitled the Curious Impertinent, not that it was ill, or not well contriued, but that it was vnsea­sonable for that place, neither had it any thing to doe with the History of Don Quixote.

Ile 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 vn­awares and without iudgement vndertooke it, hab-nab, as Orba­neja the Painter of Vbeda, who being asked what he painted, an­swered, As it happens, sometimes he would paint yee a Cocke, but so vnlike, that he was forced to write vnderneath it in Go­thish letters, This is a Cocke: and thus I beleeue it is with my History; that it hath neede of a Coment to make it vnderstood.

No surely (replied Samson) it is so conspicuous, and so void of difficulty, that children may handle him, youths may read him, men may vnderstand him, and old men may celebrate him: To conclude, he is so gleaned, so read, and so knowne to all sorts of people, that they scarse see a leane horse passe by, when they say, There goeth Rosinante: And amongst these, Pages are most giuen to read him: You haue 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 seene; for all ouer it, there is not to be seene a dishonest word, or one like one; nor an imagina­tion 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 Nouels and strange Tales, my Storie affording him matter enough; belike, he holds himselfe to the prouerbe of chaffe & hay, &c. Well, Ile tell you, out of mentio­ning onely my thoughts, my sighs, my teares, my honest wi­shes, and my on-sets, he might haue made a greater volume then all Tostatus works. Indeed, Signior Bachelor, all that I conceiue, [Page 21] is, that to write a History, or any other worke of what sort soe­uer, a man had need of a strong iudgement and a ripe vnderstan­ding: To speake wittily, and write conceits, belongs 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 & reall, and where truth is, there God is, in-asmuch as concerneth truth, howsoeuer; you haue 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:) but ma­ny times it fals out, that those that haue worthily hoorded vp, and obtained great fame by their writings, when they commit them to the Presse, they either altogether lose it, or in something lessen it. The reason of it (quoth Samson) is this, that as the prin­ted workes are viewed by leisure, their faults are easily espied, and they are so much the more pried into, by how much the greater the Authors fame is: Men famous for their wits, great Poets, illustrious Historians, are alwaies or for the most part en­uied by them, that haue a pleasure and a particular pastime, to iudge of other mens writings, without publishing their owne. That's not to bee wondred at (cries Don Quixote) for there bee many Diuines that are nothing worth in a pulpit, and are excel­lent in knowing the defect or excesse of him that preacheth. All this (said Carrasco) S^r. 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 vm 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 haue pleased very few. Rather contrarie (saies Samson) for as Stul­torum [Page 22] infinitus est numerus, an infinite number haue 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 hee was stole, and not long after wee see him mounted vpon 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 Morena, for he neuer mentions them more, and there be many that desire to know what became of them, and how he imployed them, which is one of the essentiall points in the worke.

Master Samson (said Sancho) I am not now for your reckon­ings or relations, for my stomacke is faint, and if I fetch it not again with a sup or two of the old Dog, it will make me as gaunt as Saint Lucia; I haue it at home, and my Pigs-nie staies for me, when I haue dined I am for ye, and will satisfie you & 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 expecting 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 in­vitement, and so staid dinner: Beside their ordinary fare, they had a paire of houshold Pigeons added; at table they discoursed of Cauallery, Carrasco followed his humour, the banquet was ended, and they slept out the heat: Sancho returned, and the former discourse was renewed.

CHAP. IV.

SAncho came backe to Don Quixotes house, and turning to his former discourse, said: Touching what, M^r. Samson de­sired [Page 23] 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 vnfortu­nate aduenture of the Gally-slaues, & the dead man that was car­rying to Segouia; my Master & I got vs into a thicket, where he leaning vpon his launce, & I vpon my Dapple, both of vs well bruized and wearied with the former skirmishes, we fell to sleep as soundly, as if we had beene vpon foure feather-beds, especi­ally I, that slept so soundly, that he, whosoeuer hee was, might easily come and put me vpon foure stakes, which he had fastned vpon both sides of my pack-saddle, vpon which he left me thus mounted, and without perceiuing it, got my Dapple from vn­der 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 selfe-same slight got his horse from vnder 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 vpon the ground: then I looked for mine Asse, but not finding him, the teares came to mine eyes, 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 vpon the selfe-same Dapple. I know not what to say to that (quoth Sancho) but that either the Historian was deceiued, 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 vpon my selfe (quoth Sancho) and on my wife and children, & they haue been the cause that she hath endured my Iournies and Careeres, which I haue fetched in my Master [Page 24] Don Quixotes seruice: for if I should haue returned empty, and without mine Asse, I should haue been welcommed with a pox: and if you'l 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 haue had in these voyages were to be paid in money, though euery one of them were taxed but at three farthings apiece, an hundred Pistolers more would not pay mee the halfe of them, and let euery man looke to himselfe, and not take white for blacke, and blacke for white, for euery 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, S^r. Bachelour (said Don Quixote) to bee men­ded in this Legend? Yes Mary is there (said he) but nothing so important as what hath beene mentioned. Perhaps the Author promiseth a second part (quoth Don Quixote?) He doth (said Samson) but saith, hee neither findes nor knowes who hath it, so that it is doubtfull, whether it will come out or no: so that partly for this, and partly because some hold that second parts were neuer good; and others, that there is enough written of Don Quixote, it is doubted, that there will bee no second part, although some more Iouiall then Saturnists, cry out; Let's haue more Quixotismes: Let Don Quixote assault, and Sancho speake, let the rest bee what they will, this is enough. And how is the Authour enclined?

To which (said Samson) when hee hath found this History, 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 vpon Christmas Eeues: for your hasty work is neuer well per­formed: let that M^r. Moore haue a care of his businesse, for my Master and I will furnish him with rubbish enough at hand, in [Page 25] matter of aduentures, 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 heerein an hay-mow; well, let it come to scanning, and hee shall see whether wee bee defectiue: This I know, that if my Master would take my coun­saile, hee should now bee abroad in the Champion, remedying grieuances, 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 eares, which Don Quixote tooke to be most auspicious, and resolued within three or foure dayes af­ter to make another sally, and manifesting his minde to the Ba­chelor, asked his aduice to know which way hee should begin his iourney; 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 more fame then all the Knights of Aragon, which were aboue 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, M^r. Samson, (said Sancho) for my Master will set vpon an hundred armed men, as a boy would vpon halfe a doozen of young Melons; Body of the world, S^r. Ba­chelour, there is a time to attempt, a time to retire, all must not be Sainte Iacques, and vpon vm. Besides, I haue heard, and I Santiago, y Cier­ra Esp [...]na. As we vse in Eng­land, Saint George and the Victory. beleeue from my Master himselfe, (if I haue 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 haue him fly, nor follow, without there be reason for it: but aboue all, I wish that if my Master carry me with him, it be vpon condition, that he fight for vs both, and that I be tied to nothing but waiting vp­on 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 (M^r. Samson) striue not to hoord [Page 26] vp a fame of being valiant, but of the best and trustiest Squire that euer serued Knight Errant: And if Don Quixote my Ma­ster, obliged thereunto by my many seruices, will bestow any Iland on mee, of those many, his Worship saith, wee shall light vpon, I shall be much bound to him: and if he giue mee none, I was borne, and one man must not liue 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 Gouernour; and what doe I know, whe­ther in these kindes of gouernments, the Deuill 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, Heauen should prouide some Iland for me, or any such like thing, I am not so very an Asse as to refuse it, according to the Prouerbe, Looke not a giuen horse in the mouth.

Friend Sancho (quoth Carrasco) you haue spoken like an O­racle: Notwithstanding, trust in God and M^r. Don Quixote, that he will giue you not onely an Iland, but a Kingdome too. I thinke one aswell as tother (quoth Sancho) and let me tell you, M^r. Samson, (said Sancho) I thinke my Masters Kingdome would not bee bestowed on mee in vaine, for I haue felt mine owne pulse, and finde my selfe healthy enough to rule King­domes and gouerne Ilands, and thus I haue told my Master ma­ny times.

Looke yee, Sancho (quoth Samson) Honours change man­ners, and perhaps when you are once a Gouernour, you may scarse know your owne mother. That's to be vnderstood (said Sancho) of them that are basely borne, and not of those that haue on their soules To expresse his not being borne a Iew, or Moore. foure fingers fat of the old Christian, as I haue: No, but come to my condition, which will bee vngrate­full to no body. God grant it (quoth Don Quixote) and wee shal see when the Gouernment comes, for me thinks I haue it be­fore mine eyes. (Which said) he asked the Bachelour whether he were a Poet, and that he would doe him the fauour to make him some verses, the subiect of his farewell to his Mistris Dulci­nea del Toboso, and withall, that at the beginning of euery verse, he should put a letter of her name, that so ioyning all the first let­ters, [Page 27] there might bee read Dulcinea del Toboso? The Bachelour made answer, that though he were none of the famous Poets of Spaine, which they said were but three & 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 seuen­teen letters in the name; and, if hee made foure-staues, of each foure verses, that there would be a letter too much; and if hee made them of fiue, 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 staues there might be read, Dulcinea del Toboso. By all meanes (quoth Don Quixote) let it be so: for if the name be not plaine and conspicuous, there is no woman will beleeue the meeter was composed for her.

Vpon this they agreed, and that eight dayes after their depar­ture should be. Don Quixote enioyned the Bachelour to keep it secret, especially from the Vicar, and The Barber. M^r. Nicholas, his Neece, and the old woman, lest they should disturbe his noble and va­liant resolution. Carrasco assured him, and so tooke leaue, char­ging Don Quixote he should let him heare of all his good or bad fortune, at his best leisure. So they tooke leaue, and Sancho went to prouide for their iourney.

CHAP. V.

THe 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 vnderstanding, and speakes things more acutely then was possible for him, yet hee would translate it, for the accomplishment of his promise, and so goes on, as followeth.

Sancho came home so iocund and so merry, that his wife per­ceiued [Page 28] it a flight-shot off, insomuch that shee needs would aske him; Friend Sancho, what's the matter that you are so ioyfull? To which he answered: Wife, I would to God I were not so glad as I make shew for. I vnderstand you not, husband (quoth shee) and I vnderstand not what you meane, 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.

Looke yee, Teresa (said Sancho) I am iolly, because I am de­termined to serue my Master Don Quixote, once more, who will now this third time sally in pursuit of his aduentures, and I also with him, for my pouerty will haue it so; besides my hope that reioyceth me, to thinke that I may finde another hun­dred Pistolets, for those that are spent: Yet I am sad againe, to leaue thee and my children, and if it pleased God that I might liue quietly at home, without putting my selfe into those Desarts and crosse-waies, which he might easily grant if he pleased and were willing; it is manifest, that my content might bee more firme and wholesome, since the present ioy I haue, is mingled with a sorrow to leaue thee: so that I said well, I should bee glad if it pleased God I were not so contented.

Fie, Sancho (replied Teresa) euer since thou hast been a mem­ber of a Knight Errant, thou speakest so round-about the bush, that no body can vnderstand thee. It is enough (quoth Sancho) that God vnderstands mee, who vnderstands all things, and so much for that: but marke, Sister, I would haue 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 giue and take, with Gyants, Sprights and Hobgoblins, to heare hissing, roaring, bellowing, and bawling: and all this were sweet meat, if we had not to doe with The Carri­ers that beat the Master and man. Vide 1. part. Don Quixote. Yan­gneses and enchanted Moores.

I beleeue indeede (quoth Teresa) that your Squires Errant gaine not their bread for nothing: I shall therefore pray to our Lord, that he deliuer you speedily from this misfortune. Ile tell you, wife (said Sancho) if I thought not ere long to bee Go­uernour of an Iland, I should die suddenly. None of that, Hus­band [Page 29] (quoth Teresa:) Let the hen liue, though it bee with her pip; Liue you, and the Deuill take all the Gouernments in the world, without Gouernment were you borne, without Go­uernment haue you liued hitherto, and without Gouernment must you goe, or bee carried to your graue, when it shall please God. How many be there in the world, that liue without Go­uernments, yet they liue 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, [...] you should chance to see a Gouernment, pray forget not mee and your children: little Sancho is now iust fifteene yeeres old, and tis fit he goe to schoole, if his vncle 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 Gouernment, and indeed a daughter is better ill married, then well Paramour'd.

I' good faith (quoth Sancho) if I haue ought with my Go­uernment, 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 giue her Chapines. high shooes, if in stead of a course petti­coat, a farthingale and silke kirtle, and from little Mal, my Lady Whacham, the girle will not know her selfe, and shee will euery foot fall into a thousand errours, discouering 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: howsoeuer, 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 Prouerbe; Let neighbours children hold together: Twere pretty i'faith 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 liue, Husband: for this forsooth haue I brought vp my daughter? Get you money, Sancho, and for marrying her, let me alone: Why, there's Lope Tocho, Iohn To­cho's [Page 30] sonne, a sound chopping Lad, wee know him well, and I know, he casts a sheepes eye vpon the wench, and tis good mar­rying her with this her equall, and wee shall haue him alwayes with vs, and wee shall bee all one: Parent, sonnes, and grand­sonnes, and sonne in law, and Gods peace and blessing will al­waies be amongst vs, and let not me haue her married into your Courts and Grand Palaces, where they'l neither vnderstand her, nor she them.

Come hither, Beast (quoth Sancho) Woman of Barrabas, why wilt thou, without any reason, hinder mee from marrying my daughter where shee may bring mee grand-sonnes that may be stiled Lordship? Behold, Teresa, I haue alwaies heard mine Elders say, That he that will not when hee may, when hee desi­reth, shall haue nay: And it is not fit that whilst good lucke is knocking at our doore, we shut it: let vs therefore saile with this prosperous winde. (For this and for that which followeth, that Sancho spoke, the Author of the History sayes, hee held this Chapter for Apocrypha.) Doe not you thinke, Bruit-one (sayd Sancho) that it will be fit to fall vpon some beneficiall Gouern­ment, that may bring vs out of want: and to marry our Daugh­ter Sancha to whom I please, and you shall see how she shall bee called Dona Teresa Pansa, and sit in the Church with your car­pet and your cushions, and your hung-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 haue 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 vndoing, yet doe what ye will, make her Dutchesse or Princesse; it shall not bee with my consent: I haue alwaies loued equality, and I cannot abide to see folkes take vpon vm without grounds, I was Christned Teresa, without welt or gard, nor additions of Don or Dona, my fa­thers name was Cascaio, and because I am your wife, they call me Teresa Pansa, for indeed they should haue 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 vpon [Page 31] it, to make it more troublesome, that I shall not be able to beare it, and I will not haue folke laugh at mee, as they see mee walke in my Countesses apparell, or my Gouernesses, you shall haue 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 ouer her head in stead of an Huke, to day she is in her Varthingale and her buttons, and so demure, as if we knew her not: God keepe mee in my seuen wits, or my fiue, or those that I haue, and Ile not put my selfe to such ha­zards; Get you, Brother, to bee a Gouernment or an Iland, 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 ioynt then a lost name, and keepe home, the honest mayd, to bee doing is her trade, goe you with Don Quixote to your aduentures, and leaue vs 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 euer 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 vp without head or feet? What hath your Cascaio, your buttons, or your Prouerbes, or your state, to doe with what I haue sayd? Come hither Cox-combe, foole (for so I may call you, since you vnderstand not my meaning, and neglect your happinesse) If I should say, my daughter should cast her selfe downe some Towre, or she should roue vp and downe the world, as did the Princesse Dona Vrraca, you An Infanta of Spaine. had reason not to consent: But if in lesse then two trap-blowes, or the opening & shutting of an eye, I clap yee a Don and Ladi­ship vpon your shoulders, and bring it out of your stubble, and put it you vnder barne-couer, 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 haue you? Would you know why, Husband (answered Teresa?) for the Prouerbe that sayes; He that couers thee, discouers thee: Eue­ry one passeth his eyes slightly ouer the poore, and vpon the rich man they fasten them, and if the said rich man haue at any [Page 32] time beene poore, there is your grumbling and cursing, and your back-biters neuer leaue, who swarme as thicke as hiues of Bees thorow the streets.

Marke, Teresa (said Sancho) and giue eare to my speech, such as peraduenture you haue not heard in all you life time, neither doe I speake any thing of mine owne, for all I purpose to speak, is sentences of our Preacher, that preached all last Lent in this Towne, who (as I remember) said, that all things that wee see before our eyes present, assist our memory much better, and with more vehemency, then things past.

(All these reasons heere deliuered by Sancho, are the second, for which the Translatour of the History holds 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 apparrell, and with many followers, it seemes hee mooues and inuites vs perforce to giue him respect: al­though our memory at that very instant represents vnto vs some kinde of basenesse, which we haue seen in that personage, the which doth vilifie him, bee it either for pouerty or linage, both passed ouer, 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-behaued, 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 re­uerence him for what hee is, except the enuious, whom the greatest scape not. I vnderstand you not, Husband (replied Teresa) doe what you will, and doe not trouble me with your long speeches and your Rhetoricke: and if you be reuolued to doe what you say. Resolued you must say, Wife (quoth Sancho) and not reuolued. I pray dispute not with mee, Husband (sayd Teresa) I speake as it pleases God, and striue not for more elo­quence: and I tell you, if you persist in hauing you Gouern­ment, take your sonne Sancho with you, and teach him from henceforth to gouerne; for it is fit that the sonnes doe inherit, and learne the offices of their fathers.

When I haue my Gouernment (quoth Sancho) I will send Post for him, and I will send thee monies, for I shall want none, and there neuer want some that will lend Gouernours money when they haue 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 Ile 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 giue order for their departure.

CHAP. VI.

WHilst 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 Vnckle 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 diuert him from so bad a purpose: but all was to no purpose, to preach in a Desart, or to beat cold iron.

Notwithstanding, amongst many other discourses that pas­sed betwixt them, the old woman told him; Truely Master, if you keepe not your foot still, and rest quiet at home, and suffer your selfe to beled thorow mountaines and valleyes, like a soule [Page 34] in Purgatory, seeking after those they call aduentures, which I call misfortunes, I shall complaine on you, and cry out to God and the King, that they remedie it. To which, Don Quixote answered; Woman, what God will answer to your complaints, I know not, nor what his Maiesty will: onely I know, if I were a King, I would saue a labour in answering such an infinity of foolish Petitions, as are giuen him daily: for one of the greatest toyles (amongst many others that Kings haue) 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 vs Sir, In his Maiesties Court bee there not Knights? Yes (answered hee) and many, and good reason, for the adornment and greatnesse of Princes, and for ostentation of the Royall Maiesty. Why? would not your Wor­ship (replyed she) bee one of them that might quietly serue the King your Master at Court?

Looke yee, friend (answered Don Quixote) All Knights can­not be 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 Courtiers, without stirring out of their cham­bers, or ouer the Court thresholds, can trauell all the world o­uer, looking vpon 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 Heauen, 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 vpon euery occasion wee set vpon vm, without standing vpon 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 Sunnes going downe or no, with other ce­remonies of this nature, which are vsed in single combates be­twixt man and man, that thou knowest not of, but I doe. Know further, that the good Knight Errant (although he see ten Gy­ants, that with their heads, not onely touch, but ouertop the [Page 35] clouds, and that each of them hath legs as big as two great towres, and armes like the masts of mighty ships, and each eye as big as a mill-wheele, and more fiery then a glasse ouen) must not be affrighted in any wise, rather with a stayd pace and vn­daunted courage, hee must set on them, close with them; and if possible, ouercome, and make vm 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 haue seene them more then once or twice. All this haue 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 haue spoken, touching your Knights Errant, whose stories, if they were not burnt, they deserue each of them at least to haue a penance inflicted vpon 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 fearce knowes how to make Bone-lace, dares speake and censure the histories of Knights Errant? What would S^r. Ama­dis, haue said if hee should haue heard this? But I warrant hee would haue forgiuen thee, for hee was the humblest and most courteous Knight of his time; and moreouer, a great Protector of Damozels: but such an one might haue heard thee, that thou mightst haue repented thee; for all are not courteous, or pitifull, some are harsh and bruitish. Neither are all that beare the name of Knights, so, truely; for some are of gold, others of Alchymy, yet all seeme to be Knights: but all cannot brooke the touch­stone of truth: You haue some base Knaues that burst againe to [Page 36] seeme Knights, and some that are Knights, that kill themselues in post-haste till they become Peasants: The one either raise themselues by their ambition, or vertue; the others fall, either by their negligence, or vice; and a man had need be wise to di­stinguish betweene these two sorts of Knights, so neere in their names, so distant in their actions.

Helpe me God (quoth the Neece) that you should know so much Vnckle, as were it in case of necessity, you might step into a pulpit, and An vsuall thing in Spaine, that a Frier or Ie­suite (when a fiery zeale takes him) makes his pul­pit in any part of the street, or market-place. preach in the streets, and for all that you goe on so blindely, and fall into so eminent a madnesse, that you would haue vs thinke you valiant, now you are old, that you are strong, being so sickly, that you are able to make crooked things straight, being crooked with yeeres, and that you are a Knight when you are none? for though Gentle-men may bee Knights, yet the poore cannot.

You say well, Neece, in that (quoth Don Quixote) and I could tell thee things concerning linages, that should admire thee, but because I will not mingle Diuinity with Humanity, I say nothing: Marke yee hoe, to foure sorts of linages (harken to me) may all in the world be reduc'd, and they are these. Some that from base beginnings haue arriued at the greatest honours. Others that had great beginnings, and so conserue them till the end. Others, that though they had great beginnings, yet they end pointed like a Pyramis, hauing lessened & 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 greatnesse they now preserue, that from a base and poore shepheard that gaue them their first beginning, haue come to this height, in which now we see them. Many Princes may be an instance of the second linage, that began in greatnesse, and was so preser­ued, without augmentation or diminution, onely kept their in­heritance, containing themselues within the limits of their own Kingdomes peacefully. Thousands of examples there bee of [Page 37] such, as began in greatnesse, and lessened towards their end. For all your Pharaos, your Ptolomies of Aegypt, your Caesars 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 gaue 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 haue nothing to doe, since they only liue, and serue to increase the number of men, without deseruing 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 & 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 couetous begger, for he that possesseth riches, is not happie in them, but in the spending 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-behaued, and officious. not proud, not arrogant, not backebiting, and aboue all, charitable: for in a penie (that he giues cheerefully to the poore) he shewes himselfe as liberall, as he that for ostentation giues 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 iudge of him, and thinke he is well descended: for if he were not, 'twere miraculous, & the reward of vertue hath beene alwaies praise, and the vertuous must needs be praised.

There be two courses for men to come to be wealthie and noble by, the one is Artes, tother Armes. I haue more armes then learning, and was borne (according to my inclination that way) vnder the influence of the Planet Mars, so that I must of force follow his steps, which I meane to doe in spight of all the world, and it is in vaine for you to striue to perswade me, that I should nill what the heauens will me, fortune ordaines, and rea­son [Page 38] requires, and aboue all, my affection desires. Well; in know­ing (as I know) the 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 ending, but that is endlesse. And I know what Bo [...]. our great Castillian Poet said,

Woe is me (said the Neece) my Master too is a Poet, he knowes euery 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 (qd. Don Quixote) if these knightly cogitations did not wrap my senses, there is nothing I could not doe, nor no curiositie should scape me, especially cages, and tooth-pickers. By this one knockt at the doore, & 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 Neece let him in, and his Master Don Quixote went to receiue him with open armes: & they both locked themselues in, where they had another Dialogue as good as the former.

CHAP. VII.

THE olde woman, as soone as shee saw her Master and Sancho locked together, began 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, supposing, that as he was wel spoken, & a late acquaintāce of Don Quixotes, [Page 39] he might perswade him to leaue 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) M^r. 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 ad­uentures: I know not why they giue vm this name. The first time they brought him vs athwart vpon an Asse beaten to pie­ces. The second time he came clapt vp in an Oxe-Wayne, and locked in a Cage, and he made vs beleeue hee was enchaunted, & the poore soule was so changed, that his mother that brought him forth, would not haue knowne him, so leane, so wan, his eies so sunke into his head, that I spent aboue sixe hundreth egges to recouer him, as God is my witnesse, and all the world, and my hennes that will not let me lye. That I well beleeue (quoth the Bachelor) for they are so good, and so fat, and so well nurtured, that they will not say one thing for another if they should burst for it. Well, is there ought else? hath there any other ill lucke hapned more then this you feare, that your Master will abroad? No S^r, (said she:) Take no care (quoth he) but get you home on Gods name, and get me some warme thing to breakefast, and by the way as you goe, pray me the Orison of Saint Apolonia, if you know it, and Ile go thither presently, and you shall see won­ders.

Wretch that I am (quoth shee) the Orison of Saint Apolonia quoth you, that were, if my Master had the toothach, 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 haue proceeded Ba­chelour at Salamanca: doe yee thinke there is no more then to take the degree (said he?) With that, away she goes: and he went presently to seeke the Vicar, and communicate with him, what shall be said hereafter.

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

Sancho said to his Master, I haue now reluc't my wife to let me goe with you whither soeuer you please; reduct you would say, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote.) I haue bid you more then once (if I haue not forgotten) said Sancho, that you doe not correct my words, if so be you vnderstand my meaning, and when you doe not vnderstand them, cry, Sancho, or Diuell, I vnderstand thee not: and if I doe not expresse my selfe, then you may cor­rect me, for I am so focible.

I vnderstand thee not, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) for I know not the meaning of your focible. So focible is (said San­cho) I am so, so. Lesse and lesse doe I vnderstand (said Don Quixote.) Why if you do not vnderstand (said Sancho) I cannot do withall, I know no more, & God be with me. Thou meanest docible I beleeue, and that thou art so pliant, and so taking, that thou wilt apprehend what I shall tell thee, and learne what I shal instruct thee in.

Ile lay a wager (said Sancho) you searched and vnderstood 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 haue 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 aduice 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 giuen 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 vs in Pulpits.

All this is true (saide Don Quixote) but I know not where [Page 41] thou meanest to stop. My stoppe is (quoth Sancho) that your Worship allow me some certaine wages by The cu­stome of Spaine is, to pay their ser­uants wages by the moneth. the moneth, for the time that I shall serue you, and that the said wages be paide me out of your substance, for Ile trust no longer to good turnes, which come either slowly, or meanely, or neuer, God giue mee ioy of mine owne. In a word, I must know what I may gaine, little or much: for the henne layes aswell vpon 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 beleeue, nor hope for) that your Worship should giue mee the Island you promised me, I am not so vngratefull, nor would carrie things with such extremity, as not to haue the rent of that Island prized, and so to discount for the wages I receiued, can­titie for cantitie. Is not quantitie as much worth as cantitie, friend Sancho, answered Don Quixote? I vnderstand you now, said Sancho, and dare lay any thing that I should haue said quan­titie, and not cantitie: but that's no matter, seeing you haue vn­derstood mee. I vnderstand yee very well (answered Don Quixote) and haue penterated the vtmost of your thoughts, and know very well, what marke you ayme at, with the innumera­ble arrowes of your prouerbes.

Looke yee, Sancho, I could willingly affoord you wages, if I had found in any Histories of Knights Errant, any example that might giue me light, through the least chinke, of any wages gi­uen monethly or yeerely: but I haue read all, or the most part of their Histories, and doe not remember that euer I haue read, that any Knight Errant hath allowed any set wages to his Squire. Only I know, that all liued vpon countenance, and when they least dreamt of it, if their Masters had had good lucke, they were rewarded, either with an Island or some such thing equi­ualent, and at least they remained with honour and title.

If you, Sancho, vpon these hopes and additaments haue a minde to returne to my seruice, a Gods name; but to thinke that I will plucke the old vse of Knight Errantry out of his bounds, and off the hindges, is a meere impossibility. So that, Sancho, you may goe home, and tell your Teresa mine intention; and if that shee and you will rely vpon my fauour, bene quidem; and if [Page 42] not, let's part friends; for if my pigeon-house haue Comyns, it will want no Doues. 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 speake thus, Sancho, that you may see, I know as well as you, to sprinkle Prouerbes 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 talkatiue 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 doubtfull and pensatiue, Samson Carrasco entred, and the Neece desirous to heare how he perswaded her Master that hee should not returne to his ad­uentures.

In came Samson, a notable Crack-rope, and embracing him as at first, began in this loud key: Oh flower of Chiualrie, bright light of Armes, honour and mirrour of our Spanish nation: may it please almighty God of his infinite goodnesse, that he, or they, that hinder or disturbe this thy third sally, that they neuer finde it in the Labyrinth of their desires, nor let the ill they wish, for e­uer be accomplished. 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 vnto this Knight, that hee doe no longer withdraw and hold backe the force of his valerous arme, and the courage of his most valiant minde, for with his delaying 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, & are annexed vnto the order of Knight Errantrie. Go on then, my beautifull, my braue Don Quixote, rather to day then to morrow, let your Greatnesse be vpon the way, and if any thing be wanting to your iourney, here am I to supply with my wealth, with my person, and if [Page 43] need 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 actiue 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 heauen 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 Parents, for I will content my selfe with any Squire, since Sancho daignes not to attend mee.

I doe daigne, said Sancho, (all tender) and the teares standing in his eyes, and thus proceeds: It shall not be sayd, Master, for me, No longer pipe, no longer dance; Nor am I made of hardest oake, for all the world knowes, and especially my Towne, who the Pansa's were, from whom I descend; besides, I know and haue searched out, by many good works, & many good words, the desire that your Worship hath to doe me a kindnesse, and if I haue beene too blame to meddle in reckonings concerning my wages, it was to please my wife, who when shee once falls into a vaine of perswading, there's no hammer that doth so fa­sten the hoopes of a Bucket as shee doth, till shee obtaine what she would haue; but howsoeuer, the husband must be husband, and the wife, wife; and since I am a man euery 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 reuolked, and let's straight to our iourney, that M^r. Samsons soule may not suffer; for he saith, his conscience is vnquiet, till hee haue perswaded you to your third sally thorow the world, and I a­fresh offer my seruice faithfully & loyally, aswell and better then anie Squire that euer serued Knight Errant in former times, or in present.

The Bachelour wondred to heare Sancho's manner and me­thod [Page 44] of speaking: for though in the first history he had read of his Master, he neuer thought Sancho had beene so witty, as they there paint him out, yet hearing him now mention will and Co­dicill, reuolking in stead of reuoking, he beleeued all that he had read of him, and confirmed him to be one of the most solemnest Cox-combes of our age, and said to himselfe, that two such mad men, as Master and man, were not in all the world agen.

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 haue time to prouide 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 vn­mercifully, they tore their haire, scratcht their faces, and as your funerall mourners vse, 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 vs heereafter, all by the aduice of the Vicar and the Barber, to whom he had before communicated it. Well, in those three dayes, Don Quixote and Sancho fitted themselues with what they thought they needed, and Sancho hauing set downe the time to his wife, and Don Quixote to his Neece, and the olde woman, toward night, without taking leaue 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 vpon his good Rozinante, and Sancho on his old Dapple, his wallets were stuffed with prouant, and his purse with money that Don Quixote gaue him for their expences. Samson embraced him, & desired him that he might heare of his good or ill fortune, to reioyce 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.

CHAP. VIII.

BLessed be the powerfull Ala (saith Hamete Benengeli) at Ala amongst the Moores, is as much as Mahomet a­mongst the Turkes. the beginning of this eighth Chapter: Blessed bee Ala, which he thrice repeated, and sayd, that he rendred these benedictions, to see that now Don Quixote and Sancho were vpon their march, 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 perswades them they should forget the former Chiualry of the noble Knight, and fix their eyes vpon 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 proceeds, 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 were 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 ouer top his Masters; building, I know not vpon what iudiciall 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 haue beene glad, not to haue 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 vnto him; Friend Sancho, the night comes on vs apace, and it will grow too darke for vs, to reach Toboso ere it be day, whither I am determined to goe, before I vnder­take any aduenture, and there I meane to receiue a benediction, and take leaue of the Peerelesse Dulcinea del Toboso, after which I know and am assured, I shall end and close vp euery dange­rous [Page 46] aduenture; for nothing makes Knights Errant more hardy, then to see themselues fauoured by their Mistresses. I beleeue it (quoth Sancho) but I doubt you will not speake with her, at least, not see her where you may receiue her blessing, if shee giue 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 neuer-enough-praised gentlenesse and beauty? They were not so, but galleries, walkes, or goodly stone pauements, or how call yee vin? of rich and royall Palaces. All this might bee (answered Sancho) but to me they seemed no better, as I remember. 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 brightnesse to mine eyes, will lighten mine vnderstanding, and strengthen mine heart, and make me sole and rare in my wisdome 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 vpon her face and dimmed it. Still doest thou thinke, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote?) Beleeue and grow obstinate, that my Mistris Dulcinea was winnowing, it being a labor so vnfit for persons of quality, that vse other man­ner of exercises and recreation, which shew a flight-shoot off their noblenesse? Thou doest ill remember those verses of our Poet, where he paints out vnto vs, the exercises which those foure Nymphes vsed in their christall habitations, when they aduanced their heads aboue the loued A riuer in Spaine. Tagus, and sat in the greene fields working those rich embroyderies, which the inge­nious Poet there describes vnto vs, all which were of gold, of purle, and wouen with embossed pearles: such was the worke of my Mistris, when thou sawest her, but that the enuy, which some base Enchanter beares to mine affaires, turnes all that should giue me delight, into-different shapes, and this makes me [Page 47] feare, that the Historie of my exploits which is in print (if so be some Wizard my enemie were the Author) that he hath put one thing for another, mingling with one truth a hundreth lies, di­uerting himselfe to tell tales, not fitting the continuing of a true Historie. Oh enuie thou roote of infinite euils, thou worme of vertues.

All vices, Sancho, doe bring a kinde of pleasure with them, but enuie hath nothing but distaste, rancor and rauing. I am of that minde too (said Sancho) & I thinke that in the Historie that Carrasco told vs of, that he had seene of vs, that my credit is turned topsie turuy, and (as they say) goes a begging. Well, as I am honest man, I neuer spoke ill of any Enchanter, neither am I so happie as to be enuied: true it is, that I am somewhat malici­ous, and haue certaine knauish glimpses: but all is couered and hid vnder the large cloake of my simplicitie, alwaies naturall to me, but neuer artificiall: and if there were nothing else in me, but my beliefe (for I beleeue in God, and in all that the Romane Church belieues, and am sworne a mortall enemie to the Iewes) the Historians ought to pittie me, and to vse me well in their writings: but let vm 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 vp and downe from hand to hand, I care not a figge, let vm say what they will.

'Twas iust the same (quoth Don Quixote) that happened to a famous Poet of our times, who hauing made a malicious Satyre against all the Curtizans, 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 vnkindly from the Poet, as­king him, what he had seene in her, that he should not put her amongst the rest, and desired him to enlarge his Satyre, and put her in the spare roome: if not, she would scratch out his eyes: the Poet consented, and set her downe with a vengeance, and shee was satisfied, to see her selfe famous, although indeed infamous. Besides, the tale of the shepherd agrees with this, that set Diana's Temple on fire, which was one of the seuen wonders of the world, because he would bee talked of for it; and although there were an Edict, that no man should either mention him by [Page 48] 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 conserue the Glory and Magnifi­cence of it's founders: tis made like an halfe Orange, exceeding large, and very lightsome, hauing but one window that giues it light, or to say truer, but one round Loouer on the top of it: the Emperour looking on the edifice, there was a Romane Knight with him, that shewed him the deuices and contriuing of that great worke and memorable architecture; and stepping from the Loouer, said to the Emperour: a thousand times, mightie Monarch, haue I desired to see your Maiestie, and cast my selfe down from this Loouer, to leaue an euerlasting fame behind me. I thanke you (said the Emperour) that you haue not performed it, and henceforward, I will giue 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 giue you more moderne examples, What was it bo­red those ships, and left those valorous Spaniards on ground, guided by the most courteous Cortez in the new world?

All these, and other great and seuerall exploits, are, haue bin, and shall be the workes of fame, which mortals desire as a re­ward, and part of the immortalitie, which their famous artes de­serue: though we that be Christian Catholicke Knights Errant, must looke more to the happinesse of another world (which is Eternall in the Ethereall and Celestiall regions) then to the vani­tie [Page 49] of fame, which is gotten in this present fraile age, and which, let it last as long as it will, it must haue 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 vs in.

In Gyants we must kill pride: enuie in generousnesse and noble brests: anger in a continent reposed and quiet minde: ryot and drowzinesse, in temperance and vigilance: lasciuious­nesse, in the loyaltie we obserue to those that we haue made the Mistresses of our thoughts: and sloth, by trauelling vp & downe the world, seeking occasions, that may make vs (besides Chri­stians) famous Knights. These, Sancho, are the meanes, by which the extremes of glory are obtained, which fame brings with it.

All that you haue hitherto spoken (quoth Sancho) I vnder­stand passing well: but I would faine haue you zolue me of one doubt, which euen now comes into my head. Resolue, thou would'st say Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote) speake a Gods name, for I'leanswer thee, as well as I can. Tell me, S^r, said Sancho, these Iulies, or Augusts, and all these famous Knights you talke of, that are dead, where are they now? The Gentiles, said he, vndoubtedly are in Hell: the Christians, if they were good Christians, either in According to the Romish opinion, erro­nious. Purgatorie, or in Hell. Tis very well, but the Sepulchers where the bodies of these great Lordings lye in­terred, haue they Relicks that vse to be han­ged vp in the Papists Chur­ches. siluer lampes burning before them, or are their Chappell walles decked with Crutches, winding sheets, periwigs, legges, and waxe eyes? and if not with these, with what? The Sepulchers of the Gentiles (saide Don Quixote) were for the most part, sumptuous Temples, the ashes of Iulius Caesars bodie were put vpon a huge Pyramis of stone, which at this day, is called Saint Peters needle. The Em­perour Adrians Sepulchre was a great Castle as bigge as a pret­ty village, it was called Moles Adriani, and at this day, the Castle of Saint Angelo in Rome: Queene Artemisia buried her hus­band Manseolus in a Sepulchre, which was held to be one of the seuen wonders of the world: but none of all these, nor ma­ny others the Gentiles had, were decked with winding sheetes, [Page 50] 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, giues sight to the blinde, makes the lame walke, restoreth sicke men, who hath lampes burning before his Sepulchre, whose Chappell is full of deuout people, which vpon their knees adore his Relickes, this man hath greater renowne, and in another world, then euer any of your Gentile Emperours, or Knights Errant euer left behind them.

I grant you that (qd. Don Quixote); Wel, answered Sancho, this fame, these graces, these prerogatiues, how call ye vm? haue the bodies and Relikes of Saints, that, by the approbation & license of our holy Mother the Church, haue their lampes, their lights, their winding sheetes, their crutches, their pictures, their heads of haire, their eyes, and legges, by which they increase mens deuotions, and endeere their Christian fame; Kings carrie the bodies of Saints, or their Reliques vpon 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 haue me inferre from all this, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote?) I meane (said Sancho) that we endeuour to be Saints, and we shall the sooner obtaine the fame we looke after: and let me tell you S^r, that yesterday or tother day, (for so I may say, it being not long since) there were two poore barefoote Friers canonized or beatified, and now many thinke them­selues happie, to kisse or touch, those yron chaines, with which they girt and tormented their bodies, and they are more reue­renced, then is (as I said) Roldans sword in the Armorie of our Lord the King, (God saue him:) So that (Master mine) better it is, to be a poore Frier of what order soeuer, then a valiant Knight Errant: a doozen or two of lashes obtaine more at Gods hands, then two thousand blowes with the launce, whether they be giuen to Gyants, to Spirits, or Hobgoblins.

Al this is true (answered Don Quixote:) but al cannot be Friers, [Page 51] and God Almighty hath many waies, by which he carries his Elect to heauen: Cauallerie is a religion, and you haue many Knights Saints in heauen. That may be (said Sancho) but I haue heard, you haue more Friers there, then Knights Errant. That is (quoth Don Quixote) because the Religious in number are more then the Knights. But there are many Knights Errant (said Sancho.) Many indeede (quoth Don Quixote) but few that de­serue the name.

In these and such like discourses they passed the whole night, and the next day, without lighting vpon any thing, worth rela­tion, for which, Don Quixote was not a little sorrie: at last, the next day toward night they discouered the goodly Citie of To­boso, with which sight Don Quixotes spirits were reuiued, but Sancho's dulled, because he knew not Dulcineas house, nor euer 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 resolued 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 vpon things, thingsindeede.

CHAP. IX.

MIdnight 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, [Page 52] 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 priuate with her Damozels, as great Ladies and Princesses vse to doe. S^r, (quoth Sancho) since, whether I will or no, you will haue my Mistris Dulcinea's house to be a Pa­lace, doe ye thinke neuerthelesse, 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 vs 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 soeuer it be? First of all, to make one thing sure, let's finde the Palace, replide Don Quixote, and then, Sancho, I'le 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.

Well, guide on S^r, (said Sancho) it may be it is so, though I'le first see it with my eyes, and feele it with my hands, and beleeue it, as much as it is now day. Don Quixote led on, and hauing walked about some two hundreth paces, he lighted on the Bulk that made the shadow, and saw a great steeple, which he percei­ued 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 graues: 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 euer found, that Kings houses and Palaces haue beene built in such Allies? S^r, (quoth Sancho) euery country hath their seuerall fashions: It may be, here, in Toboso, they build their great buildings thus, and therefore pray S^r, giue me leaue, to looke vp and downe the Streets, or Lanes that lie in my way, and it may be, that in some [Page 53] corner I may light vpon this Palace (the Diuell take it) that thus mockes and misleades vs. Speake mannerly, S^r, (quoth Don Quixote) of my Mistrisses things, and let's be merry and wise, and cast not the rope after the bucket.

I will forbeare (said Sancho) but how shall I endure, that you will needs haue me be thorowly acquainted with a house, I neuer saw but once, and to finde it at midnight, being you can­not finde it, that haue seene it a million of times? Sirrah, I shall grow desperate (quoth Don Quixote) come hither hereticke. Haue not I told thee a thousand times, that I neuer saw the Peerelesse Dulcinea, nor neuer 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 haue neuer seene her; nor I neither. That cannot be (said Don Quixote) for you told me at least, that you had seene her winnowing of wheate, when you brought me the answer of the letter I sent by you. Ne're stand vpon that (said Sancho) for let me tell you, that I only saw her by heare-say too, & 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 haue neither seene, nor spoken to the Mistris of my soule, shouldst thou say, thou hast neither seene, nor spoken to her, it being otherwise (as thou knowest.) Being in this dis­course, they saw one passing by vm with two Mules, and by the noise the plough made which they drew vpon 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 singing that Romante, of the batell of Roncesualles with the Frenchmen.

In hearing of which (quoth Don Quixote) Sancho, hang me, if we haue 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 Roncesualles concerne vs? Tis no more then if he had sung the Romante of As if we should haue s [...]id in Eng­l [...]h, Cheute Ch [...]se, or such like. Calanios, and all one, for our good or ill lucke in this businesse.

By this the ploughman came by them: and Don Quixote questioned him: Can you tell me friend (so God reward you) [Page 54] which is the Palace of the Peerelesse Dulcinea del Toboso? Sir (answered the yong man) I am a stranger, and haue liued but a while in this towne, and serue a rich husbandman to till his ground; here ouer-against, the Vicar and the Sexton both liue, any of them will tell you of this Lady Princesse, as hauing 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: S^r, the day comes on apace, and it will not be so fit, that we Sunne our selues in the Streete: it is better to go out of the Citie, and that you shade your selfe in some Groue here abouts, and I will come backe anon, and not leaue a by­place in all this towne, where I may 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 giue you order and dire­ction, how you may see her, without preiudice 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 aduice that thou hast now giuen me, I hunger after, and most louingly accept of it: Come, sonne, let vs take shade, and thou shalt re­turne (as thou sayest) to seeke, to see, and to speake to my Mistris, from whose discretion and courtesie, I hope for a thousand mi­raculous fauours. Sancho stood vpon thornes, till he had drawne his Master from the towne, lest he should verifie the lie of the answer, that he had carried him from Dulcinea, to Sierra Mo­rena. So he hastned him to be gone, which was presently done, some two miles from the towne, where they found a forrest, or wood, where Don Quixote tooke shade: and Sancho returned to the Citie to speake with Dulcinea, in which Embassie matters befell him, that require a new attention, and a new beliefe.

CHAP. X.

THe Authour of this history comming to relate that which he doth, in this Chapter sayes; That hee would willingly haue passed it ouer in silence, as fearing not to be beleeued; because heere Don Quixotes madnesse did exceed, and was at least two flight-shoots beyond his greatest that euer was: but for all this feare and suspition, he set it downe as tother acted it, without adding or diminishing the least iot of truth in the History, not caring for any thing that might bee obiected against him for a lier, and hee had reason; for truth is stretcht, but neuer breakes, and tramples on the lie, as oyle doth vpon 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 captiu'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 discouer; Oh happy thou, aboue all the Squires of the world, be mindfull, and forget not how she entertaines thee; if she blush iust at the instant, when thou deliuerest my Embassie; if she be stirred & troubled when she heares my name; whether her cushion cannot hold her; if she be set in the rich state of her Authority: and if she stand vp, marke her whether she clap som­times one foot vpon another; if she repeat the answer shee giues thee, twice or thrice ouer; or change it from milde to curst; from cruell to amorous; whether shee seeme to order her haire, [Page 56] though it be not disordered: Lastly, obserue all her actions and gestures; for if thou relate them, iust as they were, I shall ghesse what is hidden in her heart, touching my loue in matter of fact: For know, Sancho, if thou knowest it not, that the actions and outward motions that appeare (when loue is in treaty) are the certaine messengers that bring newes of what passeth within. Goe, Friend, and better fortune guide thee then mine, and send thee better successe then I can expect twixt hope and feare, in this vncouth solitude in which thou leauest me.

I goe (sayd Sancho) and will returne quickely; Enlarge that little heart of yours no bigger then an Hasell-nut, and consi­der the saying, Faint heart neuer, &c. Sweet meat must haue sowre sauce: And another, Where wee least thinke, there goes the Hare away. This I say, because that if to night wee found not the Cattle or Palace of my Lady, now by day I doubt not but to finde it, when I least dreame of it, and so to finde her. Beleeue me, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) thou alwayes bringest thy Prouerbes so to the haire of the businesse wee treat of, as God giue 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 himselfe on his stirrups, and leaning on his lance, full of sorrowfull and confu­sed thoughts, where we will leaue him, and wend with Sancho, who parted from his Master no lesse troubled and pensatiue 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 that you haue 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 Heauen 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, Mistakes of simplicity. giues the thirsty meat, and the hungry drinke. All this is well: and doe you know her [Page 57] house, Sancho? My Master sayes, It is a Royall Palace, or a lofty Towre. And haue you euer seene her, trow? Neither hee nor I, neuer. 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 leaue you neuer 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 loue to bee iested 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 As if wee should say, one Ione in London. Robena, or a Scholler in blacke in Sala­manca: The Deuill, the Deuill, and none else hath clapt me into this businesse. This Soliloquy passed Sancho with himselfe, and the vpshot was this:

All things (sayd he) haue a remedy but death, vnder whose yoke wee must all passe in spite of our teethes, when life ends. This Master of mine, by a thousand signes that I haue seene, 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 serue him, if the Pro­uerbe be true that sayes, Like master, like man; and another; Thou art knowne by him that doth thee feed, not by him that doth thee breed. Hee being thus mad then, and subiect, out of mad­nesse, to mistaking of one thing for another, to iudge blacke for white, and white for blacke, as appeared, when he sayd the winde-mils were Gyants, and the Friers mules, Dromedaries, and the flocks of sheepe, armies of enemies, and much more to this tune; it will not be hard to make him beleeue, that some hus­band-mans daughter, the first we meet with, is the Lady Dul­cinea: and if he beleeue it not, Ile sweare; and if hee sweare, Ile out-sweare him; and if he be obstinate, Ile be so more: and so, that I will stand to my tackling, come what will on it. Perhaps with mineobstinacy I shall so preuaile with him, that hee will send mee no more vpon these kinde of messages, seeing what bad dispatch I bring him: or perhaps hee will thinke, that some [Page 58] 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 businesse was brought to a good passe: and so staying there till it grew to be toward the Euening, 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 vp to mount vpon Dapple, he might see three Countrey-wenches comming towards him from Toboso, vpon three Asse-Colts, whether male or female, the Author declares not, though it bee 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 vpon deciding that. In fine, when Sancho saw the three Countrey-wenches, he turned back apace to finde out his Master Don Quixote, and found him sighing, and vttering 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 vpon 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 discouer the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with two Da­mozels waiting on her, comming to see your Worship. Bles­sed God! friend Sancho, what sayest thou (quoth Don Quixote?) See thou deceiue mee not with thy false mirth to glad my true sorrow.

What should I get by deceiuing you (quoth Sancho) the ra­ther your selfe being so neere to discouer 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 ouer their shoulders, that were like so many Sun-beames playing with the winde, and besides all this, they are mounted vpon three flea-bitten Nackneyes, the finest [Page 59] sight that can be. Hackneyes thou would'st say, Sancho. Hack­ney or Nackney (quoth Sancho) there is little difference: but let them come vpon what they will, they are the brauest 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 vnlookt for good newes, I bequeath thee the best spoile I get in our first aduenture next, and if this content thee not, I giue thee my this yeeres Coltes by my three Mares thou know­est I haue to foale in our towne Common. The Colts I like (quoth Sancho:) but for the goodnesse of the spoile of the first aduenture I haue 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 ouer 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 (qd. 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 vp­on three Asses.

Now God keepe me from the Deuill (quoth Sancho:) and is it possible that three Hackneyes, or how call ye vm, 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 Hee, or Shee Asses, as I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, and thou Sancho Pansa; at least to me they seeme so.

Peace, sir (quoth Sancho) and say not so, but snuffe your eyes, and reuerence the Mistris of your thoughts, for now she drawes neere: and so saying, he aduanced to meet the three Countrey-wenches, and alighting from Dapple, tooke one of their Asses by the halter, and fastning both his knees to the ground, sayd, Queene, and Princesse, and Dutchesse of beauty, let you Haugh­tinesse and Greatnesse be pleased, to receiue into your grace and good liking, your captiu'd Knight that stands yonder turned in­to marble, all-amazed and withour his pulse, to see himselfe be­fore your Magnificent Presence. I am Sancho Pansa his Squire, [Page 60] and he is the Way-beaten Knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called The Knight of the Sorrowfull Countenance.

And now Don Quixote was on his knees by Sancho, and be­held with vnglad, but troubled eyes, her that Sancho called Queene and Lady; but seeing he discouered nothing in her but a Countrey-wench, and not very well-fauoured, for shee was blub-fac'd, and flat-nosed; he was in some suspence, & durst not once open his lips. The wenches too were astonisht, to see those two so different men vpon their knees, and that they would not let their companion goe forward. But she that was stayed, an­gry to heare her selfe mis-vsed, broke silence first, saying: Get you out of the way with a mischiefe, and let's be gone, for wee are in haste.

To which (quoth Sancho) Oh Princesse and vniuersall Lady of Toboso, why doth not your magnanimous heart relent, seeing the Pillar and Prop of Knight Errantry prostrated 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 vp­on them: get you gone your way, and leaue vs, you had best. Rise, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) at this instant, for I perceiue now, that mine ill fortune, not satisfied, hath shut vp all the pas­sages by which 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 haue not turned mine too into some Hobgoblin, to make it lothsome in thy sight, look on mee gently and amorously, perceiuing, by this submission and kneeling, which I vse 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 vs goe; and wee shall [Page 61] be beholding to you. Sancho let her passe by him, most glad that he had sped so well with his deuice. 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 vp, 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 vpon her legs, saued him that labour; for stepping a little backe, shee fetcht a rise, and clapping both her hands vpon the Asses crupper, shee lighted as swift as an Hawke vpon 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 Cordouan or Mexicanian to ride on their Ginets: At one spring shee hath leapt ouer the crupper, and without spurres makes the Hackney run like a Muske-Car, 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 all made after her, and set a running for two miles, without looking behinde them.

Don Quixote still looked after them, but when they were out of sight, turning to Sancho, he sayd; Sancho, how thinkest thou? How much Enchanters doe hate mee? And see how farre their malice extends, and their aime at mee, since they haue depriued me of the happinesse I should haue receiued, to haue seene my Mistris in her true being. Indeed I was borne to be an example of vnfortunate men, to be the Marke and Butt, at which Ill-For­tunes arrowes should be sent. And thou must note, Sancho, that these Enchanters were not content to haue changed and trans­formed my Dulcinea: but they haue done it into a shape, so base & vgly, as of a Country-wench thou sawest, & withall, they haue taken from her, that which is so proper to her and great Ladies, to wit, her sweet sent of flowres and Ambers 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-Asse) she gaue [Page 62] me such a breath of raw garlicke, as pierc'd and intoxicated my braine.

O base rowt, cried out Sancho instantly. Oh dismall and ill minded Enchantors. I would I might see you all strung vp to­gether like Galls, or like Pilchers in sholes: cunning you are, much you can, and much you doe: it had bin enough for you, Rascals, to haue turned the pearles of my Ladies eyes, 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 haue ghes­sed, what was concealed vnder that course rinde, though to say true, I neuer saw her coursenesse, but her beautie, which was in­finitely increased by a Moale she had vpon her lippe, like a Mo­stacho, with seuen or eight red haires like threeds of gold, and aboue a handfull long. To this Moale (quoth Don Quixote) ac­cording to the correspondencie that those of the face haue, 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 very much for Moales. Well, I can tell you (quoth Sancho) that there they appeared, as if they had beene borne with her. I beleeue it, friend, replide Don Quixote: for nature could forme nothing in Dulcinea that was not perfect and complete; 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 couering, 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 vnhappiest man aliue. 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 vp on their beasts, and held on the way to Sara­gosa, where they thought to be fitly, to see the solemnities that are performed once euery yeere in that famous Citie. But before [Page 63] they came thither, things befell them, that because they are ma­ny, famous and strange, they deserue to be written and read, as shall be seene here following.

CHAP. XI.

DON Quixote went on, wonderfull pensatiue, 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 vse to bring her to her Pristine being; and these thoughts so distracted him, that carelesly he gaue Rozinante the Reines, who perceiuing the libertie he had, stayed euery stitch-while to feede vpon the greene grasse, of which those fields were full; but Sancho put him out of his Maze, saying: S^r, Sorrow was not ordained for beasts, but men: yet if men doe exceede in it, they become beasts, pray S^r, recollect and come to your selfe, and plucke vp Rozinantes Reines, reuiue and cheere your selfe, shew the courage that befits a Knight Errant. What a Deuil'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, an speake no blasphemies against that En­chanted Lady, for I only am in fault for her misfortune and vn­happinesse: her ill plight springs from the enuie 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, repli'd Don Quixote, since thou sawest her, in her iust entire beautie, and the Enchantment dimmed not thy sight, nor concealed her fairenesse: against me only, only a­gainst mine eyes the force of it's venome is directed.

But for all that, Sancho, I haue falne vpon one thing, which is, that thou didst ill describe her beautie to me: for if I forget not, thou saydst she had eyes of Pearles, and such eyes are rather the eies of a Sea-Breame then a faire Dames: but as I thinke, Dul­cineas eyes are like two greene Emeralds rared with two Ce­lestiall Arkes, that serue 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 leaue we all to God, who is the knower of all things that befall vs in this Vale of teares, in this wicked world, where there is scarce any thing without mixture 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 ouercome 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 vm goe staring vp 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 vnto me what hath befalne them.

I say S^r, (quoth Sancho) I like what you haue said very well, and by this deuice 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 haue health and content, we will beare and passe it ouer here aswell as we may, seeking our aduentures, and let time alone, who is the best Phisician for these and other infirmities.

Don Quixote would haue answered Sancho Pansa: but he was interrupted by a waggon that came crosse the way, loaden with the most different and strange personages and shapes, that might [Page 65] be imagined. He that guided the Mules, and serued for Wago­ner, was an vgly Deuill. The Wagons selfe was open without Tilt or Boughes. The first shape 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 vpon his head, to see to of gold. At Deaths feet was the god called Cupid, not blind-folded, but with his Bow, his quiuer, and arrowes. There was also a Knight compleatly Arm'd, only he had no Murrion or headpeece, but a hat full of direct colour'd plumes: with these there were other personages of different fashions and faces.

All which seene on a suddaine, in some sort troubled Don Quixote, and affrighted Sancho's heart, but straight Don Quixote was iocund, beleeuing, that some rare and dangerous Aduen­ture was offred vnto him, and with this thought, and a minde disposed to giue the on set to any perill, he got himselfe before the Wagon, and with a loud and threatning voice, cried out: Carter, Coach man, or Deuill, or whatsoe [...]re thou art, be not slow to tell me, who thou art, whither thou goest, and what people these are thou carriest in thy Cart coach, rather like Cha­rons boate, then Waggons now in vse.

To which, the Deuill staying the Cart, gently replide, S^r, we are Players of Thomas Angulo's Companie, we haue playd a play called the Parliament of Death, against this Corpus Christi tyde, in a towne behind the ridge of yonder mountaine, and this afternoone we are to play it againe at the towne you see before vs, which because it is so neere, to saue a labour of new attiring vs, we goe in the same cloathes in which we are to Act. That yong man playes Death: that other an Angel: that woman our Authors wife, the Queene, a fourth there, a Souldier, a fift the Emperour, and I the Deuill, which is one of the chiefest Actors in the play, for I haue the best part. If you desire to know any thing else of vs, aske me, and I shall answer you most punctual­ly, for as I am a Deuill, nothing is vnknowne to me.

By the faith of a Knight Errant (said Don Quixote) as soone as euer I saw this Waggon, I imagined some strange Aduenture towards, and now I say it is fit to be fully satisfied of these ap­paritions, [Page 66] by touching them with our hands. God be with you, honest people: Act your play, and see whether you will com­mand any thing wherein I may be seruiceable to you, for I will be so most cheerefully and willingly: for since I was a boy, I haue loued Maske-shewes, and in my youth, I haue beene ra­uished 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 vpon 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 vp 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 vpon 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 Deuill 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 and faithfull seruant, his Masters loue pre­uailed more with him, then the cockering of his Asse: though euery hoysting of the bladders, and falling on Dapples buttocks, were to him trances and tydings of death, and rather had hee those blowes had lighted on his eye-bals, then on the least haire of his Asses taile.

In this perplexity hee came to Don Quixote, who was in a great deale worse plight then he was willing to see him: and hel­ping him on Rozinante, sayd; Sir, the Deuill hath carried away [Page 67] Dapple. What Deuill (quoth Don Quixote?) Hee with the bladders, replied Sancho. Well, I will recouer him (sayd Don Quixote) though he should locke him vp 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 Deuill hath left Dapple, and hee returnes to his home, and he sayd true, for the Deuill hauing falne with Dap­ple, to imitate Don Quixote and Rozinante, he went on foot to the towne, and the Asse came backe to his Master.

For all that (sayd Don Quixote) it were fit to take reuenge of the Deuils vnmannerlinesse vpon some of those in the waggon, euen of the Emperour himselfe. Oh neuer thinke of any such matter (sayd Sancho) and take my counsell, that is, neuer to meddle with Players, for they are a people mightily beloued: I haue knowne one of vm in prison for two murders, and yet scap'd Scot-free: Know this, Sir, that as they are merry Iouiall Lads, all men loue, esteeme, and helpe them, especially if they be the Kings Players, and all of them in their fashion and garbe are Gentle-man-like.

For all that (sayd Don Quixote) the Deuill-Player shall not scape from me & brag of it, though all mankind help him: & so saying, he gat to the waggon, that was now somewhat neere the towne, and crying aloud, sayd; Hold, stay, merry Greekes, for Ile make yee know what belongs to the Asses and furniture, be­longing to the Squires of Knights Errant. Don Quixotes noyse was such, that those of the waggon heard it, and ghessing at his intention by his speeches, in an instant Mistris Death leapt out of the waggon, & after her the Emperor, the Deuill-Waggoner, and the Angell, and the Queene too with little Cupid, all of them were straight loaded with stones, and put themselues 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 vpon them, with least ha­zard to his person. Whilst he thus stayd, Sancho came to him, and seeing him ready to giue the on-set, sayd; Tis a meere mad­nesse, [Page 68] Sir, to attempt this enterprise: I pray consider, that for your Meaning the stones. riuer-sops, there are no defensiue weapons in the world, but to be shut vp and inlayd vnder a brazen bell: and consider likewise, tis rather rashnes then valour, for one man alone to set vpon an Army, wherein Death is, and where Emperors fight in person, and where good bad Angels help: and if the consi­deration of this be not sufficient, may this mooue you to know, that amongst all these (though they seeme to be Kings, Princes and Emperours, there is no Knight Errant.

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

Since this is thy determination (sayd Don Quixote) honest, wise, discreet, Christian-like, pure Sancho, let vs leaue these dreams, & seek other better & more reall aduentures: for I see, this Countrey is like to afford vs many miraculous ones. So he turned Rozinantes reines, and Sancho tooke his Dapple, Death with all the flying Squadron returned to the wagon, and went on their voyage: And this was the happy end of the wagon of Deaths aduenture: thankes to the good aduice that Sancho Pansa gaue his Master: to whom there happened the day after another Aduenture, no lesse pleasant, with an enamoured Knight Errant as well as he.

CHAP. XII.

DOn Quixote & his Squire passed the ensuing night, after their Deaths encounter, vnder certaine high and shadie trees, Don Quixote hauing first (by Sancho's entreaty) eaten somewhat of the Prouision that came vpon 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 aduenture 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 giue the on-set (as I desired) thou hadst had to thy share, at least, the Empresses golden crowne, and Cupids painted wings, for I had taken vm away against the haire, and giuen vm thee. Your Players scepters and Emperours crownes (sayd Sancho) are neuer 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 see­ming, as the Play it selfe is, which I would haue thee, Sancho, to esteeme of, and consequently the Actors too, and the Authors, because they are the Instruments of much good to a Common­wealth, being like Looking-glasses, where the actions of hu­mane life are liuely represented, and there is no comparison, that doth more truely present to vs, what we are, or what we should be, then the Comedy and Comedians: If not, 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 Louer: And the Comedy ended, and the apparrell taken away, all the rehearsers are the same they were.

Yes marry haue I, quoth Sancho. Why, the same thing [Page 70] (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 braue comparison (quoth Sancho) but not so strange to me, that haue heard it often, as that of the Chesse-play, that while the game lasts, euery Peere hath it's particular motion, and the game en­ded, all are mingled and shuffled together, and cast into a lethern bag, which is a kinde of buriall.

Euery day, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) thou growest wiser and wiser. It must needs bee (sayd Sancho) that some of your wisdome must cleaue to me; for grounds that are dry and barren, by mucking and tilling them, giue good fruit: I meane, your conuersation hath beene the mucke, that hath beene cast vpon the sterill ground of my barren wit; and the time that I haue serued 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 haue made in my withered vnderstanding.

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected reasons, and it see­med true to him, what hee had sayd touching his reformation: for now and then his talke admired him, although for the most part, when Sancho spoke by way of contradicton, or like a Courtier, he ended his discourse with a downefall, from the mount of his simplicity, to the profundity of his ignorance: but that, wherein he shewed himselfe most elegant and memorable, was in vrging of Prouerbs, though they were neuer so much against the haire of the present businesse, as hath been seene, and noted in all this History.

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 he called them) of his eyes, and sleepe; and so vndres­sing his Dapple, he turned him freely to graze: with Rozinantes saddle he medled not, for it was his Masters expresse command, that whilst they were in field, or slept not within doores, hee should not vnsaddle him, it being an ancient custome obserued by Knights Errant, to take the bridle and hang it at the saddle-pummell: [Page 71] but beware taking away the saddle, which Sancho obserued, and gaue him the same liberty, as to his Dapple, whose friendship and Rozinantes was so sole and vnited, 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 writes, that as the two beasts were together, they would scratch one another, and being wearied and satisfied, Rozinante would crosse his throte ouer Dapples necke, at least halfe a yard ouer 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 prouander.

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 seene (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 no man think the Author was vnreasonable, in hauing compared the friendship of these beasts, to the friendship of men; for men haue receiued many Items from beasts, and learnt many things of importance, as the Storks dung, the Dogs vomit and faithfulnesse, the Cranes watchful­nesse, the Ants prouidence, the Elephants honesty, and the Horse his loyalty.

At length Sancho fell fast asleepe at the foote of a Corketrce, and Don Quixote reposed himselfe vnder an Oke. But not long after, a noise behind waked him, and rising suddainly, 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 vnbridle our horses, for me thinkes this place hath pasture enough for them, and befits the silence & solitude of my amorous thoughts: thus he spoke, & stretcht himselfe vpon the ground in an instant, but casting him­selfe down, his Armour wherwith he was armed made, a noise: [Page 72] a manifest 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 haue an Aduenture. God grant it bee good (quoth Sanch:) and where is this Masters Aduentures Worship? 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 ouermuch ioyed, 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 perceiue that this is an Aduenture (quoth San­cho?) I will not say (answered Don Quixote) that this is altoge­ther an Aduenture, but an introduction to it, for thus Aduen­tures 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 vs giue 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 tongue speaketh. Sancho would haue replied to his Master: But the Knight of the woods voice (which was but so so) hindered him, and whil'st the two were astonisht, he sung as followeth.

With a deep-fetcht, heigh, ho: euen from the bottome of his heart, the Knight of the wood ended his song: and after some pause, with a grieued and sorrowfull voice vttered these words: Oh the fairest and most vngratefull woman in the world. And shall it be possible, most excellent Casildea de Vandalia, that thou suffer this thy captiue Knight to pine and perish, with continu­all peregrinations, with hard and painefull labours? Sufficeth not, that I haue made all the Knights of Nauarre, of Leon, all the Tartesians, all the Castillians 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 ne­uer yeelded to that, for I neither could nor ought confesse a thing so preiudiciall to the beautie of my Mistris: and thou seest, Sancho, how much this Knight is wide: but let vs heare him, it may be, he will vnfold himselfe more. Marry will he (quoth Sancho) for he talkes, as if he would lament a moneth together. But it fell out otherwise; for the Knight of the wood, hauing ouer-heard that they talked somewhat neere him, ceasing his complaints, he stood vp, 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, S^r Knight: for to know that you are so, and one that professeth Knight Errantrie, it is enough that I haue found you in this place, where solitarines, and the Serene, the night-dew that falles. Serene beare you com­panie, [Page 74] 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 haue their proper seate in my minde: notwithstan­ding, the compassion I haue to other mens griefs, hath not left it: by your complaints I ghesse you are enamoured, I meane, that you loue that vngratefull faire one, mentioned in your la­ments. Whilst they were thus discoursing, they sat together lo­uingly vpon the cold ground, as if by day-breake, their heads also would not breake.

The Knight of the wood demanded, Are you happily ena­moured, S^r Knight? Vnhappily I am (quoth Don Quixote) although the vnhappines that ariseth from wel-placed thoughts, ought rather to be estemed a happinesse then otherwise. True it is (replide he of the wood) if disdaines did not vexe our rea­son and vnderstanding, which being vnmercifull, come neerer to reuenge. I was neuer (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 ne're 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 prooue he neuer vnfolded his lippes, whensoeuer I spake.

Well yfaith (quoth Sancho) I haue spoken, and may speake before, as, and perhaps: but let it alone, the more it is stirred, the more it will stinke. The Squire of the wood tooke Sancho by the hand, saying: Let vs goe and talke what we list Squirelike, and let vs leaue these our Masters, Let them fall from their launces, and tell of their Loues: for I warrant you, the morning wil ouertake them, before they haue done. A Gods name (quoth Sancho) and Ile 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.

CHAP. XIII.

THE Knights and their Squires were deuided; these tel­ling their liues, they their loues: and thus sayth the Sto­rie, that the Squire of the wood said to Sancho, It is a cumbersome life that we leade, S^r, 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 vpon 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 [...] 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 vs. All this may be borne (quoth he of the wood) with the hope we haue of reward: for if the Knight Errant whom a Squire serues, be not two vnfortunate, he shall, with a little good hap, see himselfe rewarded with the gouernment of some Isalnd, or with a reasonable Earledome. I (said Sancho) haue often told my Master, that I would content my selfe with the gouernment of any Island, and he is so Noble and Liberall, that he hath often promised it me. I (said he of the Wood) for my seruices would be satisfied, with some Ca­nonrie, which my Master too hath promised me.

Your Master indeed (said Sancho) belike is an Ecclesiasticall 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 intention) 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 haue a minde to the Church, because I held my selfe vncapable 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, S^r, (said he of the [Page 76] Wood) You are in the wrong: for your Island-Gouernments 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 heauy burden of cares and inconueniences, which hee (to whom it falls to his lot) vndergoes. Farre better it were, that we, who professe this cursed slauery, retire home, and there en­tertaine our selues 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 haue no Nag, but I haue 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 in our towne; besides, the sport is best at another mans charge.

Indeed, indeed, S^r. Squire (sayd he of the Wood) I haue pro­posed and determined with my selfe, to leaue these bezelings of these Knights, and returne to my Village, and bring vp my children, for I haue three, like three Orient-pearles. Two haue I (sayd Sancho) that may bee presented to the Pope in person, especially one, a wench, which I bring vp to bee a Countesse (God saue her) although it grieue her mother. And how olde (asked he of the Wood) is this Lady-Countesse that you bring vp so?

Fifteene, somewhat vnder or ouer (sayd Sancho) but she is 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 Wood) not onely for her to be a Countesse, but a Nymph of the Greeny Groue: Ah whoreson, whore, and what a sting the Queane hath? To which (quoth Sancho somewhat musty) Shee is no whore, nei­ther was her mother before her, and none of them (God wil­ling) shall be, as long as I liue: and I pray, Sir, speake more man­nerly: for these speeches are not consonant from you, that haue beene brought vp amongst Knights Errant, the flowers of cour­tesie. [Page 77] Oh (sayd he of the Wood) S^r. Squire, how you mistake, and how little you know what belongs to praising: what? haue yee neuer obserued, that when any Knight in the market-place giues the Bul a sure thrust with his lance, or when any body doth a thing well, the common people vse to say; Ah whore [...]on whoremaster, how brauely 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 deserue such like praises. I doe renounce (sayd Sancho) and if you meant no other wise; I pray you clap a whole whore-house at once vpon my wife and children; for all they doe or say, are extremes worthy of such praises, and so I may see them, God deliuer me out of this mor­tall sinne, that is, out of this dangerous profession of being a Squire, into which I haue this second time incurred, being in­ticed and deceiued with the purse of the hundred duckats, which I found one day in the heart of Sierra Morena, and the Deuill cast that bag of Pistolets before mine eyes: (me thinkes) euery foot I touch it, hugge it, and carry it to mine house, set leases, and rents, and liue like a Prince, and still when I thinke of this, all the toyle that I passe with this Block-head my Ma­ster, seems easie and tolerable to me, who (I know) is more mad­man then Knight.

Heereupon (sayd he of the Wood) it is sayd; that, All couet, all lose: And now you talke of mad-men, I thinke, my Master is the greatest in the world, he is one of them that cries, Hang sor­row; and that another Knight may recouer his wits, hee'l make himselfe mad, and will seeke after that, which perhaps once found, will tumble him vpon his snowt. And is hee amorous haply? Yes (sayd hee of the Wood) hee loues 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 impostures doe grunt in those entrailes of hers, which ere long will be knowne.

There is no way so plaine (quoth Don Quixote) that hath not some rubbe, or pit, or as the Prouerbe goes, In some houses they seethe beanes, and in mine whole kettles full. So madnesse hath [Page 78] more companions, and more needie ones then wisedome. But if that which is commonly spoken be true, that to haue compa­nions in misery is a lightner of it, you may comfort me, that serue as sottish a Master I doe. Sottish but valiant, (answered he of the wood) but more knaue then foole or then valiant. It is not so with my Master, said Sancho: for he is ne're a whit knaue; rather he is as dull as a Beetle, hurts no-body, does good [...]o all, he hath no malice, a childe will make him beleeue tis night at noone day: and for his simplicitie, I loue him as my heart­strings, and cannot finde in my heart, to leaue 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 loued homes: for they that hunt after Aduentures, doe not alwaies light vpon good. Sancho spit often, and as it seemed, a kinde of glewy and dry matter: which noted by the charitable wooddy Squire, he said, Me thinkes, with our talking, our tongues cleane to our roofes: but I haue suppler hangs at the pummell of my horse, as good as touch: and rising vp, he returned presently with a Borracha of wine, and a bak't meate, at least halfe a yard long, and it is no lye, for it was of a Parboiled Cony so large, that Sancho, when he felt it, thought it had beene of a Goate, and not a Kid: which being seene by Sancho, he said, And had yee this with you too, S^r? Why, what did yee thinke (said the o­ther) doe you take me to be some hungry Squire? I haue better prouision at my horses crupper, then a Generall carries with him vpon a March. Sancho fell to, without inuitation, and champed his bits in the darke, as if he had scraunched knotted cordes, and said, I marry, S^r, you are a true Legall Squire, round and sound, Royall and Liberall (as appeares by you feast) which if it came not hither by way of Enchantment, yet it seemes so at least, and like no vnfortunate wretch, that only car­ry in my wallets, a little Cheese, so hard, that you may breake a Gyants head with it, & only some doozens of Saint Iohns Weed leaues, and some few Walnuts, and small nuts, (plentie in the strictnesse of my Master, and the opinion he hath) and the me­thod [Page 79] he obserues, that Knights Errant must only be maintained and sustained onely with a little dry fruit, & sallets. By my faith (Brother) replide he of the wood, my stomacke is not made to your thistles, nor your stalkes, nor your mountaine-roots: let our Masters deale with their opinions, and their Knightly sta­tutes, and eate what they will, I haue my cold meates, and this bottle hanging at the pummel of my saddle, will he, or nill he: which I reuerence and loue so much, that a minute scarce passeth me, in which I giue it not a thousand kisses & embraces. Which said, he gaue it to Sancho, who rearing it on end at his mouth, looked a quarter of an houre together vpon the Starres: and when he had ended his draught, he held his necke on one side, and fetching a great sigh, cryes, Oh whoresoone raskal, how Catholike it is. Law yee there (said he of the wood) in hearing Sancho's whoresoone, how you haue praised the wine, in calling it whoresoone? I say (quoth Sancho) that I confesse, that I know it is no dishonour to call any bodie whoresoone, when there is a meaning to praise him. But tell me, S^r, by the remembrance of her you loue best, is this wine of a Ciuidad Reall? A braue taste A place in Spaine that hath excel­lent wines. (said he of the wood:) it is no lesse, and it is of some yeeres stan­ding too. Let me alone (said Sancho) you could not but thinke I must know it to the height. Doe not you thinke it strange, S^r Squire, that I should haue so great, and so naturall an instinct, in distinguishing betwixt wines, that comming to smell any wine, I hit vpon the place, the grape, the sauour, the lasting, the strength, with all circumstances belonging to wine? But no marueile, 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 gaue 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 prooued it with the tip of his tongue, the other only smelt to it. The first said, that that wine sauoured 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 receiue any sauour of yron or leather. Notwithstanding, the two famous [Page 80] 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 giue his opini­on in these matters.

Therefore I say to you (quoth he of the wood) let vs leaue looking after these Aduentures, and since we haue content, let vs not seeke after dainties, but returne to our cottages, for there God will finde vs, if it be his will. Till my Master come to Sa­ragosa, I meane (quoth Sancho) to serue him, and then weele all take a new course. In fine, the two good Squires talked and dranke so much, that it was fit sleepe should lay their tongues, and slake their thirst, but to extinguish, it was impossible; so both of them fastned to the night emptie bottle, and their meate scarce out of their mouthes, fell asleepe: where for the present wee will leaue them, and tell what passed betweene the two Knights.

CHAP. XIV.

AMongst many discourses that passed betweene Don Quixote, and the Knight of the Wood, the History saies, that he of the wood said to Don Quixote, In briefe, S^r Knight, I would haue you know, that my destinie, or to say better, my election enamoured me vpon 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, promising me, at the accom­plishing of each one, in performing another, I should enioy my wishes: but my labours haue beene so linked one vpon another, that they are numberlesse, neither know I which may be the last [Page 81] to giue an accomplishment to my lawfull desires.

Once she commanded me to giue defiance to that famous Gy­antesse of Seuil, called the Giralda, who is so valiant & so strong (as being made of brasse, and without changing place) is the most mooueable and turning woman in the world. I came, I saw, and conquered her, and made her stand still, and keepe di­stance; for a whole weeke together, no windes blew, but the North: Otherwhiles she commanded me to lift vp the anci­ent stones of the fierce Buls of Guisando: an enterprize fitter for As if we should say, to remoue the stones at Stonage in Wilt-shire. Porters, then Knights: another time she commanded me to go downe and diue in the Vault of Cabra (a fearefull and vnheard of attempt) and to bring her relation of all that was inclosed in that darke profunditie. I staide the motion of the Giralda, I waied the Buls of Guisando, I cast my selfe downe the steepe Caue, and brought to light the secrets of that bottome, but my hopes were dead, how dead? her disdaines still liuing, how liuing? Lastly, she hath now commanded me, that I run ouer all the Prouinces of Spaine, & 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 haue trauelled the greatest part of Spaine, and haue ouercome many Knights, that durst contra­dict me. But that which I prize and esteeme most is, That I haue conquer'd, 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 haue conquer'd all the Knights in the world, be­cause the aforesaid Don Quixote hath conquered them all, and I hauing ouercome him, his fame his glorie, and his honour, hath beene transferred and passed ouer 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 vpon my account.

Don Quixote admired to heare the Knight of the wood, and was a thousand times about to haue giuen him the lye, and had his Thou lyest, vpon the point of his tongue: but hee defer'd it as well as he could, to make him confesse with his owne [Page 82] mouth that he lyed, and so he told him calmely. That you may haue ouercome (S^r Knight) all the Knights Errant of Spaine, and the whole world, I grant yee: but that you haue ouercome Don Quixote de la Mancha, I doubt it, it might be some other like him, though few there be so like. Why not? replide he of the Wood: I can assure you, Sir, I fought with him, ouer­came, and made him yeeld. Hee is a tall fellow, withred faced, lanke and dry in his limbes, somewhat hoary, sharpe-nosed and crooked; his mustachoes long, blacke, and falne; hee marcheth vnder the name of The Knight of the Sorrowfull Countenance: he presses the loine, and rules the bridle of a famous horse called Rozinante, & hath for the Mistris of his thoughts, one Dulcinea del Toboso, sometimes called Aldonsa Lorenso, iust 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 belieue it. Haue patience, S^r Knight (quoth Don Quixote) and heare what I shall say. Know, that this Don Quixote you speake of, is the greatest friend I haue in this world, and so much that I may tell you, I loue him as well as my selfe, and by the signes that you haue giuen of him, so punctuall and certaine, I cannot but thinke it is he whom you haue ouercome. 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 ouercome, to defraud him of the glory which his noble chiualry hath gotten and layd vp for him thorowout the whole earth. And for confirmation of this, I would haue 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 & base country wench, and in this sort belike they haue 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 the Knight of the Wood [Page 83] would take, who with a stayed voyce, answered & sayd: A good Pay-master needs no surety: hee that could once, Don Quixote, ouercom you when you were transformed, may very well hope to restore you to your proper being. But because it becomes not Knights to doe their feats in the darke like high-way-robbers and Ruffians, let vs stay for the day, that the Sunne may behold our actions; and the condition of our combate shall be, that he that is ouercome, 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 ouer-ioyed with this condition and agreement (quoth Don Quixote.) And (this sayd) they went where their Squires were, whom they found snorting, and iust as they were, when sleep first stole vpon them. They wakened them, and comman­ded they should make their horses ready: for by sun rising, they meant to haue a bloudy and vnequall 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 vn­derstand, Brother, that your Combatants of Andaluzia vse, when they are Sticklers in any quarrell, not to standidlely 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 shiuers. This custome, S^r 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 haue 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 fulfill that, but pay the penalty that shall be imposed vpon such peace­able Squires: for I doe not thinke, it will be aboue two pound [Page 84] of wax, and I had rather pay them, for I know they will cost me lesse, then the lint that I shall spend in making tents to cure my Alluding to some penal­ties enioyned by Confes­sors, to pay to burne in can­dles in the Church. head, which already I make account is cut and diuided in two: besides, tis impossible I should fight, hauing neuer a sword, and I neuer wore any.

For that (quoth he of the Wood) Ile tell you a good remedy, I haue heere two linnen bags of one bignesse, you shall haue one, and I the other, and with these equall weapons, wee'll fight at bag-blowes. Let vs doe so and you will (sayd Sancho) for this kinde of fight will rather serue to dust, then to wound vs. Not so (sayd the other) for within the bags (that the winde may not carry them to and fro) wee will put halfe a doozen of delicate smooth pebbles, of equall 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 Priuet 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 vs drinke and liue, for time will bee carefull to take away our liues, without our striuing 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 houre. No, no (sayd Sancho) I will not be so discourteous and vngrate­full, as to wrangle with whom I haue eaten and drunke, let the occasion bee neuer so small, how much more I being without choller or anger, who the Deuill can barely without these fight?

For this (sayd he of the Wood) Ile giue you a sufficient cause, which is, that before wee begin the combate, I will come mee finely to you, and giue 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 haue 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 you, that it shall not wake but in an­other world, in which it shall be knowne; that I am not hee that will let any man handle my face; and euery man looke to the [Page 85] shaft he shoots: And the best way were to let euery mans choller sleepe with him, for no man knowes what's in another, and many come for 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: Therefore, from henceforward, S^r. Squire, let mee intimate to you, that all the euill and mischiefe that shall arise from our quarrell, bee vpon your head. Tis well (quoth he of the Wood) let it be day, and we shall thriue 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, & saluted the fresh Aurora, that now disco­uered the beauty of her face, thorow the gates & bay-windowes of the East, shaking from her lockes an infinite 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 sauoury 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 gaue time to distinguish 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 ouer his mouth: this hugenesse, colour, warts, and crookednesse, 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 resolued with himselfe to endure two hundred boxes, before his choller should waken to fight with that Hobgoblin.

Don Quixote beheld his opposite, and perceiued that his hel­met was on and drawne, so that he could not see his face, but he saw that he was well set in his body, though not tall; vpon his armour he wore an vpper garment or cassocke, to see to, of pure cloth of gold, with many Moones of shining Looking-glasses [Page 86] spred about it, which made him appeare very braue and gorge­ous, a great plume of greene feathers waued about his Helmet, with others white & yellow, his Lance which he had reared vp against a tree, was very long and thicke, and with a steele pike aboue a handfull long▪ Don Quixote obserued and noted all, and by what he had seene and marked, iudged 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, haue not spent your courtesie, for it, I desire you to lift vp your Vi­sor a little, that I may behold whether the liuelinesse of your face be answerable to that of your disposition, whether vanquisht or Vanquisher you be in this enterprize. Sir Knight (answered he of the Looking-glasses) you shall haue time and leisure enough to see me, and if I doe not now satisfie your desire, it is because I thinke I shall doe a great deale of wrong to the faire Casildea de Vandalia, to delay so much time as to lift vp my Visor, till I haue first made you confesse what I know you goe about. Well, yet while we get a horse-backe (sayd Don Quixote) you may resolue 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 beleeue your being deceiued: but that I may entirely satisfie you, let's to horse, for in lesse time then you should haue spent in lifting vp 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 Don Quixote turn'd Rozinante about, to take so much of the field (as was fit for him) to returne to encounter his enemie, and the Knight of the Looking-glasses did the like. But Don Quixote was not gone twenty paces from him, when he heard that he of the looking-glasses called him. So the two parting the way, he of [Page 87] the Glasses sayd, Be mindefull, S^r. Knight, that the condition of our combate is, that the vanquished (as I haue 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 Cauallery. 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 vsuall 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 vpon 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 vpon 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 vp 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 vgly 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 Ile helpe thee vp.

Whilst Don Quixote was helping Sancho vp into the Cork-tree, he of the Looking-glasses tooke vp roome for his Careere, and thinking that Don Quixote would haue done the like, with­out looking for trumpets sound, or any other warning-signe, he turned his horses reines (no better to see to, nor swifter then Ro­zinante) and with his full speede (which was a reasonable trot) hee went to encounter his 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 vnable to mooue. Don Quixote, who thought his enemy by this came flying, set spurres lustily to Ro­zinantes [Page 88] 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 vnspeakable fury, he came where he of the Looking-glasses was gagging his spurres into his horse, to the very hoopes, without being able to re­mooue him a fingers length from the place, where he had set vp his rest for the Careere.

In this good time and coniuncture, Don Quixote found his contrary puzzled with his horse, & troubled with his lance; for either he could not, or else wanted time to set it in his rest. Don Quixote that neuer looked into these inconueniencies, safely and without danger, encountred him of the Looking-glasses so 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 his Master, who disinounted from Rozinante, got vpon him of the Looking-glasses, and vnlacing his helmet, to see if he were dead, or if he were aliue, to giue him aire, he saw: (Who can tell without great admiration, wonder and amaze to him that shall heare it?) he saw (sayes the History) the selfesame face, the same visage, the same aspect, the same phi­siognomy, the same shape, the same perspectiue of the Bachelor Samson Carrasco, and as he saw it, hee cryed aloud, Come San­cho, and behold what thou mayest see, and not beleeue, runne whore-sonne, and obserue the power of Magicke, what Wit­ches and Enchanters can doe.

Sancho drew neere, and saw the Bachelour Samson Carrasco's face, & so began to make a thousand crosses, & to blesse himselfe as oft. In all this while the ouerthrowne Knight made no shew of liuing. And Sancho sayd to Don Quixote, I am of opinion, Sir, that by all means you thrust your sword down this fellowes throte, that is so like the Bachelour Samson Carrasco, and so per­haps in him, you shall kill some of your enemies the Enchanters. Tis not ill aduised (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 [Page 89] aloud: Take heede, S^r 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 manifacture described. And Sancho more and more beholding him, with a loud and ad­miring voyce said, Saint Mary defend me: and is not this Tho­mas Cecial my neighbour and my Gossip? And how say you by that (quoth the vn nosed Squire?) Thomas Cecial I am, Gos­sip and friend Sancho, and streight I will tell you, the conueyan­ces, 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-aduized Bachelor Samson Carrasco our Country man.

By this time the Knight of the Looking-glasses came to him­selfe, which Don Quixote seeing, hee clapt the bare point of his sword vpon his face, & said, Thou diest, Knight, if thou confesse not, that the peerelesse Dulcinea del Toboso excells your Casil­dea de Vandalia in beauty: and moreouer, 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 where I am, to tell mee what hath passed with her. These conditions (according to those wee agreed on before the battell) exceed not the limits of Knight Errantrie.

I confesse, said the faln Knight, that the Lady Dulcinea del To­boso's torne and foule shooe, is more worth then the ill-combed haire (though cleane) of Casildea: and here I promise to goe and come from her presence to yours, and giue you entire and par­ticular relation of all you require. You shall also confesse and belieue (added Don Quixote) that the Knight whom you ouer­came, neyther was, nor could be Don Quixote de la Mancha, but some other like him, as I confesse and belieue, that you, al­though [Page 90] you seeme to be the Bachelor Samson Carrasco, are not he, but one like him, and that my enemies haue cast you into his shape, that I may with-hold and temper the force of my choller, and vse moderately the glory of my conquest. I confesse, iudge, and allow of all as you confesse, iudge, 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 Quixote helped him to rise, and Thomas Cecial his Squire, on whom San­cho still cast his eyes, asking him questions, whose answeres gaue 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 beleeue 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 leaues them, to tell who was the Knight of the Glasses and his Nosie Squire.

CHAP. XV.

DOn Quixote was extremely contented, glad, and vaine­glorious, that hee had subdued 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 vnto 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 seare­cloth himselfe. The history then tels vs, that when the Bache­lor [Page 91] Samson Carrasco aduised Don Quixote that he should prose­cute his forsaken Cauallery, hee entred first of all into counsell with the Vicar and the Barber, to know what meanes they should vse, that Don Quixote might bee perswaded to stay at home peaceably and quietly, without troubling himselfe with his vnlucky aduentures: 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 vpon the way like a Knight Errant, and should fight with him, since an occasi­on would not be wanting, and so to ouercome him, which would not be difficult, and that there should be a couenant 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 stirre from thence in two yeeres af­ter, or till hee should command him to the contrary: the which in all likelihood Don Quixote once vanquished would infallibly accomplish, as vnwilling to contradict or bee defectiue in the Lawes of Knighthood, and it might so be, that in this time of sequestring, he might forget all his vanities, or they might finde out some conuenient remedy for his madnesse. Carrasco accep­ted of it, and Thomas Cecial offered himselfe to be his Squire, Sancho Pansa's neighbour and Gossip, a merry knaue and a wit­tie. Samson armed himselfe (as you haue heard) and Thomas Cecial fitted the false nose to his owne, and clapt on his vizard, that he might not be known by his Gossip, vvhen they should meete. So they held on the same voyage with Don Quixote, and they came euen iust as hee vvas in the aduenture of Deaths Wagon. And at last they lighted on them in the Wood, vvhere what befell them, the discreet Reader hath seene, and if it had not beene for the strange opinion that Don Quixote had, that the Bachelor vvas not the selfe-same man, he had beene spoyled for euer for taking another Degree, since he mist his marke.

Thomas Cecial that saw vvhat ill vse hee had made of his hopes, and the bad effect that his iourney tooke, sayd to the Bachelor, Truely, M^r Samson, we haue our deserts: things are [Page 92] easily conceiued, and enterprizes easily vndertaken, but very hardly performed. Don Quixote mad, we wise, but hee is gone away sound and merry, you are heere bruised and sorrowfull. Let vs know then vvho is the greatest mad-man, hee that is so and cannot doe vvithall, or hee that is so for his pleasure? To which (quoth Samson) The difference betweene these madde men is, that hee that of necessity is so, will alwaies remaine so, and he that accidentally is so, may leaue it vvhen he will. Since it is so (said Thomas Cecial) I that for my pleasure was madde, when I vvould needes be your Squire; for the same reason I will leaue 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 haue soundly banged Don Quixote, is vaine, and now I goe not about to restore him to his wits, but to reuenge my selfe on him: for the intolerable paine I feele in my ribbes, will not per­mit mee a more charitable discourse. Thus they two vvent on parlying till they came to a Towne, where by chance they ligh­ted vpon a Bone-setter, who cured the vnfortunate Samson. Thomas Cecial went home and left him, and hee stayed musing vpon his reuenge: and the History heereafter will returne to him, which at present must make merry with Don Quixote.

CHAP. XVI.

DOn Quixote went on his iourney with the ioy, 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 aduentures 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 Chiualrie had been giuen him, and the stones cast, that strooke out halfe his teeth, and the vnthankefulnesse of [Page 93] the Galli slaues, and the boldnesse and showres of stakes of the Yangneses.

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 enuy the greatest happinesse or prosperity that euer 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 haue still before mine eyes that ill-fauoured, more then ordinary nose of my Gossip Thomas Cecial? And doe you happily, Sancho, thinke that the Knight of the Looking-glasses was the Bachelor Samson Car­rasco, and his Squire Thomas Cecial your Gossip? I know not what to say to it (quoth Sancho) onely I know, that the tokens he gaue me, of my house, wife, and children, no other could giue vm mee but he, and his face, (his nose being off) was the same that Thomas Cecials, as I haue seene him many times in our Towne, and next house to mine, and his voyce was the same. Let vs bee reasonable, Sancho, (said Don Quixote:) Come hi­ther; How can any man imagine that the Bachelor Samson Car­rasco, should come like a Knight Errant, arm'd with Armes of­fensiue and defensiue, to fight with me? Haue I euer giuen him occasion, that he should dogge mee? Am I his Rinal, or is he a Professor of Armes, to enuy the glory that I haue 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) vvere there no other two in the vvorld, they might look like. All is iuggling & cunning (quoth Don Quixote) of the wicked Magicians that persecute me, who fore-seeing that I should remaine Victor in this combat, had prouided 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 iust indignation; and so, that he might es­cape with his life, that with trickes and deuices sought to take a­way mine. For proofe of which, oh Sancho, thou knowest by experience, that vvill not let thee lye or be deceiued, how easie [Page 94] it is for Enchanters to change one face into another, making the beautifull deformed, and the deformed beautifull: and it is not two dayes, since with thine owne eyes thou sawest the beauty and liuelinesse of the peerelesse Dulcinea in it's 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 the peruerse Enchanter, that durst cause so wick­ed a Metamorphosis, 'tis not much that hee hath done the like in the shapes of Samson Carrasco and Thomas Cecial, to rob me of the glory of my conquest. Notwithstanding I am of good comfort; for in what shape soeuer it were, I haue vanquished mine enemy. God knowes all (said Sancho) and whereas hee knew the transformation of Dulcinea had beene a tricke of his, his Masters Chimera's gaue him no satisfaction: but hee durst not reply a word, for feare of discouering his cozenage.

Whilest they were thus reasoning, one ouertooke them that came their way, vpon a faire flea-bitten Mare, vpon his backe a riding-coate of fine greene cloth, vvelted with tawny Veluet, 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 fauour 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 vnruly 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 neuer vnruly vpon 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 giuen 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 looke at Don Quixote, Don Quixote did much more eye him, taking him to be a man of worth; his age shewed him to bee about fifty, hauing few gray haires, his face was somewhat sharp, his countenance of an equall temper: Lastly, in his fashion and posture, hee see­med to be a man of good quality. His opinion of Don Quixote was, that hee had neuer seene such a kinde of man before; the lanknesse of his horse, the talnesse of his owne body, the spare­nesse and palenesse of his face made him admire; his armes, his gesture and composition, a shape and picture, as it were, had not beene seene (many ages before) in that Countrey.

Don Quixote noted well with what attention the Traueller beheld him, and in his suspence read his desire, and being so courteous and so great a friend, to giue all men content, before he demanded him any thing, to preuent him, he sayd: This out­side of mine that you haue seene, Sir, because it is so rare and different frō others now in vse, may (no doubt) haue 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 vp in another, I haue accomplished a great part of my desire, succouring Widdowes, defending Damozels, fauouring married women, Orphans, and distressed children (the proper & naturall office of Knights Errant) so that by my many valiant and Christian exployts, I haue merited to be in the Presse, in all or most nations of the world: thirty thousand volumes of my History haue beene printed, and thirty thousand millions more are like to be, if Heauen permit. Lastly, to shut vp all in a word, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called, The Knight of the Sorrowfull Countenance: And though one should not [Page 96] praise himselfe, yet I must needs doe it, that is, there being none present that may doe it for me: so that, kinde Gentle-man, nei­ther this horse, this lance, nor this shield, nor this Squire, nor all these armes together, nor the palenesse of my face, nor my slen­der macilency, ought henceforward to admire you, you know­ing now who I am, and the profession I maintaine.

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 vpon't: but after some pause, hee sayd: You were in the right, Sir Knight, in knowing, by my suspension, my desire: but yet you haue not quite remooued my admiration, which was caused with seeing you, for although that, as you say, Sir, that to know who you are, might make me leaue 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 fauour widowes, defend Damozels, honour married women, or succor Orphans, & I should neuer haue be­leeued it, if I had not in you beheld it with mine eyes: Blessed be Heauens; for with this History you speake of, which is printed of your true and lofty Chiualry, those innumerable falsities of fained Knights Errant will be forgotten, which the world was full of; so hurtfull to good education, and preiudiciall 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 iour­ney last, I hope in God to let you see, that you haue done ill, to bee led with the streame of them that hold they are not true. At this last speech of Don Quixote, the Traueller suspected hee was some Ideot, and expected when some others of his might confirme it: but before they should be diuerted 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 answer; I, Sir Knight of the Sorrowfull Countenance, am a [Page 97] Gentle-man borne in a towne, where (God willing) wee shall dine to day: I am well to liue, my name is Don Diego de Mi­randa, I spend my life with my wife, and children, and friends: my sports are hunting and fishing: but I haue neither Hawke nor Grey-hounds, onely a tame Cock-Partridge, or a murde­ring Ferret, some six doozen of bookes, some Spanish, some Latine, some History, others Deuotion: your books of Knight­hood haue not yet entred the threshold of my doore, I do more turne ouer your prophane bookes then religious, if they be for honest recreation, such as may delight for their language, & ad­mire, & suspend for their inuention, although in Spaine there be few of these. Sometimes I dine with my neighbors and f [...]ds, & otherwhiles inuite them: my meales are neat & [...] nothing scarce: I neither loue to back-bite my s [...]e, no [...] to [...]e [...]re others doe it: I search not into other mens liues, or a [...] a Ly [...]ce to other mens actions, I heare euery day a Ma [...], part my goods with the poore, without making a muster of my good deeds, that I may not giue way to hypocri [...]e and vaine-glory to enter into my heart, enemies that easily cease vpon the wariest brest: I striue to make peace betweene such as are at ods. I am deuoted to our blessed Lady, and alwayes trust in Gods infinite mercy.

Sancho was most attentiue to this relation of the life and enter­tainements of this Gentle-man, which seeming to him to bee good and holy, and that he that led it, worked miracles, he flung 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 seene by the Gentle-man, hee asked him; What doe ye, Brother? Wherefore be these kisses?

Let me kisse (quoth Sancho:) for (me thinkes) your Worship is the first Saint, that in all the dayes of my life, I euer 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 recouer his pack-saddle, ha­uing (as it were) brought into the market-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 [Page 98] told him, that one of the things in which the Philosophers Sum­mum Bonum did consist (who wanted the true knowledge of God) was in the goods of Nature, in those of Fortune, in hauing many friends, and many and vertuous children. I, Sir Don Quixote (answered the Gentle-man) haue a sonne, whom if I had not, perhaps you would iudge mee more happy then I am, not that he is so bad, but because not so good as I would haue him: he is about eighteen yeers of age, six of which he hath spent in Salamanca, learning the tongues Greeke & 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 vpon the Law (which I would haue him study) nor Diuinity the Queene of all Sciences. I would he were the crowne of all his linage, since wee liue 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 vnderstood this way or that way. Indeed, all his delight is in these aforesayd Poets, & in Horace, Persius, Iuuenal, and Tibullus; but of your moderne writers he makes small account: yet for all the grudge he beares to moderne Poesie, hee is mad vpon your catches, and your glossing vpon 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 loue them, as wee must loue our spirits that giue vs 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 their posterity: and I hold it not so proper, to force them to study this or that Science, though to perswade them were not amisse, and though it be not to study to get his bread (the Student being so happy, that God hath giuen him Parents able to leaue him well) mine opinion [Page 99] should bee, that they let him follow that kinde of study hee is most inclined to, and though that of Poetry be lesse profitable then delightfull, yet it is none of those, that will dishonour the Professour.

Poetry, Signior, in my opinion, is like a tender virgin, young & most beautifull, whom many other virgins, to wit, all the other Sciences, are to enrich, polish, and adorne, she is to be serued by them all, and all are to bee authorized by her: but this Virgin will not bee handled and hurried vp and downe the streets, nor published in euery 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 enioyeth her, must hold her at distance, not [...]etting her lash out in vncleane 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 Iesters, nor by the Ignorant vul­gar, vncapable of knowing or esteeming the treasures that are locked vp in her; & think not, Sir, that I call here only the com­mon people vulgar, for whosoeuer 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 haue 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 neuer 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 strange languages to declare their lofty conceits. Which being so, it were reason this custom should extend it selfe thorow all nations, and that your German Poet should not be vnder-valued, because hee writes in his lan­guage, nor the Castilian, or Biscayner, because they write in theirs. But your sonne (as I suppose) doth not mislike moderne Poesie, but Poets that are meerely moderne, without know­ledge of other tongues, or Sciences, that may adorne, rowze vp, [Page 100] and strengthen their natural impulse, & 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 Heauen hath giuen him, without further study or Art, he composeth things, that verifie his saying that sayd, Est Deus in nobis, &c?

Let mee also say, that the naturall Poet, that helps himselfe with Art, shall bee much better, and haue the aduantage of that Poet, that onely out of his Art striues to be so: the reason is, be­cause Art goes not beyond Nature, but onely perfects 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 haue 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 Ciuilian. Chide your sonne, if he write Sa­tyrs that may preiudice 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 enuy, and to inueigh against enuious persons in his verse, and so against other vices, if so be he aime at no particular person: But you haue Poets, that in stead of vttering a ierke of wit, they will venter a being bani­shed to the Ilands of Pontus. If a Poet liue honestly, he will bee so in his verses, the pen is the mindes tongue; as the conceits are, which be ingendred in it, such will the writings be, & when Kings and Princes see the miraculous Science of Poesie, in wise, vertuous, and graue Subiects, they honour, esteeme, and enrich them, & euen crowne them with the leaues of that Tree, which The Lawrell. the thunder-bolt offends not, in token that none shall offend them, that haue their temples honoured and adorned with such crownes. The Gentle-man admired Don Quixotes discourse, and so much, that now he forsooke his opinion he had of him, that he was a Coxcombe. But in the midst of this discourse, [Page 101] Sancho (that was vveary of it) went out of the way to beg a little milke of some shepheards not farre off, curing of their sheepe: so the Gentleman still maintained talke with Don Quixote, beeing vvonderfully taken and satisfied vvith his vvise discourse. But Don Quixote lifting vp sodainly his eyes, saw that in the vvay toward them, there came a Cart full of the Kings Colours, and taking it to be some rare aduenture, hee called to Sancho for his Helmet. Sancho hearing himselfe called on, left the shepheards, and spur'd Dapple apace, and came to his Master, to whom a rash and stupendious aduenture happened.

CHAP. XVII.

THE Historie sayes, that vvhen Don Quixote called to Sancho, to bring him his Helmet, he vvas buying curds vvhich the Shepheards sold him; and being hastily layd at by his Master, he knew not vvhat to doe vvith them, or how to bestow them vvithout 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 vvent to see vvhat he vvould haue: who, vvhen he came, sayd, Giue mee, friend, that same Helmet, for eyther I know not vvhat belongs to ad­uentures, or that I see yonder is one that vvill force mee to take Armes. Hee of the greene coat that heard this, turned his eyes euery vvay, and saw nothing but a Cart that came toward them, vvith two or three small flags, vvhich made him thinke that the said Cart carried the Kings money, and so he told Don Quixote: but he beleeued him not, alwaies thinking that euery thing hee saw, vvas aduenture vpon aduenture: so hee answered the Gen­tleman, He that is vvarn'd, is halfe arm'd: there is nothing lost in being prouided; for I know by experience, that I haue ene­mies [Page 104] visible and inuisible, and I know not vvhen, nor where, nor at vvhat time, or in vvhat shape they vvill set vpon me: and turning to Sancho, hee demanded his Helmet, vvho vvanting leysure to take the Curds out, was forced to giue it him as it vvas. Don Quixote tooke it, and not perceiuing vvhat vvas in it, clapt it sodainly vpon his head; and as the Curds were squea­zed and thrust together, the whay began to runne downe Don Quixotes face and beard; at vvhich he vvas in such a fright, that he cryed out to Sancho, What ailes me, Sancho? for me-thinkes my skull is softned, or my braines melt, or that I sweat from top to toe; and if it be sweat, I assure thee it is not for feare, I be­leeue certainely that I am like to haue a terrible aduenture of this; giue mee something (if thou hast it) to wipe on, for this abundance of sweat blindes me. Sancho was silent and gaue him a cloth, and with it thankes to God, that his Master fell not in­to the businesse. Don Quixote wiped himselfe, and tooke off his Helmet to see what it was, that (as hee thought) did be-numme his head, and seeing those white splatches in his helmet, hee put vm 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 vnmannerly Squire. To which Sancho very cunningly, and vvith a great deale of pawse, answe­red. If they be curds, giue them me, pray, and Ile eate vm: but let the Deuill eat vm, for he put vm there. Should I be so bold as to foule your worships Helmet? and there you haue found (as I told you) who did it. In faith Sir, as sure as God liues, I haue my Enchanters too that persecute me as a creature and part of you, and I warrant haue put that filth there, to stirre you vp to choller, and to make you bang my sides (as you vse to doe.) Well, I hope this time they haue lost their labour, for I trust in my Masters discretion, that he will consider, that I haue 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 obserued 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 [Page 105] for his sword, & 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 there came no man but the Carter with his Mules, and another vpon the formost of them. Don Quixote put himselfe forward, and asked; Whither goe ye, my masters? what Cart is this? what doe you carry in it? and what colours be these? To vvhich the Carter answered, The Cart is mine, the Carriage is two fierce Lyons caged vp, which the Generall of Oran sends to the King at Court for a Present: these Colours be his Maiesties, 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 neuer came bigger out of Africa into Spaine, and I am their keeper, and haue carried others, but neuer 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 haue not eat to day, and therefore I pray Sir giue vs 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 vm 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 I'le make vm know in the middest of this Champian, who Don Quixote is, in spight of those Enchanters that sent vm. Fye, fye, (said the Gentleman at this instant to himselfe) our Knight shewes very well what he is, the Curds haue softned his skull, and ripened his braines. By this Sancho came to him and sayd; for Gods loue handle the matter so, Sir, that my Master meddle not with these Lyons; for if he doe, they'l worry vs all. Why, is your Master so madde (quoth the Gentleman) that you feare, or beleeue hee vvill fight vvith vvilde beasts? Hee is not mad, sayd Sancho, but hardy. Ile 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 vndertake aduentures, that may giue a likeli­hood [Page 104] of ending them well, and not such as are altogether despe­rate: for valour grounded vpon rashnesse, hath more madnesse then fortitude. How much more, these Lyons come not to as­sayle you, they are carried to bee presented to his Maiesty, and therefore 'twere not good to stay or hinder their iourney. Pray get you gone, gentle Sir (quoth Don Quixote) & deale with your tame Partridge, and your murdring Ferret, and leaue euery man to his function: this is mine, and I am sufficient to know whe­ther these Lyons come against me or no: so turning to the Kee­per, he cried: Vo [...]o a tal. When hee would seeme to sweare, but sweares by nothing. By this — goodman slaue, if you doe not forth­with open the Cage, Ile nayle you with my Launce to your Cart. The Carter that perceiued the resolution of that armed Vision, told him, Seignior mine, will you be pleased in charity to let me vnyoke my Mules, and to put my selfe and them in safety, before I vnsheath my Lyons? for if they should kill them, I am vndone all dayes of my life, for I haue no other li­uing but this Cart & my Mules. Oh thou wretch of little Faith (quoth Don Quixote) light, and vnyoke, and doe what thou wilt, for thou shalt see thou mightest haue saued a labour. The Carter alighted, and vnyoaked hastily, and the keeper cryed out aloud, Beare witnesse, my Masters 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 mis­chiefe that these Beasts shall doe, light vpon him, besides that he pay mee my wages and due. Shift you sirs for your selues, be­fore I open, for I am sure they'l doe mee no hurt. The Gentle­man 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 deceiued. 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 was Cakebread, and that fearefull one also of the Fulling-Mill, or all the exployts that euer he had done in his life. [Page 105] Looke ye, Sir (said Sancho) heere's no Enchantment, nor any such thing; for I haue looked thorow the grates and chinkes of the Cages, and haue seene a clawe of a true Lyon, by vvhich 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 leaue 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 leauing the prosecution of that foolish enterprize.

Hee of the Greene coate would haue hindered him, but hee found himselfe vnequally 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, & Sancho to his Dapple, and the Carter to his Mules, ech of them striuing to get as farre from the Cart as they could, be­fore the Lyons should be vnhampered.

Sancho bewailed his Masters losse; for he beleeued certainely that the Lyon would catch him in his pawes, he cursed his for­tune, and the time that euer hee came againe to his Masters ser­uice. But for all his wailing and lamenting, 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 leaue 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 to looke vpon the Lyons: and thereupon hee leap'd from his horse, cast by his Launce, buckled his Shield to him, and vnsheathed his sword faire and softly; with a maruellous courage and valiant heart, he marched toward the Cart, recommending himselfe first to God, and then to his Lady Dulcinea.

And heere is to be noted, that when the Author of the true History came to this passage, hee exclaimes and cries, O strong (and beyond all comparison) couragious Don Quixote! thou Looking-glasse, in which all the valiant Knights of the World may behold themselues: thou new and second Don Manuel de Leon, who was the honor and glory of the Spanish Knights: with what words shall I recount this fearefull exployt? or with what arguments shall I make it credible to ensuing times? or what praises will not fit and square with thee? though they may seeme Hyperboles aboue all Hyperboles? Thou on foot, alone, vn­danted 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 euer were bred in African woods. Let thine owne deeds extoll thee, braue Manchegan: for I must leaue vm 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 seeing 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 bignesse, fearefull and vgly to see to. The first thing he did, was to tumble vp and downe the cage, stretch one pawe, and rowse himselfe, forth­with he yawned, & gently sneezed, then with his tongue some two handfuls long, he licked the dust out of his eyes, and wash­ed his face; which done, 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 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 Branados, 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 [Page 109] to giue him two or three blowes, to make him come forth. No, not I (quoth the Keeper) for if I vrge 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 haue come out if he would; but since hee hath not hitherto, he will not come forth all this day. You haue well shewed the stoutnesse of your courage: no braue 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 giue me a certificate in the best forme that you can, of what you haue 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, auant, God maintaine right and truth, and true Chiualrie: 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 neuer 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 haue not vanquished the wilde beasts, since he calls vs. All of them made a stand, and knew it was Don Quixote that made the signe. So lessening their feare, by little and little they drew neere him, till they could plainely heare that he called them. At length they returned to the Cart, & Don Quixote said to the Carter; Yoake your Mules againe, Brother, and get you on your way: and Sancho, giue him two pistolets in gold, for him and the Lyon-keeper, in recom­pence for their stay. With a very good will, (said Sancho) but what's become of the Lyons? are they aliue or dead? Then the Keeper faire and softly began to tell them of the bickering, ex­tolling, as well as he could, Don Quixotes valour, at whose sight the Lyon trembling, would not, or durst not sallie from the [Page 108] Cage, although the dore were open a pretty while, and that be­cause hee had told the Knight, that to prouoke the Lyon, was to tempt God, by making him come out by force (as he would that hee should be prouoked in spight of his teeth, and against his will) he suffered the doore to be shut. What thinke you of this, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote?) Can Enchantment now pre­uaile against true Valour? Well may Enchanters make mee vn­fortunate, but 'tis impossible they should bereaue mee of my valour.

Sancho bestowed the Pistolets, and the Carter yoaked, the Keeper tooke leaue 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 Maiesty 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 vse of Knights Errant, that would change their names when they pleased, or thought it conuenient.

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 haue left admiring his words and deeds, since he might haue knowne the nature of his madnesse: but for hee knew it not, he held him to be wise and mad by fits; for vvhat hee spoke, was consonant, elegant, and well deliuered: but his actions were foolish, rash, and vnaduised: and (thought hee to himselfe) What greater madnesse could there be, then to clap on a helmet full of Curds, and to make vs beleeue that Enchanters had softned his skull? or what greater rashnesse or foppery, then forcibly to venter vpon Lyons? Don Quixote drew him from these imaginations, saying, Who doubts, Seignior Don Diego de Miranda, but that you will hold me in your opinion for an idle fellow, or a mad man: and no maruell that I be held so; for my [Page 109] actions testifie no lesse: for all that, I would haue you know, that I am not so mad, or so shallow as I seeme. It is a braue sight to see a goodly Knight in the midst In Spaine they vse with horse-men & foot-men to course their Bulls to death in the Market places, of the Market-place before his Prince, to giue a thrust with his Launce to a fierce Bull. And it is a braue sight to see a Knight armed in shining armour passe about the Tilt-yard at the cheerefull Iusts before the Ladies; and all those Knights are a braue sight that in Military exercises (or such as may seeme so) doe entertaine, reuiue, and honour their Princes Courts: but aboue all these, a Knight Errant is a better sight, that by Desarts and Wildernesses, by crosse-waies and Woods, & Mountaines, searcheth after dangerous Aduentures, vvith a purpose to end them happily and fortunately, 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 haue their particular exercises: Let the Courtier serue Ladies, autho­rize his Princes Court with liueries, sustaine poore Gentlemen at his Table, appoint Iusts, maintaine Tourneyes, shew himselfe noble, liberall, and magnificent, and aboue 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 intricate Labyrinths, euery foote vndertake Impossibles, and in the Desarts and Wildernesse: let him resist the Sunne-beames in the midst of Summer, and the sharpe rigor of the windes and frosts in Winter: Let not Lyons fright him, nor spirits terrifie him, nor Hobgoblins make him quake: for to seeke these, to set vpon them, and to ouercome all, are his prime exercises. And since it fell to my lot to bee one of the number of these Knights Errant, I cannot but vnder goe all that I think comes vnder the iurisdiction of my profession. So that the encountring those Lyons did directly belong to me, though I knew it to be an ex­orbitant rashnesse; for well I know, that valour is a vertue be­twixt two vicious extremes, as cowardise and rashnesse: but it is lesse dangerous for him that is valiant, to rise to a point of rash­nesse, then to fall or touch vpon the Coward. For as it is more easie for a prodigall man to be liberall, then a couetous, so it is ea­sier for a rash man to be truely valiant, then a Coward to come [Page 110] to true valour. And touching the on-set in Aduentures, belieue mee Signior Don Diego, it is better playing a good trump then a small, 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 haue said and done is leuelled 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 vs haste, for the day growes on vs, let vs get to my village and house, where you shall ease your selfe of your former labour; which, though it haue not beene bodily, yet it is mentall, which doth often redound to the bo­dies wearinesse. I thanke you for your kinde 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.

CHAP. XVIII.

DOn Quixote perceiued that Don Diego de Miranda's house was spacious, after the Country manner, and his Armes (though of course stone) vpon 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 remembrance of his enchan­ted and transformed Mistresse Dulcinea, so sighing, & not min­ding who was by, he said,

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, [Page 111] 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, giue 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) vse the same ouer againe to the Scholler, who hearing Don Quixote speake, tooke him to bee wondrous wise and witty. Heere the Author paints out vnto vs all the cir­cumstances of Don Diego his house, deciphering to vs all that a Gentle-man and a rich Farmers house may haue: but it seemed good to the Translator, to passe ouer these and such like trifles, because they suited not with the principall scope of this History, the which is more grounded vpon truth, then vpon bare di­gressions.

Don Quixote was led into a Hall, Sancho vn-armed him, so that now he had nothing on but his breeches, and a Chamois doublet, all smudged with the filth of his Armour, about his necke he wore a little Scholasticall band vnstarcht, and without lace, his buskins were Date-coloured, & his shooes close on each side, his good sword he girt to him, that hung at a belt of Sea-wolues 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 fiue 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 Sancho's gluttony, and the buying those dismall black curds, that made his Master so white with the aforesayd braue­ry, and with a spritely aire and gallantry, Don Quixote marched into another roome, where the Scholler stayed for him, to enter­taine him till the cloth was layd, for the Mistris of the house, Dona Cristina, meant to shew to her honourable guest, that shee knew how to make much of them that came to her house.

Whilest Don Quixote was dis-arming himselfe, Don Lorenzo [Page 112] had leasure (for that was Don Diego's sonnes name) to aske his father; What doe you call this Gentle-man, Sir, that you haue 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 haue seene him play the maddest prankes of any mad-man in the world, and speake againe spee­ches so wise, as blot out and vndoe his deeds; doe thou speake to him, and feele the pulse of his vnderstanding, and since thou art discreet, iudge of his discretion or folly as thou seest best, though to deale plainely with thee, I rather hold him to be mad then wise.

Heereupon Don Lorenzo (as is sayd) went to entertaine Don Quixote, and amongst other discourse that passed betwixt them, Don Quixote sayd to Don Lorenzo; Signior Don Diego de Mi­randa, your father, hath told me of your rare abilities and subtill wit, and chiefly that you are an excellent Poet. A Poet perhaps (replide Don Lorenzo) but 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 deserue the name of excellent, that my father stiles me with. I doe not dislike your modesty (quoth Don Quixote) for you haue 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 haue 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 Prize, content your selfe with the se­cond De iusta litera­ria: A custome in Vniuersities in Spaine, of rewards pro­posed to them that make the best verses. reward: For the first goes alwayes by fauour, or accor­ding to the quality of the person, and the second is iustly distri­buted, so that the third comes (according to this account) to be the second, and the first the third, according to degrees that are giuen in Vniuersities: but for all that, the word first is a great matter.

Hitherto (thought Don Lorenzo to himselfe) I cannot thinke [Page 113] thee mad: proceed wee: and hee sayd; It seemes, Sir, you haue frequented the Schooles, what Sciences haue 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 skilfull in the Lawes, to know Iustice Di­stributiue and Commutatiue, to giue euery man his owne, and what belongs to him: he must be a Diuine, to know how to giue a reason cleerly and distinctly of his Christian profession, wher­soeuer it shall be demanded him: hee must bee a Physician, and chiefly an Herbalist, to know in a wildernesse or Desart, what hearbs haue vertue to cure wounds: for your Knight Errant must not bee looking euery pissing-while who shall heale him: He must bean Astronomer, to know in the night by the starres what a clock tis, and in what part & Climate of the world he is: He must be skilfull in the Mathematikes, because euery foot he shal haue need of them: And to let passe, that he must be adorned with all diuine and morall vertues; descending to other trifles, I say, he must learne to swimme (as they say) fish Nicholas, or Ni­colao did: Hee must know how to shoo a horse, to mend a sad­dle or bridle: And comming againe to what went before, hee must serue God and his Mistris inuiolably, 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 lastly, a Defender of truth, although it cost him his life for it. Of all these great and lesser parts a good Knight Errant is composed, that you may see, Signior Don Lorenzo, whether it be a sniueling Science that the Knight that learnes it professeth, and whether it may not be equalled to the proudest of them all taught in the Schooles.

If it be so (sayd Don Lorenzo) I say this Science goes beyond them all. If it be so (quoth Don Quixote?) Why, let mee tell you (sayd Don Lorenzo) I doubt whether there be any Knights Errant now adorned with so many vertues. Oft haue I spoken (replide Don Quixote) that which I must now speake agen, that [Page 114] the greatest part of men in the world are of opinion, that there be no Knights Errant, and I thinke, if Heauen doe not miracu­lously let vm vnderstand the truth, that there haue beene such, and that at this day there be, all labour will be in vaine (as I haue often found by experience.) I will not now stand vpon shewing you your errour: all I will doe, is to pray to God to deliuer you out of it, and to make you vnderstand, how profitable and ne­cessary Knights Errant haue beene to the world in former ages, & also would be at present, if they were in request: but now, for our sinnes, sloth, idlenesse, gluttony, and wantonnesse doe raigne. I'faith (thought Don Lorenzo) for this once our ghest hath scaped me: but for all that, he is a liuely Asse, and I were a dull foole, if I did not beleeue it.

Heere they ended their discourse, for they were called to din­ner: Don Diego asked his sonne, what triall he had made of their ghests vnderstanding: To which he made answer; All the Phy­sicians and Scriueners 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 vpon the way described it, such as hee gaue to his ghests, well drest, sauory and plentifull: But that which best pleased Don Quixote, was the maruellous silence thorowout the whole house, as if it had beene a Couent of Carthusians: So (that lifting vp 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 ouer-intreated, they vse to make scruple of their workes, and when they are not intreated, they vo­mit vm out, I will speake my glosse, for which I expect no re­ward, as hauing 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 ne're come neere the Text, and most commonly the Glosse was quite from the Theame giuen; 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 ligaments and strictnesses to which the Glossor is [Page 115] 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 know my meaning (sayd Don Lorenzo:) but for the present I pray you harken with attention to my glossed verses, and to the Glosse, as for example.

When Don Lorenzo had ended, Don Quixote stood vp and cried aloud, as if hee had screecht, taking Don Lorenzo by the hand, and sayd; Assuredly, generous youth, I thinke you are the best Poet in the world, and you deserue the Lawrell, not of Cyprus or Gaeta, as a Poet sayd (God forgiue him) but of Athens, if it were extant, Paris, Bolonia, and Salamanca: I would to God those Iudges that would deny you the Prize, might bee shot to death with arrowes by Phoehus, and that the Muses neuer come within their thresholds. 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 iu­risdiction! This truth was verified in Don Lorenzo, since hee [Page 117] condiscended to Don Quixotes request, speaking this following Sonnet to him, of the Fable or Story of Pyramus and Thi [...]be.

Now thanked bee God (quoth Don Quixote, hauing heard this Sonnet) that amongst so many consumed Poets as be, I haue found one consummate, as you are, Sir, which I perceiue by your well-framed Sonnet. Don Quixote remained foure dayes (being well entertained) in Don Diego's house, at the end of which he desired to take his leaue, & thanked him for the kind­nesse and good welcome he had receiued: but because it was not fit that Knights Errant should bee too long idle, hee purposed to exercise his Function, and to seeke after Aduentures he knew of; for the place whither hee meant to goe to, would giue him plenty enough to passe his time with, till it were fit for him to goe to the Iusts at Saragosa, which was his more direct course: but that first of all he meant to goe to Montesino's vault, of which there were so many admirable tales in euery mans mouth: so to search and enquire the Spring and Origine of those seuen Lakes, [Page 118] commonly called of Ruydera. Don Diego and his sonne com­mended his noble determination, and bid him furnish himselfe with what hee pleased of their house and wealth, for that hee should receiue it with all loue and good will; for the worth of his person, and his honourable profession obliged them to it.

To conclude, the day for his parting came, as pleasing to him, as bitter and sorrowfull to Sancho, who liked wondrous well of Don Diego's plentifull prouision, 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 prouision he could. And Don Quixote, as he tooke his leaue of Don Lorenzo, sayd; I know not, Sir, whether I haue told you heretofore, but though I haue, I tell you againe, that when you would saue a great deale of labor & paines, to ar­riue at the inaccessible top of Fames Temple, you haue no more to doe, but to leaue 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?

With this Epilogue Don Quixote shut vp 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 restraining the proud; vertues annexed to my profession: but since his slender age is not capable, and his laudible enterprises will not permit him, I am onely willing to aduize you, that being a Poet, you may be famous, if you gouerne your selfe by other mens iudgements, more then by your owne; for you haue no parents that dis­like their owne children, faire or foule, and this errour is more frequent in mens vnderstandings.

The Father and the Son afresh admired at Don Quixotes oft interposed reasons, some wise, some foolish, and at his obstinate being bent altogether vpon his vnlucky Aduentures, 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 leaue of the Lady of the Castle, mounted his Rozinan­te, and Sancho his Dapple; so they parted.

CHAP. XIX.

DOn Quixote vvas not gone far from Don Diego's towne, vvhen hee ouertooke two men that seemed to be Par­sons, or Schollers, vvith two Husbandmen that vvere mounted vpon foure Asses. One of the Schollers had (as it were in a Portmantue) a piece of vvhite cloth for Scarlet, wrapped vp 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, vvhich shewed they came from some Market Towne, vvhere they had bought them to carry home to their village: so as vvell the Schollers as the Husbandmen fell into the same admiration, that all they had done vvho first saw Don Quixote, and they longed to know vvhat manner of fellow he vvas, so different from all other men. Don Quixote saluted them, and after hee asked them vvhither they vvent, & that they had said they vvent his vvay, he offered them his company, and desired them to goe softlyer, for that their young Asses trauelled faster then his horse: and to oblige them the more, he told them vvho he vvas, and of his professi­on, that he was a Knight Errant, that he vvent to seeke Aduen­tures round about the vvorld. Hee told them his proper name vvas Don Quixote de la Mancha, but his ordinary name, The Knight of the Lyons.

All this to the Husbandmen was Heathen Greek, or Pedlers French: but not to the Schollers, vvho straight perceiued the weakenesse of Don Quixotes braine: Notwithstanding they be­held him vvith great admiration and respect, and one of them said, Sir Knight, if you goe no set iourney, as they which seeke Aduentures seldome doe, I pray goe vvith vs, and you shall see one of the brauest and most sumptuous mariages that euer vvas kept in the Mancha, or in many leagues round about. Don Quixote asked them if it were of any Prince (for so hee imagi­ned.) [Page 120] No, Sir, (said hee) but betwixt a Farmer, and a Farmers daughter: he is the richest in all the Countrey, and she the fai­rest aliue. Their prouision for this marriage is new and rare, and it is to be kept in a medow neere the Brides towne. Shee is cal­led, the more to set her out, Quiteria the faire, and he Camacho the rich: she is about eighteene yeeres of age, and he two & twen­ty, both vvell mette, but that some nice people, that busie them­selues in all mens linages, vvill 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 couer all the Medow on the Top, so that the Sunne vvill be troubled to enter to visit the greene hearbs vnderneath. He hath also certaine warlike Mor­rices, as vvell of swords, as little iyngling bels; for vvee haue those in the towne that will iangle them. For your foot-clappers I say nothing, you would wonder to see vm bestirre themselues: but none of these, nor others I haue told you of, are like to make this marriage so remarkeable, as the despised Basilius. This Ba­silius is a neighbouring swaine of Quiteria's Towne, vvhose house was next dore to her Fathers. From hence Loue tooke oc­casion to renew vnto the world, the long forgotten loues of Py­ramus and Thysbe; for Basilius loued Quiteria from a childe, and she answered his desires with a thousand louing fauors. So that it grew a common talke in the towne, of the loue 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 auoyd all suspition, purposed to marry her to the rich Camacho, not thinking it fit to marry her to Basilius, vvho vvas not so rich in Fortunes goods, as in those of the minde, (for to say truth without enuy) he is the actiuest youth we haue, 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 vpon a Gitterne as if he made it speake, and aboue all, fenceth as well as the best.

For that slight only (quoth Don Quixote) the youth deserues not onely to match with the faire Quiteria, but with Queene [Page 121] Ginebra her selfe, if she were now aliue, 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 haue eue­ry one marry vvith their equals, holding her selfe to the Pro­uerbe, that sayes; Like to like (quoth the Deuill to the Collier.) All that I desire, is, that honest Basilius (for me thinkes I loue him) were married to Quiteria, and God giue vm ioy (I was saying) those that go about to hinder the mariage of two that loue well. If all that loue well (quoth Don Quixote) should marry, Pa­rents would lose the priuiledge of marying their children, when and with whom they ought; and if daughters might chuse their husbands, you should haue some would choose their fathers ser­uants, and others, any passenger in the street, whom they thought to be a lusty swaggerer, although hee were a cowardly Ruffian; for loue and affection doe easily blinde the eyes of the vnderstanding, which is onely fit to choose, and the state of Matrimony is a ticklish thing, and there is great heed to be ta­ken, and a particular fauour to be giuen from aboue to make it light happily.

Any man that would but vndertake some voyage, if hee be wise, before he is on his way, he will seeke him some good com­panion. And why should not he doe so, that must trauell all his life-time till he come to his resting-place, Death? and the rather if his company must be at bed, and at boord, and in all places, as the wiues company must be with the Husband? Your wife is not a commodity like others, that is bought and sold, or ex­chang'd, but an inseparable accident, that lasts for terme of life. It is a nooze, that beeing fastned about the necke, turnes to a Gordian knot, which cannot be vndone but by Deaths sickle.

I could tell yee much more in this businesse, vvere it not for the desire I haue to be satisfied by Master Parson, if there be any more to come of Basilius his story. To vvhich hee answered, This is all, that from the instant that Basilius knew the fair Qui­teria vvas to be maried to the rich Camacho, he vvas neuer seene to smile, or talke sensibly; and hee is alwaies sad and pensatiue, talkes to himselfe: an euident token that hee is distracted: eates little, sleepes much: all he eates, is fruites, and all his sleepe is in [Page 122] the fields, vpon the hard ground like a beast; now and then hee lookes vp to heauen, and sometimes casts his eyes downeward, so senselesse, as if hee were onely a statue clothed, and the very ayre strikes off his garments. In fine, he hath all the signes of a passionate heart, and we are all of opinion, that by that time Qui­teria to morrow giues the, I, it vvill be the sentence of his death. God forbid (sayd Sancho) for God giues the vvound, and God giues the salue: no body knowes what may happen, 'tis a good many houres betweene this and to morrow, and in one houre, nay one minute, a house falls, and I haue seene 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 here that can say he hath stayd the course of Fortunes great wheele? No truly, and betweene a womans I, and no, I would be loth to put a pins poynt; for it would hardly enter. Let mee haue Mistresse Quiteria loue Basilius with all her heart, and I'le giue him a bagge full of good lucke, for your loue (as I haue heard tell) lookes wantonly with eyes that make copper seeme gold, and pouerty riches, and filth in the eyes, pearles. Whi­ther a plague run'st thou, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote?) vvhen thou goest threading on thy Prouerbs and thy flim-flams, Iudas 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 vnderstand me not, no maruell though my sentences be held for fopperies: well, I know vvhat I say, and know I haue 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 Preuaricator of language. Doe not you deale with me (said Sancho) since you know I haue not bin brought vp in Court, nor studied in Salamanca, to know whe­ther I adde or diminish any of my syllables. Lord God, you must not thinke your One of that Prouince that speake a ba­stard language to the Spanish Galizian can speak like your Toledonian, & they neyther are not all so nimble. For matter of your Court-language (quoth the Parson) 'tis true; for they that are bred in the Tanner-rowes, and the The market place so called in Toledo. Zocodoner, cannot discourse like them that walke all day in the high Church-Cloysters; yet all are Toledonians, the language is pure, proper, and elegant, (in­deed) [Page 123] only in your discreet Courtiers, let them be borne where they will: Discreet I say, because many are otherwise, and dis­cretion is the Grammar of good language, which is accompani­ed with practice: I Sir, I thanke God haue 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 vsing the foyles you carry, then your tongue, you might haue 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 skill of the weapon, since you hold it friuolous. Tis no opi­nion of mine (said Corchuelo) but a manifest truth, and if you will haue me shew it by experience, there you haue foyles com­modious: I haue an arme, and strength, which together vvith my courage, which is not small, shall make you confesse I am not deceiued; alight and keepe your distance, your circles, your corners, and all your Science, I hope to make you see the starres at noone day with my skill, which is but moderne and meane, which though it be small, I hope to God the man is yet vnborn that shall make mee turne my backe, and there is no man in the world, but I'le make him giue ground. For turning your backe said (said the Skilfull) I meddle not, though perhaps where you first set your foot, there your graue might be digged, I meane you might be killed for despising skill. That you shall try (said Corchuelo) and lighting hastily from his Asse, he snatched one of the swords that the Parson carried. Not so (sayd Don Quixote instantly) Ile be the Master of this Fence, and the Iudge of this vndecided controuersie, and lighting from Rozinante, and ta­king his Launce, he stepped betweene them till such time as the Parson had put himselfe into his Posture and distance against Corchuelo, who ranne (as you would say) darting fire out of his eyes. The two Husbandmen that were by, without lighting from their Asses, serued for spectators of the mortall Tragedy, the blowes, the stockados, your false thrusts, your back-blowes, your doubling-blowes, that came from Corchuelo were number­lesse, as thicke as hoppes, or haile, he layd on like an angry Ly­on: but still the Parson gaue him a stopple for his mouth, with [Page 124] the button of his foyle, which stopped him in the midst of his fury, and he made him kisse it, as if it had been a Relike, though not with so much deuotion as is due to them. In a word, the Parson with pure Stocados told all the buttons of his Cassocke which he had on, his skirts flying about him like a fishes tayle. Twice he strooke off his hat, and so wearied him, that what for despight, vvhat for choller and rage, he tooke the sword by the hilt, and flung it into the ayre so forcibly, that one of the hus­bandmen that was by, who was a notary, and went for it, gaue testimony after, that he flung it almost three quarters of a mile; which testimony serues, and hath serued, that it may be knowne and really seene, that force is ouercome by Art.

Corchuelo sate down being very weary, and Sancho comming to him, said; Truely Sir Bachelor, if you take my aduice, hereaf­ter challenge no man to fence, but to wrastle, or throw the bar, since you haue youth and force enough for it; for I haue 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 haue beleeued. So rising vp, 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 resolued to fol­low, and come betimes to Quiteria's Village, of whence they all were. By the way, the Parson discourses to vm, of the excel­lency of the Art of Fencing, with so many demonstratiue rea­sons, with so many figures and Mathematicall demonstrations, 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 heauen of innumerable starres before the Towne. They heard likewise, harmonious and confused sounds of di­uers 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 [Page 125] moued the leaues 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 vpon di­uers of the aforesaid instruments: nothing but mirth ranne vp and downe the Medow, others were busied in raising skaf­folds, that they might the next day see the representations and dances commodiously, dedicated to the marriage of the rich Ca­macho, and the Obsequies of Basilius.

Don Quixote would not enter the Towne, although the Hus­bandmen and the Bachelor entreated him: for he gaue a suffici­ent excuse for himselfe (as hee thought) that it was the custome of Knights Errant to sleepe in fields and forrests, rather then in habitations, though it were vnder golden roofes: so hee vvent a little out of the way, much against Sancho's will, who remem­bred the good lodging hee had in the Castle, or house of Don Diego.

CHAP. XX.

SCarse had the siluer morne giuen bright Phoebus leaue, with the ardour of his burning rayes, to dry the liquid pearles on his golden lockes, when Don Quixote shaking off sloth from his drowsie members, rose vp, and called Sancho his Squire, that still lay snorting: which Don Quixote seeing, be­fore he could wake, he said, Oh happy thou aboue all that hee vpon the face of the earth, that without enuy, or being enuied, sleepest with a quiet brest, neyther persecuted by [...] ­chanters, nor frighted by Enchantments. Sleepe, I say, once a­gaine, nay an hundred times, sleepe: let not thy Masters [...] ­sie keepe thee continually awake, nor let care to pay thy d [...], make thee watchfull, or how another day thou and thy [...] but streightned family may liue, whom neither ambition [...] ­bles, nor the worlds vaine pompe doth weary, since the bou [...] [Page 126] of thy desires extend no further then to thinking of thine Asse; for, for thine owne person, that thou hast committed to my charge, a counterpoise and burden that Nature and Custome hath layd vpon the Masters. The seruant sleepes, and the Ma­ster wakes, thinking how he may maintaine, good him, and doe him kindnesses: the griefe that is, to see heauen obdurate in re­leeuing the earth with seasonable moysture, troubles not the ser­uant, but it doth the Master, that must keepe in sterility and hun­ger, him that serued him in abundance and plenty.

Sancho answered not a word to all this, for hee was asleepe, neyther would hee haue 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 deceiued) there comes a steame and smell rather of good broyled rashers, then Time & Rushes: A marriage that begins with such smells, (by my Holidam) I thinke twill be braue and plentifull.

Away, Glutton (quoth Don Quixote) come and let vs 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'l fall from the clouds: Faith, Sir, I am of opinion, that the poore fellow bee contented with his fortunes, & not seek after things impossible. Ile hold one of mine arms, that Camacho wil couer Basilius all ouer with sixpen­ces: and if it be so, as tis like, Quiteria were a very foole to leaue her brauery and Iewells that Camacho hath, and can giue her, and chuse Basilius for his barre-pitching and fencing: In a Tauerne they will not giue you a pint of wine for a good throw with the barre, or a tricke at fence, such abilities that are worth nothing, haue vm whose will for me: but when they light vpon one that hath crownes withall, let mee be like that man that hath them: vpon a good foundation, a good building may be raised, and mony is the best bottome and foundation that is in the world. For Gods loue, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) conclude thy tedi­ous discourse: with which (I beleeue) if thou wert let alone, thou wouldest neyther eat nor sleepe for talking. If you had a [Page 127] good memory (sayd Sancho) you would remember the articles of our agreement, before we made our last sally from home, one of which was, that you would let me speake as much as I list, on condition that it were not against my neighbor, or against your authority, and hitherto I am sure I haue not broken that article.

I remember no such article, Sancho (sayd he) and though it were so, I would haue you now be silent, and come with mee; for now the Instruments we heard ouer-night, begin to cheere 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 Arbor. The first thing that San­cho saw, was a whole Steere spitted vpon a whole Elme, and for the fire where it was to bee rosted, there was a pretty moun­taine of wood, and six pots that were round-about this Bon-fire, which were neuer cast in the ordinary mold that other pots were, for they were six halfe Oliue-butts, and euery one was a very Shambles of meat, they had so many whole sheepe soking in vm which were not seene, as if they had beene Pigeons, the flayed Hares, and pulled Hens, that were hung vpon the trees, to bee buried in the pots, were numberlesse, birds and fowle of di­uers sorts infinite, that hung on the trees, that the aire might coole them. Sancho counted aboue threescore skinnes of wine, each of them of aboue two Arroba's, and as it afterward see­med, Arroba, a mea­sure of 25. pound wayt, which may be some six gal­lons of wine. of spritely liquor: there were also whole heapes of purest bread, heaped vp like corne in the threshing-floores, your chee­ses like bricks piled one vpon another, made a goodly wall, and two kettles of oyle bigger then a Diers, serued to frie their paste-worke, which they tooke out with two strong peeles, when they were fried, and they ducked them in another kettle of ho­ney that stood by for the same purpose: There were Cookes a­boue fifty, men and women, all cleanely, carefull, and cheerfull: In the spacious belly of the Steere, there were twelue sucking Pigs, which being sowed there, serued to make him more sa­uoury: the spices of diuers sorts, it seemes were not brought by Pounds, but by Arrones, and all lay open in a great chest. To [Page 128] conclude, this preparation for the marriage was rusticall; but so plentifull, that it might furnish an Army.

Sancho Pansa beheld all, and was much affected with it: and first of all, the goodly pots did captiuate his desires, from whence with all his heart hee would haue beene glad to haue receiued a good pipkin full; by and by he was enamoured on the skins, and last of all vpon 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 haue any iurisdi­ction (thanks be to the rich Camacho) alight, and see if you can finde euer 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 for­giue 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 haue 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 vpon twelue goodly Mares, with rich and sightly furniture fit for the Countrey, with many little bels vpon their Petrels, all clad in brauery for that dayes solemnity, and all in a ioynt-troop ran many Careeres vp and downe the medow, with a great deale of mirth and iollity, crying; Long liue 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 that these men haue not seene my Dulcinea del To­boso: for if they had, they would not bee so forward in praising this their Quiteria.

A while after there began to enter at diuers places of the Ar­bour, certaine different dances, amongst which there was one [Page 129] Sword-dance, by foure and twenty Swaines, handsome lusty Youths, all in white linnen, with their hand-kerchiefs wrought in seuerall colours of fine silke, and one of the twelue vpon the Mares asked him that was the fore-man of these, a nimble Lad, if any of the Dancers had hurt themselues.

Hitherto (sayd he) no body is hurt, wee are all well, God bee thanked: and straight he shuffled in amongst the rest of his com­panions, with so many tricks, and so much slight; that Don Quixote, though he were vsed to such kinde of dances, yet hee neuer liked any so well as this. He also liked another very well, which was of faire young Mayds, so young, that neuer a one was vnder foureteene, nor none aboue eighteene, all clad in course greene, their haire partly filletted and partly loose: but all were yellow, and might compare with the Sunne, vpon which they had garlands of Iesmines, a little sweet white flower that growes in Spaine in hed­ges, like our Sweet Mar­ioram. Iasmines, Roses, Wood-bine and Hony­suckles, they had for their guides a reuerend olde man, and a ma­tronly woman, but more light and nimble then could bee expe­cted from their yeeres.

They danc'd to the sound of a Zamora, a towne in Ca­stile, famous for that kinde of musicke, like our Lan­ca-shire horn­pipe. Zamora bag-pipe, so that with their honest lookes, and their nimble feet, they seemed to be the best Dancers in the world. After this there came in ano­ther artificiall dance, of those called Brawles, it consisted of eight Nymphs, diuided into two rankes, God Cupid guided one ranke, and Money the other, the one with his wings, his Bow, his Quiuer and Arrowes, the other was clad in diuers rich co­lours of gold and silke: The Nymphs that followed Loue, car­ried a white parchment scrowle at their backes, in which their names were written in great letters: the first was Poesie, the se­cond Discretion, the third Nobility, the fourth Ʋalour. In the same manner came those whom god Money led, the first was Liberality, the second Reward, the third Treasure, the fourth Quiet Possession; before them came a woodden Castle, which was shot at by two Sauages clad in Iuie and Canuas, died in greene, so to the life, that they had well-nigh frighted Sancho. Vpon the Frontispice, and of each side of the Castle, was written; The Castle of good heede: Foure skilfull Musicians played to them on a Taber and Pipe; Cupid began the Dance, and after two chan­ges, [Page 130] hee lifted vp his eyes, and bent his Bow against a Virgin that stood vpon the battlements of the Castle, and sayd to her in this manner:

The Verse being ended, he shot a flight ouer the Castle, and retired to his standing; By and by came out Money, and perfor­med his two changes; the Taber ceased, and he spoke:

Money retired, and Poetry aduanced, who after she had done her changes aswell as the rest, her eyes fixt vpon the Damozell of the Castle, she sayd:

Poetry gaue way, and from Monies side came Liberality, and after her changes, spoke:

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 ones, and now the whole troope mingled together, winding in and out with great spritelinesse and dexterity, and still as Loue 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 Romane Cats skinne, which seemed to be full of money, and casting it into the Castle, with the blow, the boords were dis-ioyned, and fell downe, leauing the Damozell discouered, without any defence. Money came with his assi­stants, and casting a great chaine of golde about her necke, they made a shew of leading her captiue: Which when Loue and his Party saw, they made shew as if they would haue rescued her, and all these motions were to the sound of the Taber, with skil­full [Page 132] dancing, the Sauages parted them, who very speedily went to set vp and ioyne the boords of the Castle, and the Damozell was enclosed there anew: and with this the dance ended, to the great content of the Spectators.

Don Quixote asked one of the Nymphs, Who had so drest and ordered her? Shee answered, A Parson of the towne, who had an excellent capacity for such inuentions. Ile lay a wager (sayd Don Quixote) he was more Basilius his friend then Cama­cho's, and that he knowes better what belongs to a Satyr then to Euen-song; he hath well 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 liue the Con­querour. I know not who I am like (said Sancho:) but I know I shall neuer get such delicate froth out of Basilius his Pottage-pots, as I haue 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, Haue­much, and Haue-little; and she was mightily enclined to the for­mer: and at this day, Master, your Physician had rather feele a hauing pulse, then a knowing pulse, and an Asse couered 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 neuer 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 ne­uer see thee dumbe, no not when thou drinkest or sleepest, to paint thee out thorowly. In good faith, Master (quoth Sancho) there is no trusting in the raw bones, I meane Death, that de­uoures lambes as well as sheepe, and I haue heard our Vicar say, she tramples as wel on the high Towres of Kings, as the humble cottages of poore men: this Lady hath more power then squea­mishnesse, she is nothing dainty, shee deuoures all, playes at all, and fils her wallets with all kinde of people, ages, and preemi­nences: Shee is no Mower that sleepes in the hot weather, but mowes at all howers, and cuts aswell the greene grasse as the [...]ay: she doth not chew, but swallowes at once, and crums downe all that comes before her; shee hath a Canine appetite, that is neuer satisfied, and though shee haue no belly, yet shee may make vs thinke shee is Hydropsicall, with the thirst shee hath to drinke all mens liues, as if it were a iugge of colde water.

No more, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) at this instant, hold while thou art well, and take heed of falling, for certainely thou hast spoken of Death in thy rusticall termes, as much as a good Preacher might haue spoken. I tell thee, Sancho, that for thy na­turall discretion, thou mightst get thee a Pulpit, and preach thy fine knacks vp and downe the world. Hee preaches well that liues well (sayd Sancho) and I know no other preaching. Thou needest not (quoth he:) But I wonder at one thing, that wis­dome beginning from the feare of God, that thou, who fearest a Lizard more then him, shouldst be so wise? Iudge you of your Knight Errantry (sayd Sancho) and meddle not with other mens feares or valors, for I am as pretty a Fearer of God as any of my neighbours, and so let mee snuffe away this scum, for all the Meaning to eat his Hen & the Goose. rest are but idle words, for which we must giue account in ano­ther life. And in so saying, hee began to giue another assault to the kettle, with such a courage, that he wakened Don Quixote, that vndoubtedly would haue taken his part, if he had not beene hindered by that, that of necessity must be set downe.

CHAP. XXI.

AS 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 deuices, 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 In stead of three-piled. thirty piled veluet; and her lacing that should be white linnen, (I vow by me) is Satten: well looke on her hands that should haue their lette rings, let me not thriue 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 neuer saw longer, nor fairer in my life. Well, well, finde not fault with her liuelinesse and stature, and compare her me to a Date tree, that bends vp 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 neuer saw fairer woman: the beauteous Quiteria was somewhat pale, be­like, with the ill night that Brides alwaies haue when they dresse themselues for next daies marriage. They drew neere to a Theater on one side of the Medow, that was dressed with Car­pets and boughes, where the marriage was to bee solemnized, and where they should behold the dances and inuentions. And [Page 135] iust as they should come to the place, they heard a great out-cry behind them, and a voyce, saying; Stay a while, rash people as well as hasty: At whose voyce and words they all turned about, and saw that he that spoke, was one cladde (to see to) in a blacke lacket all welted with Crimson in flames, crowned (as they straight perceiued) with a crowne of mournefull Cypresse, in his hand he had a great Truncheon: and comming neerer, hee was knowne by all to be the Gallant Basilius, who were in sus­pence, expecting what should be the issue of those cryes and words, fearing some ill successe from this so vnlooked for arri­uall. Hee drew neere, weary, and out of breath, and comming before the married couple, and clapping his Truncheon vpon the ground, which had a steele pike at the end of it: his colour changed, and his eyes fixed vpon Quiteria, with a fearefull and hollow voyce, thus spoke:

Well knowest thou, forgetfull Quiteria, that according to the Law of God that wee professe, that whilest I liue thou canst not be married to any other: neyther are you ignorant, that be­cause I would stay till time and my industry might better my fortunes, I would not breake that decorum that was fitting to the preseruing of thy honesty: but you forgetting all duetie, due to my vertuous desires, will make another Master of what is mine, whose riches serue not onely to make him happy in them, but euery way fortunate, and that he may be so to the full, (not as I thinke he deserues it, but as the Fates ordaine it for him) I will with these hands remooue the impossibility or inconuenience that may disturbe him, remouing my selfe out of the way. Liue, rich Camacho, liue with the vngratefull Quiteria many & pros­perous yeeres, and let your poore Basilius die, whose pouerty clipped the wings of his happinesse, and laid him in his graue: 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 serued 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 vpon it, and in an instant the bloudy poynt appeared out of his backe, with halfe the steele blade, the poore soule wel­tring [Page 136] in his bloud, all along on the ground, runne thorow with his owne vveapon. His friends ranne presently to helpe him, greeued with his misery and miserable happe, and Don Quixote forsaking his Rozinante, vvent also to helpe him; tooke him in his armes, but found that as yet there vvas life in him. They vvould haue pulled out the Tucke, but the Vicar there present; vvas of opinion that it vvere not best before hee had confessed himselfe; for that the drawing it out, and his death, vvould be both at one instant. But Basilius comming a little to himselfe; vvith a faint and dolefull voyce, said, If thou vvouldest, O Qui­teria, yet in this last and forcible trance, giue me thy hand to be my spouse, I should thinke my rashnesse might something ex­cuse me, since vvith this I obtained to be thine.

The Vicar hearing this, bad him he should haue a care of his soules health, rather then of the pleasures of his body, and that he should heartily aske God forgiuenesse for his sinnes, and for his desperate action. To vvhich Basilius reply'd, That he would by no meanes confesse himselfe, if Quiteria did not first giue him her hand to be his spouse, for that content would make him cheerefully confesse himselfe. When Don Quixote heard the vvounded mans petition, he cried aloud, that Basilius desired a thing very iust and reasonable, and that Signior Camacho would be as much honoured in receiuing Quiteria, the worthy Basilius his vviddow, as if hee had receiued her from her Fathers side: heere is no more to doe but giue one I, no more then to pro­noūce it, since the nuptial bed of this mariage must be the graue.

Camacho gaue eare to all this, and was much troubled, not knowing vvhat to doe or say: but Basilius his friends were so earnest, requesting him to consent that Quiteria might giue him her hand to bee his Spouse, that hee might not endanger his soule, by departing desperately, that they mooued him and enforced him, to say that if Quiteria would, he vvas contented, seeing it vvas but deferring his desires a minute longer. Then all of them came to Quiteria, some vvith intreaties, others with teares, most with forcible reasons, and perswaded her she should giue her hand to poore Basilius; and shee more hard then mar­ble, more lumpish then a statue, vvould not answer a word, [Page 137] neyther would she at all, had not the Vicar bid her resolue what she vvould doe, for Basilius was euen now ready to depart, and could not expect her irresolute determination. Then the faire Quiteria, without answering a word, all sad and troubled, came where Basilius was, vvith his eyes euen 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 vpon her knees made signes to haue his hand. Basilius vnioyn'd his eyes, and looking stedfastly vpon 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 force to receiue the glory that thou giuest in chusing mee for thine, or to suspend the dolor that so hastily closeth vp mine eyes, with the fearefull shade of death. All I de­sire thee is (oh fatall starre of mine) that the hand thou requirest, and that that thou wilt giue me, that it be not for fashion-sake, nor once more to deceiue mee, but that thou confesse and say without being forced to it, that thou giuest me thy hand freely, [...]s to thy lawfull Spouse, since it were vnmercifull in this trance to deceiue 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 he had beene gone. Quiteria all honest and shamefast, laying hold vvith her right hand on Basi­lius his, said to him; No force can vvorke vpon my will, and so I giue thee the freest hand I haue to be thy lawfull Spouse, and receiue thine, if thou giue it me as freely, and that the anguish of thy sodaine accident doe not too much trouble thee. I giue it (said Basilius) liuely and couragiously, with the best vnderstan­ding that heauen hath endued mee withall, and therefore take me, and I deliuer my selfe as thy espousall; and I (said Quiteria) as thy Spouse, whether thou liue long, or vvhether from my armes they carry thee to thy graue.

This young man (said Sancho) being so wounded, talks much me thinks, let him leaue his wooing, and attend his souls health, vvhich me thinks appeares more in his tongue, then in his teeth.

Basilius and Quiteria hauing their hands thus fastned, the Vi­car, tender-harted and compassionate, powred his blessing vp­on them, and prayed God to giue good rest to the new-married [Page 138] mans soule, vvho as soone as he receiued this benediction, so­dainely starts vp, and with an vnlook'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, & 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) prepared 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 knowledge & consentment of them both. At which, Camacho and his friends were so abashed, that they remitted their reuenge to their hands, and vnsheathing many swords, they set vpon Basilius, in whose fauor in an instant there were as many more drawne: and Don Quixote taking the Vant­guad on horsebacke, with his Launce at his rest, and well coue­red with his shield, made way thorow vm all. Sancho (whom such feates did neuer please or solace) ranne to the pottage-pot, from whence he had gotten the skimmings, thinking that to be a sanctuary, and so to be respected. Don Quixote cryed aloud, Hold, hold, Sirs; for there is no reason that you should take re­uenge for the wrongs that Loue doth vs: and obserue, that loue and warre are all one: and as in warre it is lawfull to vse sleights and stratagems to ouercome the enemy: So in amorous strifes and competencies, Impostures and iuggling tricks are held for good, to attaine to the wished end, so it bee not in preiudice and dishonour of the thing affected. Quiteria was due to Ba­silius, and Basilius to Quiteria, by the iust and fauourable inclina­tion of heauen. Camacho is rich, and may purchase his delight, and whom God hath ioyned, let no man separate. Basilius hath but this one sheepe, let none offer to take it from him, be he ne­uer [Page 139] so powerfull: he that first attempts it, must first passe thorow the point of this Launce; at which hee shaked his Launce so strong and cunningly, that hee frighted all that knew him not: But Quiteria's disdaine was so inwardly fixt in Camacho's heart, that he forgot her in an instant; so that the Vicars perswasions preuailed with him, (who was a good discreet and honest-min­ded man) by which Camacho and his complices were pacified & quieted, in signe of which, they put vp their swords, rather blaming Quiteria's facility, then Basilius his industry. Camacho fram'd this discourse to himselfe, That if Quiteria loued Basilius when she was a maide, shee would also haue continued her loue to him though she had beene his wife, and so that hee ought to giue God thankes rather for hauing ridden him of her, then to haue giuen her to him. Camacho then, & those of his crue be­ing comforted and pacified, all Basilius his likewise were so, and Camacho to shew that he stomacked not the iest, 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 stay, but went to Basilius his towne: for your poore that are vertuous and discreet, haue as well those that will follow, honour and vphold 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 & valor. But Sancho's mind was in a mist, to see that it was impossible for him to stay for Camacho's sumptuous feast & sports that lasted till the euening: so that straighted and sorrowfull, he followed on with his Ma­ster that went in Basilius his squadron, and thus left behind him those flesh-pots of Aegypt, though hee bore them with him in his minde, whose skumme which he carried in the kettle being consumed now and ended, represented vnto him the glorious and abundant happinesse hee lost, so that all sad and sorrowfull, though hungerlesse, without alighting from Dapple, he follow­ed Rozinantes tracke.

CHAP. XXII.

THE 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, & now knew that Quiteria knew nothing of the fayned wounding, but that it was a tricke of Ba­silius, who hoped for the successe that hath been shewed: true it was, that he had made some of his louing frends acquainted with his purpose, that they might helpe him at need, and make good his deceit. They cannot be called deceits (quoth Don Quixote) that are done to a vertuous end, and that the marriage of a louing couple was an end most excellent: but by the way, you must know that the greatest opposite that Loue hath, is want & con­tinuall necessity; for Loue is all mirth, content & gladsomenes, and the more, when hee that loues, enioyes the thing loued; a­gainst which, necessity and pouerty are open and declared ene­mies. All this he spoke with a purpose to aduise Basilius, that he should leaue exercising his youthfull abilities, that although they got him a name, yet they brought no wealth, & that he should looke to lay vp somthing now by lawfull & industrious means, which are neuer wanting to those that will be wary and apply themselues: the honest poore man (if so be the poore man may be called honest) hath a iewell of a faire woman, which if any man bereaue him of, dis-honors him and kills her. Shee that is faire & honest, when her husband is poore, deserues to be crow­ned with Lawrell and triumphant Bayes. Beauty alone attracts the eyes of all that behold it, and the princely Eagles & high fly­ing birds doe stoop to it as to the pleasing Lure: but if extreme necessity be added to that beauty, then Kites and Crowes vvill [Page 141] grapple with it, and other rauenous birds; but shee that is con­stant against all these assaults, doth well deserue to bee her hus­bands crowne. Marke, wise Basilius (proceeds Don Quixote) it was an opinion of I know not what sage man, that there was but one good woman in the world, and his aduice was, That e­uery man should thinke that was married, that his wife was she, and so he should be sure to liue contented. I neuer yet was mar­ried, neyther haue I any thought hitherto that way; notwith­standing, I could be able to giue any man counsell heerein that should aske it, and how he should choose his wife.

First of all I would haue 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 loosenesse and li­berty doth more preiudice a womans honesty, then her sinning secretly. If you bring her honest to your house, tis easie keeping her so, and to better her in that goodnesse; but if you bring her dis-honest, tis hard mending her; for it is not very pliable to passe from one extreme into another, I say not impossible: but I hold it to be very difficult.

Sancho heard all this, & said to himselfe, This Master of mine, when I speake matters of marrow and substance, is wont to tell me, that I may take a Pulpit in hand, and preach my fine knacks vp 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 vp and downe the market places, and cry, Who buyes my ware? The Deuill 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 ouer­heard 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 vvas married, and perhaps I might now haue 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 haue her. Thou dost ill, Sancho (quoth Don [Page 142] Quixote) to speake ill of thy wife, who is indeede mother of thy children.

There's no loue lost (quoth Sancho:) for she speakes ill of me too, when shee list, especially when shee is iealous, for then the Deuill 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 prouide him a Guide that might shew him the way to Montesino's Caue, 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 vp & down the Coun­trey were true. The Parson tolde him, that a Cousin-German of his, a famous Student, and much addicted to bookes of Knight-hood should goe with him, who should willingly carry him to the mouth of the Caue, and should shew the famous Lake of Ruydera, telling him hee would bee very good company for him, by reason he was one that knew how to publish books, and direct them to great men.

By and by the young Student comes me vpon an Asse with Foale, with a course packing-cloth, or doubled carpet vpon his pack-saddle. Sancho saddled Rozinante, and made ready his Dap­ple, furnished his wallets, and carried the Students too, aswell prouided; and so taking leaue, and bidding all, God bee with you, they went on, holding their course to Montesino's Caue. By the way Don Quixote asked the Scholler, of what kinde or quality the exercises of his profession and study were. To which he answered, that his Profession was Humanity, his Ex­ercises and Study to make bookes for the Presse, which were ve­ry beneficiall to himselfe, and no lesse gratefull to the Common­wealth, that one of his bookes was intituled, The Booke of the Li­ueries, where are set downe seuen hundred and three sorts of Li­ueries, with their colours, motto's, and cyphers; from whence any may bee taken at festiuall times and shewes, by Courtiers without begging them from any body, or distilling (as you would say) from their owne braines, to sute them to their de­sires and intentions; for I giue to the iealous, to the forsaken, to the forgotten, to the absent, the most agreeable, that will fit them as well as their Puncks. Another booke I haue, which I meane [Page 143] to call the Metamorphosis, or Spanish Ouid, of a new and rare inuention: for imitating Ouid in it, by way of mocking: I shew who the Giralda of Seuil was, the Angell of the Magdalena, All th [...]se seue­rall rarities of Spaine. who was the Pipe of Vecinguerra of Cordoua, who the Buls of Guisando, Sierra Morena, the springs of L [...]ganitos and Lauapies in Madrid; not forgetting that of Pioio, that of the gilded pipe, and of the Abbesse, and all this with the Allegories, Metaphors, and Translations, that they delight, suspend, and instruct all in a moment. Another booke I haue, which I call a supply to Poly­dore Virgil, concerning the inuention of things 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 vs 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 downe presently after I propose it, and autho­rize it with at least foure and twenty Writers, that you may see whether I haue taken good paines, and whether the sayd booke may not be profitable to the world.

Sancho, that was very attentiue 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 beleeue it was our first father Adam? Yes marry was it (sayd he) for Adam, no doubt, had both head & haire, & being the first man in the world, would sometimes scratch him­selfe. I beleeue it (quoth Sancho:) but tell me now, Who was the first Vaulter in the world? Truely, Brother (sayd he) I can­not at present resolue you, I will study it when I come to my bookes, and then Ile satisfie you, when wee see one another a­gaine, for I hope this will not be the last time. Well, Sir (sayd Sancho) neuer trouble your selfe with this, for now I can resolue the doubt: Know, that the first Tumbler in the world was Lu­cifer, when he was cast out of Heauen, 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 [Page 144] and answers, I shall not make an end between this and morning: And to aske foolish questions, and answer vnlikeli-hoods, I want no help of my neighbours. Thou hast spoken more, San­cho, then thou thinkest for (quoth Don Quixote) for you haue some that are most busied in knowing and auerring 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 them they had but two little leagues to Montesino's Caue, and that if he meant to enter it, he must be prouided of ropes, to tie and let himselfe downe into the depth. Don Quixote sayd, that though it were as deep as Hell, he would see whither it rea­ched: so they bought a hundred fathome of cordage, & the next day at two of the clocke, they came to the Caue, whose mouth is wide and spacious; but full of briers, & brambles, & wilde fig-trees, & weeds so intricate & thick, that they altogether blinde and damit vp. When they came to it, Sancho and the Scholler a­lighted, and Don Quixote, whom they tied strongly with the cordage: and whilest they were swathing and binding of him, Sancho sayd to him; Take heede, Sir, what you doe, doe not bury your selfe aliue, 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 place worse then a Dungeon.

Binde me and peace (quoth Don Quixote) for such an enter­prize as this, Sancho, was reserued for me. Then said the Guide, I beseech you, Signior Don Quixote, that you take heede, and looke about you with an hundred eyes, to see what is within; for perhaps you may meet with things that will be fit for mee to put in my booke of Transformations. He hath his Instrument in his hand (quoth Sancho) that knowes how to vse it.

This sayd, and Don Quixotes binding ended (which was not vpon his harnesse, but vpon his arming doublet) he said. We did vnaduisedly, in not prouiding our selues of some small bell, that might haue beene tied with mee to the same cord, by whose sound, you might know that I were still toward the bottome and aliue: but since there is now no remedy, God bee our good speede, and straight he kneeled vpon his knees, and made a soft [Page 145] prayer to God Almighty, desiring his ayde, and to giue him good successe in that (to see to) dangerous and strange Aduen­ture, and then straight-wayes hee cried aloud; Oh thou Mi­stris of my actions and motions, most excellent, peerelesse Dul­cinea del Toboso, if it be possible, that the prayers and requests of this thy happy Louer come to thine eares, harken, I beseech thee, by thy vnheard of beauty, deny not now vnto me thy fa­uour and protection, which I so much neede: I goe to cast my selfe headlong to a plunge, and sinke my selfe into the Abissus, that presents it selfe to me, that the world may know, that if thou fauour me, there shall be nothing impossible for mee to vnder­goe and end.

And in saying this, hee came to the mouth, but saw he could not come neere to bee let downe, except it were by making way with maine force, or with cutting thorow, and so laying hand on his sword, hee began to cut and slash the weedes that were at the mouth of the caue; at whose rushing 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 superstitious, as good Christian, hee would haue taken it for an ill signe, and not haue 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 Caue; but Sancho first bestowed his benediction on him, and making a thousand crosses ouer him, sayd; God and the Rocke of France, together with the Tri­nity Seuerall places of deuoti­on. of Gaeta, guide thee, thou Flower, Creame, 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 deliuer thee sound and without skarre, to the light of this world which thou leauest, 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 giue him more rope, which they gaue by little and little: and when his voyce (that was stopt in the gutters of the Caue) could [Page 146] be no longer heard, and that they had let downe their hundred fathome of rope, they were of opinion to hoyst him vp againe, since they could giue him no more cord; for all that, they stayed some halfe an houre, and then began easily to draw vp the rope, & without any wait, which made them think Don Quixote was within, and Sancho beleeuing it, wept bitterly, and drew vp a­pace, that he might bee satisfied: but comming somewhat neere foure-score fathome, they felt a waight, which made them very much reioyce.

At length when they came to ten, they plainely saw Don Quixote: to whom Sancho cryed out, saying; You are well re­turned, Sir, for we thought you had stayed there for breed. But Don Quixote did not answer a word: but drawing him altoge­ther out, they saw that his eyes were shut, as if hee were asleepe; they stretcht him on the ground, and vnbound him, and for all this he awaked not. But they so turned, tossed & shaked him, that a pretty while after he came to himselfe, lazing himselfe, as if he had wakened out of a great and profound sleep, and looking wildely round-about him, sayd; God forgiue you, Friends, for you haue raised mee from one of the delicatest and pleasingest liues and sights that euer was seene by humane eye: Now at length I perceiue, that all the delights of this world doe passe like a shadow or dreame, or wither like a flower of the field: Oh vnhappy Montesino's, oh ill wounded Durandarte, oh luck­les Balerma, oh mournfull Guadiana, & you vnfortunate daugh­ters of Ruydera, that shew by your waters, those your faire eyes wept.

The Scholler and Sancho gaue 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 seene in that hellish place. Hellish, call ye it, sayd Don Quixote? well, call it not so, for it deserues not the name, as straight you shall heare: Hee desired them to giue him somewhat to eat, for he was exceeding hungry. They layd the Schollers course wrapper vpon the greene grasse, and went to the Spence of their wallets, and all three of them being set like good fellowes, eat their Beauar, and supped all together. The [Page 147] cloth taken vp (Don Quixote sayd) Sit still Ho, let none of you rise, and marke me attentiuely.

CHAP. XXIII.

IT was well toward foure of the clocke, when the Sunne, co­uered betweene two clouds, shewed but a dimme light, and with his temperate beames, gaue Don Quixote leaue, with­out heat or trouble, to relate to his two conspicuous Auditors, what he had seene in Montesino's Caue; and he began, as follow­eth: About a twelue or foureteene mens heights in the profun­dity of this Dungeon, on the right hand, there is a Concauity 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 Concauity 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 vnto you, that you should let downe no more rope, till I bad you; but it seemed you heard me not: I went gathering vp the rope you let downe to me, and rolling of it vp into a heape, sate me downe vpon it, very pensatiue, thinking with my selfe what I might doe to get to the bottome; and being in this thought and confusion, vpon a sudden (without any former inclination in mee) a most pro­found sleep came vpon 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 middest of the fairest, most pleasant, and delightfull medow, that euer Nature created, or the wisest hu­mane discretion can imagine; I snuffed mine eyes, wiped them, and saw that I vvas not asleepe, but really avvake, notvvithstan­ding [Page 148] I felt vpon my head and my brest, to be assured, if I were there my selfe or no in person, or that it were some illusion, or counterfet; but my touching, feeling, and my reasonable dis­course that I made to my selfe, certified me, that I was then pre­sent, the same that I am now.

By and by I saw a Princely and sumptuous Palace or Castle, whose wals and battlements seemed to bee made of transparent Cristall, from whence (vpon the opening of two great gates) I saw that there came towards me a reuerend olde man, clad in a tawny bayes frocke, that he dragged vpon the ground; ouer his shoulders and brest, he wore a tippet of greene sattin, like your fellowes of Colledges, and vpon his cap a blacke Milan bonet, and his hoary beard reached down to his girdle, he had no kind of weapon in his hand, but onely a Rosary of Beads, somewhat bigger then reasonable wal-nuts, and the Credo-Beads, about the bignesse of Ostrich egges, his countenance, pace, grauity, and his spreading presence, each thing by it selfe, and all together, suspended and admired.

He came to me, and the first thing he did, was to imbrace me straightly, and forthwith sayd; It is long since (renowned Knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha) that we, who liue in these enchanted Desarts, haue hoped to see thee, that thou mightst let the world know what is contained heere, and inclosed in this profound Caue, which thou hast entred, called Montesino's Caue: an exployt reserued onely to be attempted by thy inuin­cible Heart, and stupendious Courage. 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 Gouer­nour, and perpetuall chiefe Warder, as being the same Montesi­nos, from whom the Caue takes name.

Scarce had he told me that he was Montesinos, when I asked him, Whether it were true that was bruited heere in the world aboue, that he had taken his great friend Durandartes 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 Stilletto, as sharp as a Nawle.

Belike (quoth Sancho) it was of Ramon de Hozes the Seuilli­ans making. I know not (sayd Don Quixote) but twas not of that Stilletto-maker, for he liued but the other day, and that bat­tell of Roncesualles, where this accident happened, was many yeeres since: but this auerring 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 Montesinos 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, vpon which I saw a Knight layd at length, not of Brasse, Marble, or Iaspar, as you vse to haue in other tombes, but of pure flesh and bone, hee held his right hand (which was somewhat hairy and sinowy, a signe that the owner was very strong) vpon 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 Chi­ualrie, 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 Enchanter; who, they say, For so I trans­late it, to shew the Authours mistake. was sonne to the the Deuill, but as I beleeue he was not so, only he knew more then the Deuill. Why, or how he enchanted vs, 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 aboue two pounds; for according to naturall Philosophy, he that hath the biggest heart, is more valiant then he that hath but a lesse: which beeing so, and that this Knight died really) how he complaines and sighes sometimes as if he were aliue? Which said, the wretched Durandarte, crying out aloud, said; Oh my Cousin Montesinos, the last thing that I requested you when I was dying, and my soule departing, was, That you vvould car­ry my heart to Belerma, taking it out of my bosome, either with ponyard or dagger: which when the venerable Montesinos [Page 150] heard, he kneeled before the greeued Knight, and with teares in his eyes, said; Long since, Oh Durandarte, long since my dearest Cousin, I did what you en-ioyn'd me in that bitter day of our losse; I tooke your heart, as well as I could, without leauing the least part of it in your brest: I wiped it with a laced handker­chiefe, and posted with it towards France, hauing 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 dearest Cousin, at the first place I came to from Roncesualle, I cast salt vpon 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, the waiting-woman Ruydera, and her seuen Daughters, and her two Neeces, and many other of your acquaintances and friends, haue beene enchanted heere by Mer­lin that Wizard long since, and though it be aboue fiue hundred yeeres agoe, yet none of vs is dead; onely Ruydera, her Daugh­ters and Neeces are wanting, whom by reason of their lamenta­tion, Merlin that had compassion on them, turned them into so many Lakes now liuing in the world: and in the Prouince of Mancha they are called the Lakes of Ruydera; seuen belong to the Kings of Spaine, and the two Neeces to the Knights of the most holy Order of Saint Iohn. Guadiana your Squire, wailing in like manner this mis-hap, was turned into a Riuer that bore his owne name, who when hee came to the superficies of the earth, and saw the Sun in another heauen, such was his griefe to haue left you, that he straight plunged himselfe into the entrailes of the earth: but, as it is not possible for him to leaue 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 vnsauorie, farre differing from those of golden Tagus; and what I now tell you, Cousin mine, I haue told you often, [Page 151] and since you answere mee nothing, I imagine you eyther be­leeue 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 haue 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 fauour, it may be, that we also may be dis-in­chanted; for great exploits are reserued for great Personages. And if it be otherwise (answered the grieued Durandarte) with a faint and low voyce, if it be otherwise, oh Cousin, I say, Patiencia yba­raiar. A Meta­phor taken frō Cardplay­ers, who when they lose, cry to the dealer, Patience, and shuffle the Cards. 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-breath'd 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 vpon their heads, after the Turkish fashion; at last, and in the end of the rankes, there came a Lady, who by her maiesty ap­pear'd 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 beetle-brow'd, flatte-nosed, wide-mouth'd, but redde-lip­ped: her teeth, for sometimes she discouered them, seemed to be thin, and not very-well placed, though they were as white as blancht Almonds; in her hand shee carried a fine cloth, and within it (as might be perceiued) a Mommied heart, by reason of the dry embalming of it: Montesinos told me, that all those in that procession, were seruants to Durandarte and Belerma, that were there enchanted with their Masters, & that shee that came last with the linnen cloth and the heart in her hand, was the La­dy Belerma, who, together with hir Damozels, four daies in the weeke did make that procession, singing, or to say truer, how­ling their Dirges ouer the body & greeued heart of his Cousin, [Page 152] and that if now she appeared somewhat foule to mee, or not so faire as Fame hath giuen out, the cause was; her bad nights, but worse daies that she indured in that enchantment; as I might see by her deepe-sunke eyes, and her broken complexion, and her monthly disease, is not the cause of these, (an ordinary thing in women) for it is many moneths since, and many yeeres, that she hath not had it, nor knowne what it is; but the griefe that shee hath in her owne heart, for that she carries in her hand continu­ally, which renewes and brings to her remembrance, the vnfor­tunatenesse of her lucklesse Louer; for if it were not for this, scarce would the famous Dulcinea del Toboso equall her in beau­ty, wit, or liuelinesse, that is so famous in the Mancha, and all the world ouer. Not too fast (then said I) Signior Don Monte­sinos, on with your story as befits; for you know, all compari­sons are odious, and so leaue your comparing, the peerelesse Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the Lady Belerma is what she 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 Dulcinea would scarce equall the Lady Belerma, since it had beene sufficient, that I vnderstood (I know not by what aime) that you are her Knight, enough to haue made me bite my tongue, before I had compared her with any thing but heauen it selfe. With this sa­tisfaction that Montesinos gaue me, my heart was free from that sodaine passion I had, to heare my Mistresse compared to Be­lerma.

And I maruell (said Sancho) that you got not to the olde Carle and bang'd his bones, and pulled his beard, without lea­uing 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 reuerence 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 vs. Then said the Scholler, I know not, Signior Don Quixote, how you in so lit­tle time (as it is since you went downe) haue seene so many things, and spoken & answered so much. How long is it (quoth [Page 153] he) since I went downe? A little more then an houre (said San­cho.) That cannot be (replyed Don Quixote) because it vvas morning and euening, and euening and morning three times; so that by my account, I haue 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 appeares to vs but an houre, is to him there, three nights and three dayes. He hath hit it (said Don Quixote.) And haue you eat, Sir, in all this time (quoth the Scholler?) Not a bit (quoth Don Quixote) neyther haue 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 haue beene with them, not one of them hath closed his eyes, nor I neyther. That fits the Prouerb, quoth Sancho, which sayes, You shall know the person by his company: you haue beene amongst the enchanted, and those that watch & fast: no mauell therefore though you neyther slept nor eat whilest you vvere amongst them; but pray, Sir, pardon me, if I say, God (or the Deuill I was about to say) take me, if I beleeue a word of all this you haue spoken. Why not, said the Scholler? doe you thinke Signior Don Quixote would lye to vs, for though he would, hee hath not had time to compose or inuent such a million of lies? I doe not beleeue (quoth Sancho) that my Master lies. But vvhat doe you beleeue then (quoth Don Quixote?) Mary I beleeue (said Sancho) that that Morlin, or those Enchanters that enchanted all that rabble, that you say you haue seene and conuersed with there below, clapt into your apprehension or memory all this Machine that you haue told vs, and all that remaines yet to be told. All this may be, Sancho, said Don Quixote, but 'tis otherwise; for vvhat I haue told, I saw vvith these eyes, and felt vvith these hands: but vvhat vvilt thou say when I shall tell thee, that, amongst infinite other mat­ters and vvonders, that Montesinos shewed me, which at more leisure, and at fitting time in processe of our iourney I shall tell [Page 154] thee: He shewed me three Country wenches, that went leaping and frisking vp and downe those pleasant fields like Goats, and I scarce saw them, vvhen I perceiued the one was the peerlesse Dulcinea, and the other two the selfe-same that wee spoke to when vvee left Toboso. I asked Montesinos vvhether hee knew them: vvho answered me, Not: but that sure they vvere some Ladies of quality there enchanted, that but lately appeared in those fields, and that it vvas no vvonder; for that there vvere many others of former times & these present, that were enchan­ted in strange and different shapes, amongst whom hee knew Queene Guiniuer, and her vvoman Quintaniona filling Lansa­rotes cups vvhen he came from Britaine.

When Sancho heard his Master thus farre, it made him starke madde, and ready to burst vvith laughter; for by reason that he knew the truth of Dulcinea's enchantment, as hauing been him­selfe the Enchanter, and the raiser of that tale, hee did vndoub­tedly ratifie his beliefe, that his Master was madde and out of his vvittes; and so told him: In an ill time, and dismall day (Pa­tron mine) vvent you downe into the other vvorld, and at an ill season met you with Signior Montesinos, that hath returned you in this pickle: you vvere vvell enough heere aboue, in your right sences as God hath giuen them you, vttering sentences, & giuing good counsaile euery foote, and not as now telling the greatest vnlikelihoods 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 haue 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 gaue me not a word, but turned her backe, and scud­ded away so fast, that a flight would not haue ouertaken her: I meant to haue 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 Caue. He told me like­wise, [Page 155] that in processe of time, he would let me know the meanes of dis-enchanting Durandarte, and Belerma & himselfe; together with all the rest that were there: But that which most greeued me, was; that whilest I was thus talking with Montesinos, one of the vnfortunate Dulcinea's companions came on one side of me (I not perceiuing 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 vpon 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 vvhich he answered, Beleeue me, Signior Don Quixote, this necessity rangeth and extends it selfe euery where, and ouertakes 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) neither can I lend what shee requires, for I haue but two shillings: these I gaue, which were the same, Sancho, that thou gauest me tother day, to giue for almes to the poore that we met: and I told the Mayd, Friend, tell your Mi­stris that I am sorry vvith al my heart for her vvants, & I would I vvere a Fucar to releeue them; and let her knovv, that I neither Fucares, were a rich family, & name in Ger­many that maintained a banke of mo­nies in Spain, & still vsed to furnish Philip the 2. with monies in his warres. can, nor may haue health, vvanting her pleasing company, and discreet conuersation, and that I desire her, as earnestly as may be, that this her Captiue Seruant and Way-beaten Knight may see and treat vvith her.

You shall also say, that vvhen she least thinkes of it, shee shall heare say, that I haue made an oath and vovv, such as vvas the Marquis his of Mantua, to reuenge his Nephue Baldwine; vvhen he found him ready to giue vp the ghost in the midst of the mountaine; vvhich vvas, not to eat his meat vvith napkins, and other Flim-flams added therunto, till he had reuenged his death: And so svvear I, not to be quiet, till I haue trauelled all the seuen [Page 156] partitions of the world, more punctually then Prince Don Ma­nuel of Portugall, till I haue dis-enchanted her. All this and more you owe to my Mistresse, said the Damozell; and taking the two shillings, in stead of making me a courtesie, she fetcht a caper two yards high in the ayre.

Blessed God! (Sancho cryed out) & is it possible that Enchan­ters and Enchantments should so much preuaile vpon him, as to turn his right vnderstanding into such a wilde madnes? Sir, Sir, for Gods loue haue a care of your selfe, & looke to your credit: beleeue not in these bubbles that haue lessened and crazed your wits. Out of thy loue, Sancho, thou speakest this (said Don Quixote) and for want of experience in the world, all things that haue neuer so little difficulty seeme to thee to be impossible: but time will come (as I haue told thee already) that I shall relate some things that I haue seene before, which may make thee beleeue what I haue said, vvhich admits no reply, or contro­uersie.

CHAP. XXIIII.

THe 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 de­leeue or be perswaded, that all that is written in the antecedent Chapter hapned so punctually to the valerous Don Quixote: the reason is, because all Aduentures hitherto haue beene accidentall and probable; but this of the Caue, I see no likelihood of the truth of it, as being so vn-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 vvith arrowes. On the other side I consider, that [Page 157] he related it, with all the aforesaid circumstances, and that in so short a time, hee could not frame such a Machina of fopperies, and if this Aduenture seeme to be Apocrypha, the fault is not mine: so that leauing it indifferent, I here set it downe. Thou, Oh Reader, as thou art wise, iudge as thou thinkest good; for I can doe no more, though one thing be certaine, that vvhen hee was vpon his death-bed, he disclaimed this Aduenture, and said, That he had onely inuented it, because it suted with such as hee had read of in his Histories: so he proceeds, saying:

The Scholler wondred, as well at Sancho's boldnesse, as his Masters patience, but he thought, that by reason of the ioy that he receiued in hauing seene his Mistresse Dulcinea (though en­chanted) that softnesse of condition grew vpon him; for had it beene otherwise, Sancho spoke words that might haue grinded him to powder: for in his opinion he was somwhat sawcy with his Master, to whom he said:

Signior Don Quixote, I thinke the iourney that I haue made with you, very wel employd, because in it I haue stored vp foure things. The first is, the hauing knowne your selfe, vvhich I esteeme as a great happinesse. The second, to haue knowne the secrets of this Montesinos Caue, with the transformations of Guadiana and Ruydera's Lakes, which may helpe me in my Spa­nish Ouid I haue in hand. The third is, to know the Antiquity of Card-playing, which was vsed at least in time of the Emperor Charles the Great, as may be collected out of the words you say Durandarte vsed, when after a long speech betweene him and Montesinos, hee awakened saying; Patience, and shuffle: and this kind of speaking, he could not learne when he was enchan­ted; but when hee liued in France, in time of the aforesaid Em­peror: and this obseruation comes in pudding time for the o­ther booke that I am making, which is, My supply to Polydore Vergil, in the inuention of Antiquities, and I beleeue, in his hee left out Cards, which I will put in, as a matter of great impor­tance, especially hauing so authentike an author as Signior Du­randarte. The fourth is, to haue knowne for a certaine the true spring of the Riuer Guadiana, which hath hitherto beene con­cealed.

You haue reason (sayd Don Quixote:) but I would faine know of you, now that it pleased God to giue you abilities to print your bookes, To whom will you direct them? You haue Lords and A name gi­uen to men of title, as Dukes, Marquisses, or Earles in Spaine, whose onely priui­ledge is to stand couered before the King. Grandes in Spaine (sayd the Scholler) to whom I may direct them. Few of them (sayd Don Quixote) not because they doe not deserue the dedications, but because they will not admit of them, not to oblige themselues to the satisfaction, that is due to the Authors paines and courtesie. One Prince I know, that may supply the deserts of the rest, with such aduantage, that should I speake of it, it might stirre vp enuy in some noble brests: but let this rest till some fit time, and let vs looke out where we may lodge too night.

Not farre from hence (sayd the Scholler) there is a Hermi­tage, 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 receiue ghests. Hath hee any Hens, trow (sayd Sancho?) Few Hermits are without vm (quoth Don Quixote:) for your Hermits now adayes, are not like those that liued in the Desarts of Aegypt, that were clad in Palme-leaues, and liued vpon 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 vsed 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 Ventes, Pla­ces in Spaine, in barren vn­peopled parts for lodging, like our beg­gerly Ale­houses vpon the High­wayes. Vente aboue the Hermitage, and if you goe that way, there you shall [Page 159] haue 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 nouelties, hee tooke order that they should presently go and passe that night in the Ʋente, with­out touching at the Hermitage, where the Scholler would haue stayed that night.

So all three of them mounted, went toward the Ʋente, whi­ther they reached somewhat before it grew darke, and the Scholler inuited 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 likewise: but as Sancho's ill lucke would haue it, the Hermit was not at home, as was told them by the Vnder-Hermit: they asked him whether he had any of the dearer sort of wine? who answered, His Ma­ster had none: but if they would haue any cheape water, hee would giue it them with a good will. If my thirst would bee quencht with water, wee might haue had Wels to drinke at by the way. Ah Camacho's marriage, and Don Diego's plenty, how oft shall I misse you? Now they left the Hermitage, and spur­red toward the Vente, and a little before them, they ouertooke a Youth, that went not very fast before them; so they ouertooke him: he had a sword vpon his shoulder, and vpon it, as it see­med, a bundle of clothes, as breeches, and cloke, and a shirt; for he wore a veluet ierkin, that had some kinde of remainder of sat­tin, and his shirt hung out, his stockings were of silke, and his shooes square at toe, after the Court-fashion, he was about eigh­teene yeeres of age, and actiue of body to see to: to passe the tediousnesse of the way, he went singing short pieces of songs, and as they came neere him, he made an end of one, which the Scholler (they say learnt by heart) and it was this:

Don Quixote was the first that spoke to him, saying; You go very naked, Sir Gallant. And whither, a Gods name? Let's know, if it be your pleasure to tell vs? To which the Youth an­swered, Heat and pouerty are the causes that I walke so light, [Page 160] and my iourney is to the wars. Why for pouerty (quoth Don Quixote?) for heat it may well be. Sir (sayd the Youth) I carry in this bundle a paire of slops, fellowes to this Ierken, if I weare vm by the way, I shall doe my selfe no credit with them when I come to any towne, and I haue no money to buy others with, so as well for this, as to aire my selfe, I goe till I can ouer-take certaine companies of Foot, which are not aboue twelue leagues from hence, where I shall get me a place, and shall not want car­riages to trauell in, till I come to our imbarking place, which (they say) must be in Cartagena, and I had rather haue the King to my Master, and serue him, then a beggerly Courtier. And haue you any extraordinary pay, sayd the Scholler?

Had I serued any Grande, or man of quality (sayd the Youth) no doubt I should; for that comes by your seruing good Ma­sters, that out of the Scullery men come to bee Lieutenants or Captaines, or to haue some good pay: but I alwayes had the ill lucke to serue 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 euer get any reasonable fortune. But tell me, Friend (quoth Don Quixote) Is it possible, that in all the time you serued, you neuer got a Liuery? 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 giuen 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, & with-held their Liueries, which they had onely shewed for ostentation.

A notable [...]llionry. Espilocherio, 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 serue 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 haue sayd many times, that though Learning hath raised more houses then Armes, yet your Sword-men haue a kind of (I know not what) [Page 161] aduantage aboue Schollers, with a kinde of splendor, that doth aduantage them ouer 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 tra­uels, that is, not to thinke vpon aduersity; for the worst that can come is death, which if it be a good death, the best fortune of all is to die. Iulius Caesar, that braue Romane Emperour, being as­ked, Which was the best death? answered, A sudden one & vnthought of; and though he answered like a Gentile, and voyd of the knowledge of the true God, yet he sayd well, to saue hu­mane feeling a labour; for say you should bee slaine in the first skirmish, either with a Canon-shot, or blowne vp with a Mine, What matter is it? All is but dying, and there's an end: And as Terence sayes, A Souldier slaine in the field, shewes better, then aliue and safe in flight; and so much the more famous is a good Souldiour, by how much hee obeyes his Captaines, and those that may command him; and marke, childe, it is better for a Sol­diour to smell of his gun-powder, then of ciuet; and when olde age comes vpon you in this honourable exercise, though you be full of scarres, maimed, or lame, at least, you shall not be without honour, which pouerty cannot diminish; and besides, there is order taken now, that olde and maimed Souldiers may be relee­ued; neither are they dealt withall He describes the right sub­till and cruell nature of his damned Country-men. like those mens Negars, that when they are olde and can doe their Masters no seruice, they (vnder colour of making them free) turne them out of doores, and make them slaues to hunger, from which nothing can free them but death, and for this time I will say no more to you, but onely get vp behinde me till you come to the Vente, and there you shall sup with me, and to morrow take your iourney, which God speede, as your desires deserue.

The Page accepted not of his inuitement, to ride behinde him; but for the supper hee did: And at this season (they say) Sancho sayd to himselfe; Lord defend thee, Master; And is it possible, that a man that knowes to speake such, so many, and so good things (as hee hath sayd heere) should say hee hath seene such impossible fooleries, as he hath told vs of Montesino's Caue. Well, wee shall see what will become of it. And by this they [Page 162] came to the Ʋente iust 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 were no sooner entred, when Don Quixote asked the Ventero, the Master of the Vente. Venter for the man with the Lances and Halberds, who answered him, hee was in the stable looking to his Moyle: Sancho and the Scholler did the same to their Asses, giuing Don Quixotes Rozinante the best manger and roome in the stable.

CHAP. XXV.

DON Quixote stood vpon 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 vpon 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 prouandring my Beast, and I will tell you things that shall admire you.

Let not that hinder you (quoth Don Quixote) for Ile 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 vpon 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 vnderstand, 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-seruant (which were long to tell how) lost his Asse, and though the sayd Alderman vsed all manner of diligence to finde him, it was impossible. His Asse was wanting (as the publike voyce and fame goeth) fifteene [Page 163] dayes: when the Alderman that lost him, being in the market­place, another Alderman of the same towne told him; Pay mee for my newes, Gossip, for your Asse is forth-comming. I will willingly, Gossip (sayd the other) but let me know where he is? This morning (sayd the Second) I saw him vpon the moun­taines without his pack-saddle, or any other furniture, so leane, that it was pitty to see him, I would haue gotten him before me, and haue driuen him to you, but hee is so mountainous and wilde, that when I made towards him, hee flew from mee, and got into the thickest of the wood: If you please, wee will both returne and seeke him, let me first put vp this Asse at home, and Ile come by and by. You shall doe me a great kindnesse (quoth he) and I will repay you (if neede be) in the like kinde.

With all these circumstances, iust as I tell you, all that know the truth, relate it: In fine, the two Aldermen, afoot and hand to hand, went to the Hils, and comming to the place where they thought to finde the Asse, they missed of him, neither could they finde him, for all their seeking round-about. Seeing then there was no appearance of him, the Alderman that had seene him, sayd to the other; Harke you, Gossip, I haue a tricke in my head, with which we shall finde out this Beast, though hee bee hidden vnder 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, Gossip (quoth the other) Verily, Ile take no ods of any body, nor of an Asse himselfe. We shall see then (said the second Alderman) for my plot is, that you goe on one side of the hill, and I on the other, so that wee may compasse it round, now and then you shall bray, and so will I, and it cannot bee, but that your Asse will answer one of vs, if hee bee in the mountaine.

To this the owner of the Asse answered; I tell you, Gossip, the deuice is rare, and worthy your great wit: so diuiding them­selues (according to the agreement) it fell out, that iust at one in­stant both brayed, and each of them coozened with the others braying, came to looke another, thinking now there had beene newes of the Asse: And as they met, the Looser sayd; Is it possi­ble, Gossip, that it was not mine Asse that brayed? No, twas I, [Page 164] sayd the other. Then (replide the Owner) Gossip, betweene you and an Asse there is no difference, touching your braying; for in my life I neuer heard a thing more naturall.

These praises and extollings (sayd the other) doe more pro­perly belong to you then mee, for truely you may giue two to one, to the best and skilfullest Brayer in the world; for your sound is lofty, you keepe very good time, and your cadences thicke and sudden: To conclude, I yeeld my selfe vanquished, and giue you the prize and glory of this rare ability. Well (sayd the Owner) I shall like my selfe the better for this heereafter, and shall thinke I know something, since I haue gotten a quali­ty, for though I euer thought I brayed well, yet I neuer 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-selues with them. Ours (quoth the Owner) can do vs no good, but in such businesses as wee haue now in hand, and pray God in this they may.

This sayd, they diuided themselues againe, and returned to their braying, and euery foot they were deceiued, and met; till they agreed vpon a counter-signe, that to know twas them­selues, and not the Asse, they should bray twice together: so that with this doubling their brayes, euery 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-thriuing Beast answer, when they found him in the Thicket eaten with Wolues? And his Owner seeing him, sayd; I maruelled he did not answer; for if he had not been dead, he would haue brayed, if he had heard vs, or else he had beene no Asse: but i'faith, Gos­sip, since I haue heard your delicate braying, I thinke my paines well bestowed in looking this Asse, though I haue found him dead.

En buenna mano esta. Allu­ding to two, that striue to make one an­other drinke first. Tis in a very good hand, Gossip (sayd the other:) And if the Abbot sing well, The one as very an Asse as the other. the little Monke comes not behinde him. With this, all comfortlesse and hoarce, home they went, where they told their Friends, Neighbours, and Acquaintances, what had happened in the search for the Asse, the one exaggerating [Page 165] the others cunning in braying; all which was knowne and spred abroad in the neighboring townes: And the Deuill, that alwaies watcheth how he may sow & scatter quarrels and discord euery where, raising brabbles in the aire, and making great Chimaera's of nothing, made the people of other townes, that when they saw any of ours, they should bray, as hitting vs in the teeth with our Aldermens braying.

The Boyes at length fell to it, which was, as if it had falne in­to the iawes of all the Deuils in Hell, so this braying spred it selfe from one towne to the other, that they which are borne in our towne, are as well knowne as the begger knowes his dish; and this vnfortunate scoffe hath proceeded so farre, that ma­ny times those that were scoffed at, haue gone out armed in a whole Squadron, to giue battell to the Scoffers, without feare or wit, neither King nor Keisar being able to preuent them: I beleeue, that to morrow or next day, those of my towne will be in field (to wit, the Brayers) against the next towne, which is two leagues off, one of them that doth most persecute vs; and be­cause we might be well prouided, I haue bought those Halberds and Lances, that you saw. And these be 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 entred at the doore of the Vente, one clad all in Chamois, in hose and doublet, and called aloud; Mine Oast, haue you any lodging? for here comes the prophesying Ape, and the Motion of Melisendra. Body of me (quoth the Venter) heere is Master Peter, we shall haue a braue night of it (I had forgot to tell how this Master Peter had his left eye, and halfe his cheeke, couered with a patch of green Taffata, a signe that all that side was sore:) so the Venter proceeded, saying; You are welcome, Master Pe­ter, Where's the Ape and the Motion, that I see vm not? They are not farre off (quoth the Chamois-man) onely I am come be­fore, to know if you haue any lodging?

I would make bold with the Duke of Alua himselfe (sayd the Ʋenter) rather then Master Peter should bee disappoynted: let your Ape and your Motion come; for wee haue ghests heere [Page 166] to night, that will pay for seeing that, and the Apes abilities. In good time (sayd hee of the Patch) for I will moderate the price, so my charges this night be payd for; and therefore I will cause the Cart where they are, to driue on: with this hee went out of the Vente againe. Don Quixote straight asked the Venter, What Master Peter that was, and what Motion or Ape those he brought?

To which the Venter answered; He is a famous Puppet-Ma­ster, that this long time hath gone vp & down these parts of A­ragon, shewing this motion of Melisendra, & Don Gayferos, one of the best histories that hath bin represented these many yeeres in this kingdom. Besides, he hath an Ape, the strangest that euer was; for if you aske him any thing, he marketh what you aske, and gets vp vpon 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 vpon the right, yet he seldome erres, and makes vs beleeue the Deuill is in him. Twelue pence for euery answer we giue, 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, & (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 return'd, and his Motion and Ape came in a smal carriage; his Ape was of a good bignesse, without a tayle, & his bumme as bare as a Felt, but not very ill-fauoured. Don Quixote scarce beheld him, when hee demanded, Master Prophesier, What fish doe we catch? Tell vs what will become of vs, and heere is twelue-pence, which he commanded Sancho to giue Master Peter; who answered for the Ape and said: Sir, this beast answeres not, nor giues any notice of things to come, of things past hee knowes something, and likewise a little of things present. Zwookers (quoth Sancho) Ile not giue a far­thing to know what is past: for who can tell that better then my selfe? and to pay for what I know, is most foolish: but since you say hee knowes things present, heere's my twelue-pence, and [Page 167] let good-man Ape tell me what my wife Teresa Pansa doth, and in what shee busies her selfe. Master Peter would not take his mony, saying; I will not take your reward before-hand, till the Ape hath first done his duty: so giuing a clap or two with his right hand on his left shoulder, at one friske the Ape got vp, and laying his mouth to his eare, grated his teeth apace, and hauing 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, & embracing his legs, said: These legges I embrace, as if they were Hercules Pillars. O famous reuiuer of the long-forgotten Knight Errantry! Oh neuer sufficiently extolled Knight Don Quixote de la Mancha! raiser of the faint-hearted, propper of those that fall, the staffe & comfort of all the vnfortunate! 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, reioyce, 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-mouth'd pot at her left side, that holds a pretty scantling of wine, with which she caseth her labour.

I beleeue that very well (sayd Sancho) for she is a good soule; and if she were not iealous, I would not change her for the Gy­antesse Andandona, that, as my Master sayes, was a vvoman 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 trauels much, sees much, and knowes much. This I say, for who in the world could haue perswaded mee that Apes could prophesie? which now I haue seene with mine owne eyes; for I am the same Don Quixote that this beast speakes of, although he haue bin somewhat too liberall in my praise: but howsoeuer I am, I giue God thanks that he hath made me so relenting and compassionate; alwaies enclined to do good to all, & hurt to no man.

If I had money (said the Page) I would aske M^r. Ape vvhat should befall me in the peregrination I haue in hand. To which Master Peter answered, that was now risen from Don Quixotes foot, I haue told you once that this little beast 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 vvould forgoe all the Interest in the world: and to shew my duety to him, and to giue him delight, I vvill set vp my Motion, and freely shew all the company in the Vent some pastime gratis. Which the venter hearing, vnmeasurably glad, pointed him to a place where he might set it vp; which was done in an instant.

Don Quixote liked not the Apes prophesying very well, hol­ding it to be friuolous, that an Ape should onely tell things pre­sent, & 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 priuate said:

Looke thee, Sancho, I haue very well considered of this Apes strange quality, and finde that this Master Peter hath made a se­cret expresse compact with the Deuill, to infuse this ability into the Ape, that he may get his liuing by it, and when he is rich, he will giue him his soule; which is that, that this vniuersall 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 Deuils knowledge attaines to no more; for things to come he knowes not, only by coniecture: for God alone can distinguish 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 Deuill, 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, neyther he nor his Ape are Astrologers, nor know how to cast figures, which they call iudiciary, so much vsed in Spaine: for you haue no paltry Woman, nor Page, nor Cobler, that presumes not to cast a figure, as if it were one of the knaues at Cards vpon a ta­ble, falsifying that wondrous Science with their ignorant lying.

I knew a Gentlewoman that asked one of these Figure-flin­gers, if a little foysting-hound of hers should haue any puppies, and if it had, how many, and of what colour the whelps should be. To which my cunning man (after hee had cast his figure) answered: That the bitch should haue young, and bring forth three little whelps, the one Greene, the other Carnation, and the third of a mixt colour, with this prouiso, that she should take the dogge betweene eleuen and twelue of the clocke at noone, or at night, which should be on the Munday, or the Saturday; and the successe was, that some two dayes after the bitch died of a surfet, and Master figure-raiser vvas reputed in the towne a most perfect Iudiciary, as all, or the greatest part of such men are. For all that (said Sancho) I vvould you vvould bid Master Peter aske his Ape, vvhether all vvere true that befell you in Montesino's Caue; for I thinke (vnder correction) all vvas cog­ging and lying, or at least but a dreame. All might be (said Don Quixote) yet I will doe as thou dost aduize me, though I haue one scruple remaining.

Whilest they were thus communing, Master Peter came to call Don Quixote, and to tell him that the Motion was now vp, if he would please to see it, vvhich vvould giue him content.

Don Quixote told him his desire, and vvished that his Ape might tell him, if certaine things that befell him in Montesino's Caue vvere true, or but dreames; for himselfe was vncertaine whether. Master Peter, vvithout answering a vvord, fetcht his Ape, and putting him before Don Quixote and Sancho, saide, Looke you, Master Ape, Signior Don Quixote vvould haue you tell him, whether certaine things that hapned to him in Monte­sino's Caue vvere true or false? and making the accustomed signe, the Ape whipt vpon his 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 vvill know any more, you must expect till Friday next, and then he will answer you all you will aske, for his vertue vvill not returne till then.

Law ye there (quoth Sancho) did not I tell you that I could [Page 170] not beleeue that all you said of Montesinos Caue could hold cur­rant? The successe heereafter will determine that (quoth Don Quixote) for time, the discouerer of al things, brings euery thing to the Sunnes light, though it be hidden in the bosome of the earth: and now let this suffice, and let vs goe see the Motion; for I beleeue we shall haue some strange nouelty. 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 seene in the vvorld; operibus credite & non verbis: and now to worke, for it is late, and we haue 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 vvhite vvand, vvith which he pointed out the seuerall shapes that came in and out. Thus all that were in the Vente being placed, & some stan­ding ouer-against the Motion, Don Quixote, Sancho, the Schol­ler and the Page, placed in the best seates, El Truxaman. An Interpre­ter amongst the Turks, but here taken for any in gene­rall. the Trudge-man be­gan to speak what shall be heard or seene, by him that shall heare or read the next Chapter.

CHAP. XXVI.

HEere Tyrians and Troyans were all silent, I meane, all the spectators of the Motion had their eares hanged vpon the Interpreters 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:

This true History which is here represented to you, is taken [Page 171] word for word out of the French Chronicles, and the Spanish Romants, which are in euery bodies mouth, and sung by boyes vp and downe the streets. It treats of the liberty that Signior Don Gayferos gaue to Melisendra his wife, that vvas imprisoned by the Moores in Spaine, in the City of Sansuena, which was then so called, and now Saragosa; and looke you there, how Don Gayferos is playing at Tables, according to the song;

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 grieued 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 giue him halfe a doozen Connes with his Scep­ter. Some Authors there bee that say, hee did, and sound ones too: and after he had told him many things concerning the dan­ger of his reputation, if he did not free his Spouse, twas said hee told him, I haue said enough, looke to it. Looke ye Sir, againe, how the Emperor turnes his backe, and in what case hee leaues Don Gayferos, vvho all enraged flings the Tables and the table-men from him, and hastily calls for his Armour, and borrowes his Cousin Germane Roldan his sword Durindana; vvho offers him his company in this difficult enterprise. 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 Iourney.

Now turne your eyes to yonder Tower that appeares, (for you) must suppose it is one of the Towers of the Castle of Sa­ragosa, vvhich 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 neuer the like seene: see you not that Moore that comes faire and softly, with his finger in his mouth, behinde Melisen­dra? [Page 172] looke what a smacke he giues her in the midst of her lippes, and how sodainely shee begins to spit, and to wipe them vvith her white smocke sleeue, and how she laments, and for very an­guish despiteously rootes vp her faire hayres, as if they were to blame for this wickednesse. Marke you also that graue 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 fauourite of his, hee commanded him straight to bee apprehended, and to haue two hundreth stripes giuen him, and to be carried thorow the chiefe streets in the Ci­ty, with minstrels before, and rods of Iustice behinde; and looke ye how the sentence is put in execution before the fault bee scarce committed; for your Moores vse 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-uersals: for to verifie a thing I tell you, there had need be a Legall proceeding. Then Master Peter too said from vvithin; Boy, fall not you to your flourishes, but doe as that Gentleman commands you, which is the best course; sing you your plaine song, and meddle not vvith the treble, lest the strings breake. I will, Master (said the boy) and procee­ded, saying:

He that you see there (quoth he) on horsebacke, cladde in a Gascoyne cloake, is Don Gayferos himselfe, to whom his Wife (now reuenged on the Moore for his boldnesse) shewes her selfe from the battlements of the Castle, taking him to bee some pas­senger, vvith vvhom shee passed all the discourse mentioned in the Romant, that sayes;

The rest I omit, for all prolixity is irkesome, tis sufficient that you see there how Don Gayferos discouers himselfe, and by Me­lisendra's iocund behauiour, we may imagine shee knowes 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, vnhappy creature, one of the skirts of her kirtle hath caught vpon one of the yron barres of the window, and she houers in [Page 173] the ayre, vvithout possibility of comming to the ground: but see how pittifull heauens releeue 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 vpon his horses crupper, & commands her to sit fast, and clap her armes about him, that shee fall not; for Melisendra was not vsed to that kinde of riding. Looke you 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 vvay toward Paris. Peace be with you, O peerelesse couple of true Louers, safely may you arriue at your desired Country, without Fortunes hindering your prosperous voyage: may your friends and kindred see you enioy the rest of your yeeres (as many as Nestors) peaceably.

Heere Master Peter cryed out aloud againe, saying; Plaine­nesse, good boy, doe not you soare so high, this affectation is scuruy. The Interpreter answered nothing, but went on, say­ing, There wanted not so me idle spectators that pry into euery thing, who saw the going downe of Melisendra, and gaue Mar­silius notice of it, who straight commanded to sound an Alarme; and now behold, how fast the City euen sinkes againe with the noyse of bels that sound in the high Towers of the Mesquitas, Moorish Churches. Mesquits.

There you are out by (said Don Quixote) and Master Peter is very improper in his belles; for amongst Moores you haue 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 vpon trifles, Signior Don Quixote, said Master Peter, and so strictly vpon euery thing, for we shall not know how to please you. Haue 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, & 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 goe out of the [Page 174] City in pursuit of the Catholike Louers, how many Trumpets sound, how many Shaulmes play, how many drummes & ket­tles make a noyse, I feare me they will ouer-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 vp, with a loud voyce he cryed out; I will neuer consent while I liue, 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 warre with mee: so doing and speaking, he vnsheathed his sword, and at one friske he got to the Motion, and with an vnseene and posting fury, he began to raine strokes vpon the Puppetish Moorisme, ouerthrowing some, and beheading others, maiming this, and cutting in pieces that, and amongst many other blowes, he fetcht one so downe right, that had not M^r. Peter tumbled and squatted downe, hee had clipped his Mazard as easily, as if it had beene made of March-pane. M^r. Peter cryed out, saying; Hold, Signior Don Quixote, hold; and 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 vndoes me. But for all this, Don Quixote still multiplied his slashes, doubling and redoubling his blowes, as thicke 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 Emperour Charlemaine, his head and crowne were parted in two places. the Senate and Auditors were all in a hurry, and the Ape gat vp to the top of the house, and so out at the window, the Scholler was frighted, the Page cleane dastarded, and euen Sancho him­selfe was in a terrible perplexity, for (as he sware after the storme was past) he neuer 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 haue all those heere at this instant before mee, that beleeue not, [Page 175] how profitable Knights Errant are to the world; and had not I beene now present, what (I maruell) would haue becomne of Signior Don Gayferos, and the faire Melisendra? I warrant, ere this, those dogs would haue ouertaken, and shewed them some foule play: when all is done, long liue Knight Errantry, aboue all things liuing in the world.

Long liue it on Gods name (sayd M^r. Peter) agen with a pit­tifull voyce, and may I die, since I liue to be so vnhappy, as to say with King Don Rodrigo was the last King of the Goths, that raigned in Spaine, con­quered by the Moores. Don Rodrigo, Yesterday I was Lord of all Spaine, but to day haue not a Battlement I can call mine: Tis not yet halfe an houre, scarce halfe a minute, that I was Master of Kings and Emperours, had my stables, coffers, and bags full of horses and treasure: but now I am desolate, deiected and poore, and to adde more affliction, without my Ape, that before I can catch him againe, I am like to sweat for it, and all through the vnconsi­derate furies 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 defectiue, 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 grieue, 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 haue done thee any wrong, hee knowes how, and will satisfie it with much aduantage. 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 saued.

That's true (quoth Don Quixote:) But hitherto, Master Pe­ter, I know not whether I haue detained ought of yours. No? not, said Master Peter? why these poore relikes that lie vpon the hard and barren earth, who scattered and annihilated them, but the inuincible force of that powerfull arme? And whose were those bodies, but mine? And with whom did I maintaine my [Page 176] selfe, but with them? Well, I now (sayd Don Quixote) verily beleeue, what I haue 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; and Marsilius, Marsilius; and Charlemaine, Charlemaine: And this was it that stirred vp my choller; and to accomplish my Profession of Knight Errant, my meaning was to succour those that fled, and to this good purpose I did all that you haue seene, which if it fell out vnluckily, twas no fault of mine, but of my wicked persecutors: yet for all this errour (though it pro­ceeded from no malice of mine) I my selfe will condemne my selfe in the charge; let Master Peter see what hee will haue 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 vnheard of Christianity of the most valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the true Succourer and Bulwarke of all those that be in neede and necessity, or wandring Vagamundes, and now let the Ʋenter and the Grand Sancho bee Arbitratours, and Price-setters betweene your Worship and me, and let them say what euery torne piece was worth. The Ʋenter and Sancho both agreed: and by and by M^r. Peter reached vp Marsilius King of Saragosa headlesse, and sayd; You see how impossible it is for this Prince to returne to his first being, and therefore, si­uing your better iudgements, I thinke fit to haue for him two shillings and three pence.

On then, quoth Don Quixote. Then for this (quoth Master Peter) that is parted from head to foot, taking the Emperour Charlemaine vp, I thinke two shillings seuen-pence halfe-peny is little enough. Not very little, quoth Sancho. Nor much (sayd the Venter:) but moderate the bargaine, and let him haue halfe a crowne. Let him haue his full asking (sayd Don Quixote) for, for such a mishap as this, wee'l nere stand vpon three halfe-pence more or lesse; and make an end quickly, Master Peter, for [Page 177] it is neere supper-time, and I haue certaine suspitions that I shall eat. For this Puppet (sayd M^r. Peter) without a nose, and an eye wanting, of the faire Melisendra, I aske, but in Iustice foure­teene pence halfe-penny.

Nay, the Deuil's in it (sayd Don Quixote) if Melisendra bee not now in France, or vpon the borders, at least, with 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 giue each man his owne, M^r. Peter, let vs haue 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 serued her, so that fiue pence for her will content me.

Thus he went on prizing of other torne Puppets, which the Arbitrating Iudges moderated to the satisfaction of both par­ties, and the whole prices of all were, twenty one shillings and eleuen pence, which when Sancho had disbursed, Master Peter demanded ouer and aboue twelue-pence for his labour, to looke the Ape. Giue it him, Sancho (sayd Don Quixote) not to catch his Ape, As we say, To catch a Fox. but a Monkey, and I would giue fiue pound for a re­ward, to any body that would certainely tell me, that the Lady Melisendra and Don Gayferos were safely arriued in France, a­mongst their owne people.

None can better tell then my Ape (said Master Peter) though the Deuill 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 leaue of Don Quixote, the one to returne homeward, and the other to prosecute his intended voyage, and for a releefe Don Quixote gaue him six shillings.

Master Peter would haue no more to doe with him; for hee knew him too well. So he got vp before the Sunne, and gathe­ring the relikes of the Motion together, and his Ape, he betooke him to his Aduentures. The Venter that knew not Don Quixote, wondred as much at his liberality, as his madnes. To conclude, Sancho payd him honestly, by his Masters order, and taking leaue, about eight of the clocke they left the Vente, and went on their way, where wee must leaue them; for so it is fit, that we may come to other matters pertaining to the true declaration of this famous History.

CHAP. XXVII.

CId Hamete, 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, hee being a Moore, as vndoubtedly he was, was no otherwise to be vnder­stood, 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 M^r. Peter & 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 haue well remembred that same Gines de Passamonte, whom Don Quixote, amongst other Gally-slaues, freed in Sierra Morena, a benefit for which afterward hee had small thankes, and worse payment, from that wicked and vn­gratefull Rowt.

This Gines de Passamonte, whom Don Quixote called Ginesillo de Parapilla, was hee that stole Sancho's Dapple; which, because neither the manner nor the time were put in the first part, made [Page 179] many attribute the fault of the Impression, to the Authours weakenesse of memory. But true it is, that Gines stole him, as Sancho slept vpon his backe, vsing the same tricke and deuice of Brunelo's, when as Sacripante being vpon the siege of Al­braca, he stole his horse from vnder his legs; and after Sancho recouered him againe, as was shewed.

This Gines, fearefull of being found by the Iustices 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 couering his left eye, to apply himselfe to the office of a Puppet-man; for this and iuggling hee was excellent at. It fell out so, that hee bought his Ape of certaine captiue Christians that came out of Barbary, whom hee had instructed, that vpon making a certaine signe, hee should leape vpon 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 vnto 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 perceiued 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 iust by what hee had before heard, and with this hee got an vnspeakable name, and all men flocked about him, and at other times (as he was ve­ry cunning) he would reply so, that the answers fell out very fit [Page 180] to the questions: and since no body went about to sift, or to presse him, how his Ape did prophesie, hee gulled euery one, and filled his pouch.

As soone as euer he came into the Vente, hee knew Don Qui­xote & Sancho, and all that were there: but it had cost him deare, if Don Quixote had let his hand fall somewhat lower, when hee cut off King Marsilius his head, and destroyed all his Chiualry, 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 Ʋente, hee determined first of all to see the bankes of the riuer Heber, and all round-about, before hee went to the City of Saragosa, since betweene that and the Iusts there, he had time enough for all. Heereupon hee went on his way, which he passed two dayes without lighting on any thing worth writing, till the third day, going vp a Ridge-way, hee heard a sound of Drummes, Trumpets, and Guns; at first, hee thought some Regiment of Souldiers passed by that way: so, to see them, he spurred Rozinante, and got vp the Ridge, and when he was at the top, he saw (as he ghessed) at the foot of it, neere vpon 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, insomuch that he might distinctly, perceiue their Banners, iudged of their Co­lours, and noted their Impreses, and especially one, which was on a Standard or Shred of white Sattin, where was liuely painted a little Asse, like one of your Sardinian Asses, his head lifted vp, his mouth open, and his tongue out, in act and posture iust as he were braying, about him were these two verses writ­ten in faire letters;

By this deuice Don Quixote collected, that those people be­longed to the Braying Towne, and so he told Sancho, declaring likewise what was written in the Standard; hee told him also, that hee that told them the Story, was in the wrong, to say they [Page 181] were two Aldermen that brayed: for by the verses of the Stan­dard, they were two Iudges. To which Sancho answered, Sir, that breakes no square, for it may very well be, that the Alder­men that then brayed, might come in time to be Iudges of the Towne, so they may haue beene called by both titles. Howsoe­uer, tis not materiall to the truth of the story, vvhether the Bray­ers were Aldermen, or Iudges, one for another, be they vvho they would, and a Iudge is euen as likely to bray as an Alder­man.

To conclude, they perceiued 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 enterprizes. Those of the squadron hemmed him in, taking him to be some one of their side. Don Quixote lifting vp 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 seene him. Don Quixote that saw them attentiuely 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 eythet distaste or weary you; which if it be so, at the least signe you shall make, I will seale vp 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 hauing this licence, went on, saying, I, my friends, am a Knight Errant, whose exercise is Armes, vvhose profession, to fauor those that need fauor, and to helpe the di­stressed I haue long knowne of your misfortune, & the cause that euery while moues you to take Armes to bee reuenged on your enemies. And hauing not once, but many times pondered your businesse in my vnderstanding, I finde (according to the Lawes of Duell) that you are deceiued to thinke your selues af­fronted; [Page 182] for no particular person can affront a whole Towne, except it be in defying them for Traitors in generall, because he knowes not who in particular committed the Treason, for which he defied all the Towne.

We haue an example of this in Don Diego Ordonnez de Lara, who defied the whole towne of Zamora, because hee was igno­rant, that onely Vellido de Olfos committed the treason in killing his King; so he defied them all, and the reuenge & answer con­cerned them all: though howsoeuer Don Diego was somewhat too hasty and too forward; for it was needlesse for him to haue defied the dead, or the waters, or the Corne, or the children vn­borne, with many other trifles there mentioned: but let it goe, for when Choller ouer-flowes, the tongue hath neyther father, gouernour, or guide that may correct it. This being so then, that one particular person cannot affront a Kingdom, Prouince, City, Common-wealth, or Towne onely, it is manifest, that the reuenge 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 euery foot go out to kill those that abuse them so: Or that your Seuerall Nicknames giuē to towns in Spaine, vp­on long tra­dition, & t [...]o tedious to be put in a mar­gent. Cazoteros, Verengeneros, Vallenatos, Xa­noneros, or others of these kindes of Nick-names, that are com­mon in euery boyes mouth, and the ordinary sort of people: twere very good, I say, that all these famous Townes should bee ashamed, and take reuenge, and runne with their swords conti­nually drawne like Sack-buts, for euery slender quarrell. No, no, God forbid: Men of wisedome and well-gouerned Common­wealths, ought to take Armes for foure things, and so to endan­ger their persons, liues and estates. First, to defend the Catho­like Faith. Secondly, their liues, which is according to Diuine and Naturall Law. Thirdly, to defend their honour, family, & estates. Fourthly, to serue their Prince in a lawfull warre, and if we will, we may adde a fift (that may serue for a second) to de­fend their Country. To these fiue capitall causes, may be ioy­ned many others, iust and reasonable, that may oblige men to take Armes: but to take them for trifles, and things that are ra­ther fit for laughter and pastime then for any affront, it seemes that he who takes them, wants his iudgement. Besides, to take [Page 183] an vniust reuenge, (indeed nothing can be iust by way of re­uenge) is directly against Gods Law which wee professe, in which we are commanded to doe well to our enemies, and good to those that hate vs; 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 Iesus Christ, true God and man, who neuer lyed, neyther could, nor can, being our Law-giuer, said that his yoke was sweet, and his burden light: so he would command vs nothing that should be vnpossible for vs to fulfill. So that, my masters, you are tied both by Lawes Diuine and humane to be pacified.

The Deuill take mee (thought Sancho to himselfe at this in­stant) if this Master of mine be not a Diuine, or if not, as like one as one egge is to another.

Don Quixote tooke breath a while, and seeing them still at­tentiue, 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 iudicious Gentleman, speakes Latin and his mother-tongue as well as a Bachelor of Arts, and in all he hand­leth or aduiseth, proceeds like a man of Armes, and hath all the Lawes and Statutes of that you call Duell, ad vnguem: therefore there is no more to bee done, but to gouerne your selues 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 haue brayed at any time I listed, without any bodies hinderance, which I did so truly and cunningly, that when I brayed, all the Asses in the Towne would answer me; and for all this, I vvas held to be the sonne of honest parents, and though for this rare quality I vvas enuied by more then foure of the proudest of my parish, I cared not two strawes; and that you may know I say true, doe but stay & hearken, for this science is like swimming, once known, neuer forgottē, so clapping his hand to his nose he began to bray so strongly, that the vallies neere-hand resounded [Page 184] againe. But one of them that stood neerest him, thinking hee had flouted them, lifted vp a good Batte he had in his hand, and gaue him such a blow, that he tumbled him to the ground.

Don Quixote, that saw Sancho so euill intreated, set vpon 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 reuenged: rather seeing a cloud of stones comming towards himselfe, and that a thousand bent Crosse-bowes began to threaten him, and no lesse quantity of gunnes; turning Rozinantes 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 euery foot, lest some bullet should enter him behinde, and come out at his brest: so he still went fetching his breath, to see if it fai­led him. But they of the squadron were satisfied vvhen they saw him flie, and so shot not at him. Sancho they set vpon his Asse, (searce 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 vvas comming, and marked that nobody fol­lowed him. Those of the squadron were there till darke night, and because their enemies came not to battell vvith them, they returned home to their towne, full of mirth and iollity: and if they had knowne the ancient custome of the Grecians, they would haue raised a Trophy in that place.

CHAP. XXVIII.

WHen the Valiant man turnes his backe, the aduan­tage ouer him is manifest, and it is the part of vvise men to reserue themselues to better occasions. This truth was verified in Don Quixote, vvho giuing way to the fury of the people, and to the ill intentions of that angry squadron; [Page 185] 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 vpon his Asse, as hath been said. At last he ouer-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 vvhere haue you found that tis good naming the Halter in the hanged mans house? to your braying musick, what counterpoint could you expect but Bat-blowes? And, Sancho, you may giue God thankes, that since they blessed you with a cudgell, they had not made the Per signum crucis 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 Ile no more braying: yet I cannot but say, that your Knight Errants can flye, and leaue their faithfull Squires to bee bruised like Pri­uet by their enemies.

To retire, is not to flye (said Don Quixote) for know, Sancho, that Valour that is not founded vpon the Basis of Wisedome, is stiled Temerity, and the rash mans actions are rather attributed to good fortune, then courage. So that I confesse I retired, but fledde not, and in this haue imitated many valiant men, that haue reserued themselues for better times; and Histories are full of these, which because now they would be tedious to me, and vn­profitable to thee, I relate them not at present.

By this time Sancho, vvith Don Quixote's help, got to horse, and Don Quixote mounted Rozinante, and by little & little, they had gotten into a little Elme-groue, some quarter of a league off: now and then Sancho would fetch a most deep Heigho, & dolo­rous sighes. And Don Quixote demanding the reason of his pit­tifull complaints, he said, that from the point of his backe-bone, to the top of his crowne, he was so sore, that he knew not what to doe. The cause of that paine vndoubtedly (quoth Don Quixote) is, that as the cudgell with which they banged thee was long and slender, it lighted vpon those parts of thy backe all along, that greeue thee; and if it had beene thicker, it had grie­ued [Page 186] thee more. Truely (quoth Sancho) you haue resolued mee of a great doubt, and in most delicate tearmes declared it to me. Body of me, was the cause of my griefe so concealed, that you must needs 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 brusing grieues me. Yfaith, yfaith, Master mine, other mens ills are slightly re­garded, and euery day I discouer land, and see how little I can expect from your seruice; for if at this time you suffered me to be dry-beaten, we shal come a hundred & a hundred times to the Blanket-tossing you wotte of, and other childish trickes, which if they now lighted on my shoulders, they will after come out at mine eyes. It were a great deale better for mee, but that I am a beast, and shall neuer do ought vvell while I liue. It were a great deale better (I say againe) for me to get mee home to my Wife and Children, to maintaine and bring them vp with that little God hath giuen me, and not to follow you vp and downe these by-waies, drinking ill, and eating worse. And for your bedde, good honest Squire, euen count mee out seuen foot of good earth; and if you will haue any more, take as many more; for you may feed at pleasure, stretch your selfe at your ease. I would the first that made stitch in Knight Errantry were 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 haue 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 Deuill 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 grieu'd, I will be pleased with the distaste that thy imperti­nencies might giue mee. And if you desire so much to bee at home with your wife and children, God forbid I should gaine­say it: you haue money of mine, and see how long tis since our third sally from home, and how much is due to you for euery moneth, and pay your selfe.

When I serued (quoth Sancho) Tomè 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 haue, though I am sure it is a greater toyle to be a Squire to a Knight Errant, then to serue a rich Husbandman; for indeed, we that serue Husbandmen, though wee labour neuer 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 haue not done euer since I serued 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 vp­on the cold ground, to the open ayre, and subiect, as you would say, to the Inclemencies of the heauens, onely liuing vpon bits of cheese, and scraps of bread, and drinking water, sometimes of brookes, sometimes of springs, which we met withall by the waies we went.

I confesse, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote) that all thou sayest may be true; how much more thinkest thou should I giue thee, then Tomè Carrasco?

You shall please me (quoth Sancho) with twelue-pence more a moneth, and that concerning my wages for my seruice; but touching your word and promise you gaue mee, that I should haue the Gouernment of an Iland, it were fit you added the tother three shillings, which in all make vp fifteene.

It is very well, said Don Quixote, and according to the wages that you haue allotted vnto your selfe, it is now twenty fiue 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 haue bidden you.

Body of mee (said Sancho) you are cleane out of the recko­ning; for touching the promise of gouerning the Iland, you must reckon from the time you promised, til this present. Why, how long is it (quoth hee) since I promised it? If I be not for­getfull (said Sancho) it is now some twenty yeeres, vvanting two or three dayes. Don Quixote gaue himselfe a good clappe on the forehead, and began to laugh heartily, saying, Why, my [Page 188] being about Sierra Morena, and our whole trauels were in lesse then two Moneths, and dost thou say it was twenty yeeres since I promised thee the Iland? I am now of opinion, that thou wouldst haue all the mony thou hast of mine, consumed in pay­ing thee wages: which if it be so, & that thou art so minded, frō 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 Preuaricator of the Squirely lawes of Knight-Errantry, where hast thou euer seene or read of any Squire belonging to Knight Errant, that hath ca­pitulated with his Master, to giue him thus much or so much: Lanch, lanch, thou base lewd fellow, thou Hobgoblin; Lanch? I say, into the Mare magnum of their Histories; and if thou finde that any Squire haue sayd, or so much as imagined, what thou hast sayd, I will giue thee leaue to brand my fore-head, and to boot, to seale me with A Tricke to giue a tucke with the thumbe vpon ones lips, as fresh men are vsed in a Vni­uersity. 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-giuen bread, and ill-placed promises! Oh man more beast then man! now when I thought to haue put thee into a fortune, and such a one, that in spite of thy wife, thou shouldest haue beene stiled, My Lord: Thou leauest me? Now doest thou goe, when I had a purpose to haue made thee Lord of the best Iland 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 mooued, 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 nothing but a taile: if you will put one on me, I will be contented, and will serue 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 knauery. Who erres and mends, to God himselfe commends.

I would be sorry, little Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) but that [Page 189] thou shouldst mingle some by-pretty Prouerb in thy Dialogue. Well, Ile pardon thee for this once, vpon condition heereafter thou mend, and shew not thy selfe so couetous, but that thou rouze vp 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-groue, and Don Quixote got to the foot of an Elme, & Sancho to the foot of a Beech; for these kind of trees & such like, haue alwaies feet, but no hands. Sancho had an ill night on it; for his Bat-blow made him more sensible in the cold. Don Quixote fell into his vsuall imagina­tions: yet they both slept, and by day-peepe they were on their way, searching after the famous bankes of Heber, where they happened vpon what shall be told in the ensuing Chapter.

CHAP. XXIX.

DON Quixote and Sancho, by their computation, two dayes after they were out of the Elme-groue, came to the Riuer Heber, whose sight was very delightsome to Don Quixote; for first he contemplated on the amenity of those bankes, the cleernesse 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 hee fell to thinke what he had seene in Montesino's Caue: 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 Riuer, 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 [Page 190] Sancho to doe the like from Dapple, and that he should tye both the Beasts very well, to the root of an Elme or Willow there. Sancho demanded of him the cause of that sudden ligh­ting, and of that tying. Don Quixote made answer; Know, Sancho, that this Boat thou seest directly (for it can bee nothing else) cals and inuites me to goe and enter into it, to giue ayde to 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 prouide 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 euery foot run into these (I know not what I shall call them) fopperies, there's no way but to obey, and lay downe the necke, according to the Prouerbe; 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 Riuer; for heere the best Saboga's in the world are taken.

This he spoke whilst he was tying his Beasts, leauing them to the protection and defence of Enchanters, which greeued him to the soule. Don Quixote bad him he should not bee troubled for the leauing those beasts; for hee that should carry them tho­row such longinque wayes and regions, would also looke to the other. I vnderstand not your Lognicke (quoth Sancho) neither haue I heard such a word in all the dayes of my life. Longinque (sayd Don Quixote) that is, farre, remote: and no maruell thou vnderstandest not that word, for thou art not bound to the vn­derstanding of Latin, though yee haue some that presume to [Page 191] know when they are ignorant. Now they are bound (sayd San­cho) what shall we doe next?

What? (sayd Don Quixote) blesse our selues & weigh anchor, I meane, let vs imbarke our selues, and cut the rope by which this boat is tyed: so leaping into it, and Sancho 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 Riuer, 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 vnloose himselfe: and hee told his Master; Dapple brayes and condoles for our absence, Rozi­nante striues to bee at liberty, to throw himselfe after vs. Oh most deare friends, remaine you there in safety, and may the madnesse that seuers vs from you, conuerted into repentance, bring vs back to your Presence: and with that he began to weep so bittetly, that Don Quixote, all moody and cholericke, began to cry out; What makes thee feare, thou cowardly Impe? what cryest thou for, thou heart of curds? who persecutes thee? who baites thee, thou soule of a Milk-sop? or what wantest thou in the middest of all abundance? art thou happily to goe bare-foot ouer the Riphaean mountaines? Rather vpon a seat like an Arch-Duke, thorow the calme current of this delightfull Riuer: from whence we shall very quickly passe into the maine sea: but hi­therto wee haue gone and sayled some seuen 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 haue gone, though, ei­ther my knowledge is small, or wee haue now, or shall quickly passe the Aequinoctiall Line, which diuides & cuts the two con­traposed Poles in equall distance.

And when you come to this Line you speake of, how farre shall we haue 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 haue gone the halfe, when we come to the Line I haue told you of. Verily (quoth Sancho) you haue brought me a pretty witnesse, to confirme your saying, Mistakes of the words, Pto­lomeo and Com­puto: for so it is in the Spa­nish. To ly my & Comtation, and I know [Page 192] not what. Don Quixote laught at Sancho's interpretation he had giuen to the name, and to the Computation and account of the Cosmographer Ptolomeus, and sayd to him; You shall vnder­stand, Sancho, that when the Spanyards, and those that imbarke themselues at Cadiz, to goe to the East Indies, one of the greatest signes they haue, to know whether they haue passed the Aequi­noctiall, is, that all men that are in the ship, their Lice dye vpon them, and not one remains with them, nor in the Vessell, though they would giue their waight in gold for him: so that, Sancho, thou mayst put thy hand to thy thigh, and if thou meet with a­ny liue thing, we shall be out of doubt; if thou find est nothing, then we haue passed the Line.

I cannot beleeue any of this, quoth Sancho: but yet I will doe what you will haue mee, though I know no necessity for these trials; since I see with these eyes, that we haue not gone fiue rods lengths from the Banke; for there Rozinante and Dapple are, in the same places where we left them, and looking well vpon the matter, as I now doe, I sweare by Me, that wee neither mooue 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, Paralels, Z [...]redge [...] ­diacks, Clipticks, Poles, Solstices, Aequinoctials, Planets, Signes, Poynts, and Measures, of which the Celestiall and Terrestrial Spheres are composed: for if thou knewest all these, or any part of them, thou mightst plainely see what Paralels wee haue cut, what Signes we haue seene, and what Images wee haue left be­hinde, and are leauing now. And let me wish thee againe, tha [...]redge [...] thou search and feele thy selfe: for I doe not thinke, but tha [...]redge [...] 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 vp his head, and sayd to his Master; Either your experience is false, or else we are not come neere the place you speake of, by many leagues. Why (quoth Don Quixote) hast thou met with some thing? I, with some things (sayd hee) and shaking his fingers, hee washed his whole hand in the riuer; by which, and in the Current, the boa [...]redge [...] softly slid along, without being mooued by any secret influence, [Page 193] or hidden Enchantment, but the very course it selfe of the wa­ter, as yet soft and easie.

By this they discouered two great water-mils in the midst of the Riuer: and Don Quixote, as soone as hee saw them, cried 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 Deuill of City, Castle, or Fortresse, Sir, doe you talke of (quoth Sancho?) doe you not see that those are wa­ter-mils in the Riuer to grinde corne? Peace, Sancho (sayd hee) for though they looke like Water-mills, yet they are not, and I haue told thee already, that these Enchantments 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 seene 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 mooue somewhat faster then before. They of the Mills, that saw the Boat come downe the riuer, and that it was now euen 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 couered with meale-dust, they made a strange shew, and cryed out, saying; Deuils of men, whither goe you? Are you mad to drowne your selues, 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 vncouth fellowes come to encounter mee; looke what a troope of Hobgoblins oppose themselues against mee; looke what vgly visages play the Bull-beggers with vs: Now you shall see, you Rascals; and standing vp in the Boat, he began aloud to threaten the Millers, saying; You base Scumme and ill-aduised, free and deliuer that person, which is in your For­tresse or Prison opprest, bee hee high or low, or of what [...]ort or quality soeuer; for I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called The Knight of the Lyons, for whom the happy ending of [Page 194] this Aduenture is reserued by order of the high Heauens: and this sayd, hee layd hand to his sword, and beganne to fence in the aire against the Millers, who hearing, but not vnderstanding those madnesses, stood with their poles to stay the Boat, which was now entring the source and channell of the wheeles. Sancho kneeled deuoutly vpon his knees, praying Heauen to free him from so manifest a danger, which succeeded happily, by the quicknesse and skill of the Millers, who opposing their staues to the Boat, stayd it: but so, that they ouerturned it, and Don Quixote and Sancho topted into the Riuer: 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 vp, there they had both perished.

When they were both on land, more wet then thirsty, San­cho, vpon his knees, with ioyned hands, and his eyes nailed to Heauen, prayed to God with a large and deuout 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, vpon condition they should freely deliuer 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 to grinde their corne? Enough, thought Don Quixote to himselfe, here a man may preach in a wildernes, to reduce a base people to a good worke. In this Aduenture two deep Enchanters haue met, and the one disturbes the other: the one prouided me the Barke, and the other ouerthrew me out of it; God helpe vs, all this world is tricks and deuices, one contrary to the other; I can doe no more: and raising his voyce, he went on, saying; Friends, who soeuer you are, locked vp in this prison, pardon mee; for, [Page 195] by my ill fortune and yours, I cannot deliuer you from your pain: this Aduenture is kept & reserued for some other Knight. When he had said this, he agreed with the fishers, and paid 25. shillings for the boat, which Sancho gaue 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 admiration, to see two such strange shapes, quite from the ordinary fashion of other men, and neuer vnderstood to what purpose Don Quixote vsed all those discourses to them; so holding them for madde­men, they left them, and got to their Milles, and the Fishers to their quarters. Don Quixote and Sancho like beastes turne to their beasts: and this end had the Aduenture of the Enchanted Barke.

CHAP. XXX.

VEry melancholy and ill at ease went the Knight and Squire to horse-backe, especially Sancho, for it grieued 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, vvithout speaking a word, to horse they vvent, and left the famous riuer. Don Quixote, buried in his amorous cogitations, and Sancho in those of his preferment; for as yet hee thought he was farre e­nough off from obtaining it: for although he were a foole, yet hee well perceiued, 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 leaue-taking vvith 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 [Page 196] meadow, and at one end of it saw company, & comming neere, he saw they were Falconers; he came neerer, and amongst them beheld a gallant Lady vpon her Palfrey, or milke-white Nagge, with greene furniture, and her Saddle-pummell of siluer. The Lady her selfe was all clad in greene, so braue and rich, that bra­uery 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 vvas: so hee cried out to Sancho; Runne, sonne Sancho, and tell that Lady on the Palfrey with the Soare-hawke, that I, The Knight of the Lyons, doe kisse her most beautifull hands; and if her mag­nificence giue me leaue, I will receiue her commands, and be her seruant to the vttermost of my power, that her highnesse may please to command mee in; and take heede, Sancho, how thou speakest, and haue a care thou mixe not thy Ambassage vvith some of those Prouerbs of thine. Tell me of that? as if it were now the first time that I haue 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 mee. That's true, said Sancho; but a good pay-master needs no surety: and where there is plenty, the ghests are not empty, I meane, there is no tel­ling nor aduising mee ought; for of all things I know a little. I beleeue it (said Don Quixote) get thee gone in good time, and God speed thee.

Sancho went on, putting Dapple out of his pace with a Ca­reere, and comming where the faire Huntresse was, alighting, he kneeled downe, and said; Faire Lady, that Knight you see there, called The Knight of the Lyans, 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 giue him leaue, that with your liking, good will, & consent, he put in practice his desire, which is no other (as he sayes, and I beleeue) then to serue your For so it is in the Spanish to make the simple Squire speake absurd­ly enough, for in stead of Al­teca, the Au­thor makes him say Alta­neria. lofty high-flying beauty; and if your Ladiship giue him leaue, you shall doe a thing that may redound to your good, and hee shall [Page 197] receiue amost remarkeable fauour and content.

Truely, honest Squire, said the Lady, thou hast deliuered thy Ambassage with all the circumstances that such an Ambas­sage requires: rise, rise, for the Squire of so renowned a Knight as he of the sorrowfull countenance (of whom wee haue heere speciall notice) tis not fit should kneele: rise vp friend, and tell your Master that he come neere on Gods name, that the Duke my Husband and I may doe him seruice at a house of pleasure we haue heere.

Sancho rose vp 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 vpon 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, & goes by the name of, The ingenious Gentle­man, Don Quixote de la Mancha, 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 haue giuen me greater content. Sancho with this so acceptable an an­swer, with great pleasure returned to his Master, to vvhom he recounted all that the great Lady had said to him, extolling to the heauens 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 vp 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 hauing read his first part, and vnderstood by it his be­sotted humour, attended him with much pleasure and desire to know him, with a purpose to follow his humour, and to giue way to al he should say, and to treat with him as a Knight Errant, [Page 198] 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 vp, and ma­king shew to alight, Sancho came to haue held his stirrop: but he was so vnlucky, that as hee was lighting from Dapple, one of his feet caught vpon a halter of the packe-saddle, so that it was not possible for him to dis-intangle himself, but hung by it, with his mouth and his brest to the ground ward. Don Quixote, who vsed not to alight without his stirrops being held, thinking Sancho was already come to hold it, lighted sodainely downe, but brought saddle and all to ground, (belike being ill-girt) to his much shame, and curses inwardly layd vpon the vnhappy 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 as 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 beene 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 haue seene you, although my fal had cast me to the profound Abisme; since the glory of seeing you would haue drawne mee out, and raised mee vp. My Squire (a curse light on him) vnties his tongue better to speake maliciously, then hee girts his horses saddle to sit firmely: but howsoeuer I am downe or vp, on foot or on horsebacke, I will alwaies bee at yours, and my Lady the Duchesses seruice, your worthy Consort, the worthie Lady of beauty, and vniuersall Princesse 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, & 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 [Page 199] faire; but where we least thinke, there goes the Hare away: for I haue 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 the Dutchesse comes not a whit behinde my Mistresse the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso. Don Quixote turned to the Duchesse, and said, Your Greatnesse may suppose that ne­uer any Knight in the world had euer such a prater to his Squire, nor a more conceited then mine, and he will make good vvhat I say, if your Highnesse shall at any time be pleased to make 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 conceited, 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 vve haue 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, vvhich is neere heere, where he shall haue the entertainment that is iustly due to so high a per­sonage, and that, that the Duchesse and I are wont to giue to Knights Errant that come to vs.

By this time Sancho had made ready and girded Rozinantes saddle vvell; and Don Quixote mounting him, and the Duke vpon a goodlly 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 infinitely delighted to [...]eare his discretions. Sancho was easily entreated, and weaued him­selfe betweene the three, and made a fourth in their conuersati­on. The Duke and Duchesse were much pleased, vvho held it for a great good fortune, to haue lodged in their Castle such a Knight Errant, and such a Squire Erred.

CHAP. XXXI.

GReat was the ioy that Sancho conceiued to see himselfe a fauourite to the Duchesse, as he thought; for it shaped out vnto 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 vpon Occasions locke, euer when it was presented. The History then tells vs, that be­fore they came to the house of pleasure or Castle, the Duke went before, and gaue order to all his followers how they should behaue themselues towards Don Quixote, vvho as he came on vvith 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 Crimson Sattin, and taking Don Quixote in their armes, vvithout hearing or looking on him, they said, Goe, and let your Greatnesse help my Lady to alight. Don Quixote did so, & there was great complementing betwixt both about it: but in the end, the Duchesses earnestnesse pre­uailed, and shee would not descend or alight from her Palfrey, but in the Dukes armes, saying; That shee was too vnworthy to bee so vnprofitable 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, & cast vpon 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-seruants 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 vpon Don Quixote, and vpon the Duke, all which made Don Quixote admire, and neuer till then did he truly belieue that he was a Knight Errant, really and not fantastically, seeing that he was vsed iust as hee had read Knights Errant were in former times.

Sancho, forsaking Dapple, shewed himselfe to the Duchesse, and eutered into the Castle, but his conscience pricking him, [Page 201] that he had left his Asse alone, he came to a reuerend old waiting woman, that came out amongst others to wait vpon the Duch­esse, and very softly spoke to her, Mistresse Gonsalez, or vvhat is your name forsooth? Donna Rodriguez de Grishalua, said the waiting woman, what would you haue, brother, with me? To which (quoth Sancho) I pray will you doe me the fauour as to goe out at the Castle-gate, where you shall finde a Dapple Asse of mine, I pray vvill 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 haue 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 vsed to such drudgeries. Why truly (quoth Sancho) I haue heard my Master say, who is the very Wizard of Histories, tel­ling that story of Lanzarote, vvhen 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 haue vse of it, for those that will pay you; for I haue nothing but this La higa: a word of dis­grace. figge to giue you. Well yet (said Sancho) the figge is like to be ripe, for you vvill not lose the Prima vista of your yeeres by a peepe lesse. Sonne of a vvhore, said the waiting-woman all incensed with choller, whether I am olde or no, God knowes, I shall giue him account, and not to thee, thou rascall, 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) vvith this Ideot, that hath earnestly entrea­ted me to put vp his Asse in the stable, that is at the Castle­gate, gining mee for an instance, that they haue done so I know not where, that certaine Ladies looked to one Lanza­rote, and vvaiting vvomen to his horse, and to mend the matter, in mannerly tearms cals me Vitia: a name that a woman in Spain can­not endure to heare though shee were as old as Methu­salem. old one. That wold more disgrace me (quoth the Duchesse) then all he should say, and speaking to Sancho, shee said, Looke you friend Sancho, Donna Rodriguez [Page 202] is very young, and that Stole she weares, is more for authority, and for the fashion, then for her yeeres. A pox on the rest of my yeeres I haue to liue (quoth Sancho) if I meant her any ill, I onely desired the kindnesse, for the loue I beare to mine Asse, and because I thought I could not recommend him to a more charitable person, then Mistris Rodriguez. Don Quixote, that heard all, sayd; Are these discourses, Sancho, fit for this place? Sir (sayd Sancho) let euery man expresse his wants wheresoere he be. Heere I remembred my Dapple, and heere I spoke of him, and if I had remembred him in the stable, there I would haue spoken.

To this (quoth the Duke) Sancho is in the right, and there is no reason to blame him. Dapple shall haue prouander, as much as he will, and let Sancho take no care, he shall be vsed as well as his owne person. With these discourses, pleasing vnto all but Don Quixote, they went vp staires, and brought Don Quixote in­to a goodly Hall, hung with rich cloth of Gold and Tissue, six Damozels vn-armed him, & serued for Pages, all of them taught and instructed by the Duke and Dutchesse, what they should doe, and how they should behaue themselues towards Don Quixote, that hee might imagine and see they vsed him like a Knight Errant.

Don Quixote once vn-armed, was in his straight trouses and doublet of Chamois, dry, high, and lanke, with his iawes, that within and without bussed one another; a picture, that if the Damozels that serued him, had not had a care to hold in their laughter (which was one of the precise orders their Lords had giuen them) had burst with laughing. They desired him to vn­clothe himselfe, to shift a shirt: but he would by no meanes con­sent, saying; That honesty was as proper to a Knight Errant, as valour. Notwithstanding, hee bad them giue a shirt to Sancho: and looking himselfe vp 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 Iester and old Iolt-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 [Page 203] your Dapple? Or thinke you, that these were Lords to let Beasts fare ill, that so neatly vse their Masters? For Gods loue, Sancho, looke to thy selfe, and discouer not thy course thred, that they may see thou art not wouen out of a base web Know, Sinner as thou art, that the Master is so much the more estee­med, by how much his seruants are honest, and mannerly; and one of the greatest aduantages that great men haue ouer inferi­ours, is, that they keep seruants as good as themselues. Know'st thou not, poore fellow, as thou art, & vnhappy 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 inconueniencies; for he that stumbles too much vpon the Prater and Wit-monger, at the first toe-knocke fals, and becomes a scornefull Iester: bridle thy tongue, consider and ruminate vpon thy words, before they come from thee, and ob­serue, that wee are now come to a place, from whence, with Gods helpe and mine armes valour, we shall goe bettered three-fold, nay, fiue-fold in fame and wealth.

Sancho promised him very truely, to sow vp 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 euer bee disco­uered. Don Quixote dressed himselfe, buckled his sword to his belt, and clapped his skarlet mantle vpon him, putting on a Hunters cap of greene sattin, which the Damozels had giuen 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 prouision for him to wash, which they mini­stred to him with many courtesies and ceremonies.

Betwixt them straight they got him full of pompe and Maie­sty, and carried him to another roome, where was a rich table, with seruice for foure persons. The Duke and Dutchesse came to the doore to receiue him, and with them a graue Clergy-man, A good Character of a poore Pedant. one of those that gouerne great mens houses, one of those, that as they are not borne nobly, so they know not how to instruct those that are: one of those that would haue great mens liberali­ties, measured by the straightnesse of their mindes: of those, that [Page 204] teaching those they gouerne, to bee frugall, would make them miserable: such a one, I say, this graue Clergy-man was, that came with the Duke to receiue Don Quixote, there passed a thousand louing complements, and, at last, taking Don Quixote betweene them, they sate downe to dinner.

The Duke inuited Don Quixote to the vpper end of the table, which, though he refused; yet the Duke so importuned him, that he was forced to take it. The Clergy-man sate ouer against him, and the Duke and Duchesse on each side. Sancho was by at all, gaping in admiration, to see the honour those Princes did to his Master, and seeing the many 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 giue mee leaue, Ile tell you a tale that happened in our towne, concerning places. Scarce had Sancho sayd this, when Don Quixote began to shake, beleeuing certainely he would speake some idle speech. Sancho beholding, vnderstood him, and sayd, Feare not, Sir, that I shall be vnmannerly, or that I shall say any thing that may not bee to the purpose; for I haue not forgotten your counsell, touching speaking much or little, well or ill.

I remember nothing, Sancho (quoth Don Quixote) speake 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 Ile not hinder thee: but take heede what thou speakest. I haue so heeded 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 iot from me; for I know, hee is very discreet. Discreet yeeres liue your Holinesse (quoth Sancho) for the good opinion you haue of me, although I deserue 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 Iacques, that was [Page 205] drowned in the Herradura, touching whom that quarrell 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 Baluastro the Smith, was wounded. Is not all this true, Ma­ster After he had begun a tale without head or foot, hee askes a que­stion. 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 giuest so many witnesses, 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 haue 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 euer 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) inuited a poore, but honest Husband-man. O [...], Brother (sayd the Clergy-man) for, mee thinkes, you trauell 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 said Gentle-man Inuiters house, (God be mercifull to him, for he is now dead) and for a further token, they say, died like a Lambe; for I was not by: for at that time I was gone to another towne to reaping.

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 businesse 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 euer. The Dukes receiued great pleasure, to see the distaste that the Clergy-man tooke, at the delayes and pawses of Sancho's tale. And Don Quixote consumed himselfe in choller and rage. Then thus (quoth Sancho) both of them being ready to sit downe, the Husband-man contended with the Gentle­man [Page 206] not to sit vppermost, and he with the other, that he should, as meaning to command in his owne house: but the Husband­man presuming to be mannerly, and courteous, neuer vvould, till the Gentleman very moody, laying hands vpon 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 haue my Tale, and truely I beleeue, it was brought in heere pretty-well to the purpose.

Don Quixote's face was in a thousand colours, that Iaspered vpō his browe. The Lords dissembled their laughter, that Don Quixote might not be too much abashed, when they perceiued Sancho's knauery: 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 he could not but haue ouercome many. To which Don Quixote answered, Lady mine; my misfortunes, although they had a beginning, yet they will neuer haue ending: Gyants, Elues, and Bug-beares I haue ouer-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 I know well, that for her nimblenesse and leaping, A good mis­take. sheel'e giue no aduantage to a Tum­bler: In good faith, my Lady Duchesse, shee leapes from the ground vpon an Asse, as if she were a Catte. Haue you seene her enchanted, Sancho, said the Duke? How? seene her? (quoth Sancho) Why, who the Deuill 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, Elues, 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 diuers times reprehended him, telling him, twas a madnesse to read such fopperies, and be­ing assured of the certainty which he suspected, speaking to the Duke very angerly, hee said: Your Excellency ought to giue God Almighty an acoūt for this mans folly. This Don Quixote, [Page 207] 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, gi­uing 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 ouercome Gyants, and take Bug-beares? get you in Gods name, so be it spoken, return to your house, and bring vp your children if you haue them, and looke to your stocke, and leaue your ranging thorow the vvorld, blowing bubbles, and making all that know you, or not know you, to laugh. Where haue you euer found vvith a mischiefe, that there haue beene, or are Knights Errant? vvhere 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 attentiue to this Venerable mans dis­course, and seeing him now silent, vvithout any respect of the Dukes, vvith an angry countenance, he stood vp and said, But his answer deserues a Chapter by it selfe.

CHAP. XXXII.

DOn Quixote being thus vpon his legges, and trembling from head to foot, like a man filled with quicke-siluer, with a hasty and thicke voyce, said, The place, and Pre­sence before whom I am, and the respect I haue, and alwaies had to men of your Coat, do binde and tye vp the hands of my iust wrath; so that as well for what I haue said, as for I know, all know that women, & gowned mens weapons are the same, their tongues: I vvill enter into single combat with you with mine, though I rather expected good counsaile from you, then infa­mous reuilings; good and well-meant reprehensions require and aske other circumstances, other points; at least, your pub­like and so bitter reprehensions haue passed all limits, and your [Page 208] gentle ones had beene better: neyther was it fit that vvithout knowledge of the sinne you reprehend, you call the sinner with­out more adoe, Cox-combe and Ideot. Well, for which of my Coxcombries seene in mee, doe you condemne and reuile mee, and command me home to my owne house, to looke to the go­uerning of it, my wife and children, without knowing vvhe­ther I haue any of these? 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 seene more world then twenty miles about him, to meddle so roundly to giue Lawes to Chiualry, and to iudge 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 your Knights, your Gallants, or Gentlemen should haue called me Cox-comb, I should haue held it for an affront irreparable: but that your poore Schollers account mee a madde-man, that neuer trod the paths of Knight Errantry, I care not a chip; a Knight I am, a Knight Ile die, if it please the most Highest. Some goe by the spacious field of proud ambition, others by the way of serui [...] 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 haue satisfied grieuances, rectifi­ed wrongs, chastised insolencies, ouercome Gyants, trampled ouer Sprites; I am enamoured, onely because there is a necessi­ty Knights Errant should bee so, and though I be so, yet I a [...] not of those vicious Amorists, but of your chaste Platonicks▪ My intentions alwaies aime at a good end, as, to doe good to [...] men, & hurt to none: If he that vnderstands this, if he that per­formes it, that practiseth it, deserue to be called foole, let your Greatnesses iudge, excellent Duke and Duchesse.

Well, I aduise you (quoth Sancho) Master mine, speake [...] more in your owne behalfe, for there is no more to bee said, [...] more to be thought, no more perseucting in the world: besides▪ this Signior, denying as he hath done, that there neyther is, n [...] hath beene Knight Errant in the world, no maruell though h [...] [Page 209] knowes not what he hath said. Are you trow (quoth the Cler­gy man) that Pansa, whom they say your Master hath promised an Iland? Marry am I (said he) and I am hee that deserues it, as well as any other, and I am he that He blunders out Prouerbs as vsually to no purpose, which is San­cho's parts al­wares. 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 haue leaned to my Master, and it is many mo­neths since I haue kept him company, and I am his other selfe. If God please, liue he, and I shall liue, hee shall not want Empires to command, nor I Islands to gouerne.

No surely, friend Sancho, straight, said the Duke, for I in Sig­nior Don Quixote's name, will giue thee an odde one of mine, of no small worth. Kneele downe, Sancho, quoth Don Quixote, & kisse his Excellencies foot, for the fauour hee hath done thee: which Sancho did: but when the Cleargy-man saw this, hee rose vp vvonderfull angry, saying; By my holy Order, I am a­bout to say, Your Excellency is as mad as one of these sinners, and see if they must not needs be madde, when wise men cano­nize their madnesse; your Excellency may doe well to stay with them, for whilest they be heere, Ile get mee home and saue a la­bour of correcting what I cannot amend, and without any more adoe, leauing the rest of his dinner, he went away, the Duke & the Duchesse not being able to pacifie him, though the Duke said not much to him, as being hindred with laughter at his vn­seasonable choller.

When he had ended his laughter, he said to Don Quixote, Sir Knight of the Lyons, you haue answered so deeply for your selfe, that you left nothing vnsatisfied to this your grieuance, which though it seeme to be one, yet is not; for as women haue not the power to wrong, neyther haue Church-men, as you best know. T'is 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 cannot defend them­selues, when they are offended, so they cannot suffer an affront and a grieuance, there is this difference (as your Excellency best knowes: The affront comes from one that may doe it, and be [Page 210] able to make it good, the grieuance may come from eyther par­ty without affronting. For example. One stands carelesly in the street, some ten men come armed, and bastonadoing him, he claps hand to his sword, and doth his deuoir: but the multi­tude of his assailants hinder him of his purpose, which is to bee reuenged; this man is wronged, but not affronted, and this shal be confirmed by another example. One stands vvith his backe turned, another comes and strikes him, and when he hath done, runnes away, th'other followes, but ouertakes him not: he that receiued the blow, is wronged, but not affronted, because the affront ought to haue beene maintained: if he that strooke him (though he did it basely) stand still and face his enemy, then hee that was strooke is wronged and affronted both together: wron­ged, because he was strooke cowardly; affronted, because he that strooke him, stood still to make good what he had done: and so according to the Lawes of cursed Duel, I may be wronged, but not affronted; for children nor women haue no apprehension, neyther can they flye, nor ought to stand still: and so is it vvith the Religious; for these kindes of people want Armes offensiue and defensiue, so that though they be naturally bound to defend themselues, yet they are not to offend any body: and though euen now I said I was wronged, I saw now I am not; for hee that can receiue no affront, can giue none: for which causes I haue no reason to resent, nor doe I, the words that that good man gaue me; onely I could haue wished he had stayed a little, that I might haue let him see his error, in saying or thinking there haue 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.

Ile sweare that (quoth Sancho) they would haue giuen him a slash, that should haue cleaued him from head to foot, like a Pomegranate, or a ripe Muske Melon; they were pretty Youths to suffer such iests. By my Hōlidam, I thinke certainely if Re­naldos de Montalnan had heard these speeches from the poore knaue, he had bung'd vp his mouth that he should not haue spo­ken these three yeeres; I, I, hee should haue dealt with them, and see how he would haue 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 vvith a siluer Bason, the other with an Ewre, a third with two fine white Towels, the fourth with her arms tucked vp to the middle and in her white hands (for white they were) a white Naples washing ball. Shee with the Bason came very mannerly, and set it vnder Don Quixote's chinne, who very silent, and wondring at that kinde of ceremony, taking it to bee the custome of the Country, to wash their faces in stead of their hands, he stretcht out his face as far as he could, & instantly the Ewre began to rain vpon him, and the Damozell with the soape ran ouer his beard apace, raising white flakes of snow, for such were those scow­rings, not only vpon his beard, but ouer 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 Lauatory. The Barber Damozell, when she had soaped him well with her hand, feined that she wanted more water, and made her with the Ewre, to goe for it, whilest Signior Don Quixote expected; which shee did, and Don Quixote remained one of the strangest pictures to moue laughter that could be imagined. All that were present (many in number) beheld him, and as they saw him with a neck halfe a yard long, more then ordinary swarthy, his eyes shutte, and his beard full of soape, it was great maruell, and much dis­cretion, they could forbeare laughing. The Damozels of the iest cast downe their eyes, not daring to looke on their Lords; whose bodies with choller and laughter euen tickled againe, and they knew not what to doe; eyther to punish the boldnes of the girles, or reward them for the pastime they receiued to see Don Quixote in that manner.

Lastly, she with the Ewre came, and they made an end of wa­shing Don Quixote, & straight she that had the towels, wiped & dried him gently, & all foure of them at once making him a low courtesie, would haue gone: but the Duke, because Don Quixote [Page 212] should not fall into the iest) called to the Damozell with the ba­son, saying, Come and wash me too, and see that you haue wa­ter enough. The wench, that was wily and carefull, came and put the bason vnder the Duke, as she had done to Don Quixote, and making haste, they washed and scowred him very well, and leauing him dry and cleane, making curtesies, they went away. After, it was knowne that the Duke swore, that if they had not washed him as well as Don Quixote, he would punish them for their lightnesse, which they discreetly made amends for, vvith soaping him.

Sancho marked all the ceremonies of the Lauatory, and said to himselfe; Lord (thought he) if it be the custome in this Coun­trie to wash the Squires beards, as well as the Knights? for of my soule and conscience I haue need of it, and if they would, to runne ouer me with a Rasor too.

What saist thou to thy selfe, Sancho, said the Duchesse? I say, Madam, (quoth he) that I haue heard that in other Princes Pa­laces they vse to giue 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 liue long; to see much; although tis said also, that he that liues long, suffers much, though to suffer one of these La­uatories, is rather pleasure then paine.

Take no care Sancho, quoth the Duchesse, for Ile 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 prouide hereafter. Looke you, Caruer, said the Dutchesse, what Sancho desires, doe iust as hee would haue you. The Caruer answered, that Signior Sancho should be punctually serued, and so he went to dinner, and carried San­cho with him, the Dukes and Don Quixote sitting still, and con­ferring in many and seuerall affaires, but all concerning the pra­ctice of Armes and Knight Errantry.

The Duchesse requested Don Quixote, to delineate and de­scribe vnto her (since he seemed to haue a happy memory) the beauty & 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 Greatnesses eyes, vpon this table in a dish, I would saue my tongue a labour to tell you that, which would not be imagined; for in my heart, your Excellency should see her liuely depainted: but why should I be put to describe and delineate exactly, piece for piece, each seuerall beauty of the peerelesse Dulcinea, a burden fitter for o­ther backes then mine; an enterprize, in which the pensils of Parrasius, Timantes, and Apelles, and the tooles of Lisippus, should indeed be employed, to paint and carue her in▪ tables of Marble and Brasse, and Ciceroman and Demosthenian Rhetoricke to praise her.

What meane you by your Demosthenian, Signior Don Qui­xote, quoth the Duchesse? Demosthenian Rhetoricke (quoth hee) is as much to say, as the Rhetoricke of Demosthenes, 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 vs, if he would paint her out; for Ile war­rant, though it bee but in her first draught, shee will appeare so well, that the most faire will enuy her. I would willingly (sayd he) if mis-fortune had not blotted out her Idaea, that not long since besell her, which is such, that I may rather bewaile it, then describe her; for your Greatnesses shall vnderstand, that as I went heeretofore to haue kissed her hands, and receiue her be­nediction, leaue 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 Deuill, 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 vs (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 those many enuious [Page 214] ones that persecute mee? This wicked race borne in the world, to darken and annihilate the exployts of good men, and to giue light and raise the deedes of euill. Enchanters haue me persecu­ted: Enchanters me persecute: and Enchanters will mee perse­cute, till they cast me and my lofty Chiualry, into the profound Abisme of forgetfulnesse, and there they hurt and wound mee, where they see I haue 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 haue I sayd, and now I say againe, that a Knight Errant without a Mistris, is like a tree without leaues, 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 giue 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 neuer 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 haue 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 fantasticall, or not: and these be matters, whose iustifying must not be so far searcht into. Neither haue 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; graue, without pride; amorous, but honest; thankfull, as courteous; courteous, as well-bred: And finally, of high descent; by reason that beauty shines and marcheth vpon her noble bloud, in more degrees of perfection, then in meane-borne beauties.

Tis true (sayd the Duke:) but Don Quixote must giue mee leaue, 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 the highest degree, as you describe her, yet in her highnesse of birth shee is not equall to your Names of fained Ladies in bookes of Knight-hood. Oriana's, your Alastraxarea's, or your Madasima's, [Page 215] with others of this kinde, of which your Histories are full, as you well know. To this I answer you (quoth Don Quixote) Dulcinea is vertuous, and Vertue addes to Linage, and one that is meane and vertuous, ought to be more esteemed, then another noble and vicious: besides, Dulcinea hath one shred that may make her Queene with Crowne and Scepter: for the merit of a faire and vertuous woman, extends to doe greater miracles, and although not formally, yet vertually shee hath greater fortunes layd vp 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 beleeue, and make all in my house beleeue, and my Lord the Duke too, if neede be, that there is a Dulcinea in Tobo­so, and that at this day she liues, that she is faire, and well-borne, and deserues that such a Knight, as Don Quixote, should serue her, which is the most I can, or know how to endeere her. But yet I haue 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) winnowing 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 vnscrutable will of the Destinies, or by the ma­lice of some enuious Enchanter, and as it is euident, that all, or the most of your famous Knights Errant, one hath the fauor not to be inchanted; another, to haue his flesh so impenetrable, that he cannot be wounded, as the famous Roldan, one of the twelue Peeres of France, of whom it was sayd, that hee could not bee wounded, but vpon 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; so that when Bernardo del Carpio did kill him in Roncesualles, seeing he could not wound him with his sword, he lifted him in his armes from ground, and stifled him, as minde­full [Page 216] of the death that Hercules gaue Anteon, that horrid Gyant, that was sayd to be the sonne of the earth. From all this I infer, that it might be I might haue had some of these fauours, as not to be wounded; for many times, experience hath taught mee, that my flesh is soft and penetrable, or that I might haue the power not to be enchanted; but yet I haue seene 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 beleeue that no other can hinder me: So that these Enchanters, who see, that vpon me they cannot vse their sleights, they re­uenge themselues vpon the things I most affect, and meane to kill me, by ill-intreating Dulcinea, by whom I liue: and so I be­leeue, that when my Squire carried my Ambassage, they turned her into a Pesant, to bee imployed 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 neuer finde Dulcinea's Palace; and Sancho, my Squire, hauing seene 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 Discretion of the world: And since I am not enchanted, neither can I be in all likely-hood, she is she that is enchanted, greeued, turned, chop­ped and changed, and my enemies haue reuenged themselues on me in her, and for her I must liue in perpetuall sorrow, till shee come to her pristine being.

All this haue I spoken, that no body may stand vpon what Sancho sayd, of that sifting and winnowing of hers: for since to me she was changed, no maruell though for him shee were ex­changed. Dulcined is nobly borne, & of the best bloud in Toboso, of which, I warrant, she hath no small part in her: & for her, that towne shall be famous in after-ages, as Troy for Helen, and Spaine for Daughter to an Earle, that betrayed Spaine to the Moores. Vide Marian. Hist. de Reb. Hisp. Caua, though with more honour and reputation: On the other side, I would haue your Lordships know, that Sancho Pansa is one of the prettiest Squires that euer serued Knight Er­rant: sometimes he hath such sharpe simplicities, that to thinke whether he be Foole or Kuaue, causeth no sinall content: hee [Page 217] hath malice enough to be a Knaue; but more ignorance to bee thought a foole; hee doubts of euery thing, and yet beleeues all: when I thinke sometimes hee will tumble headlong to the foot, hee comes out with some kinde of discretion that lifts him to the clouds.

Finally, I would not change him for any other Squire, though I might haue a City to boot; therefore I doubt, whether it bee good to send him to the Gouernment, that your Greatnesse hath bestowed on him, though I see in him a certaine sitnesse for this you call gouerning; for, trimming his vnderstanding but a very little, hee would proceede with his gouernment, as well as the King with his customes: besides, wee know by experience, that a Gouernour needes not much learning, or other abilities: for you haue a hundred, that scarce can read a word, and yet they gouerne like Ier-Falcons: the businesse is, that their meaning be good, and to hit the matter aright they vndertake; for they shall not want Counsellours, to teach them what they shall doe, as your Gouernours that be Sword-men, and not Schollers, that haue their Assistants to direct them. My counsell should bee to him: That neither bribe he take, nor his due forsake, and some other such toyes as these, that I haue within mee, and shall bee declared at fit time to Sancho's profit, and the Ilands which hee shall gouerne.

To this poynt of their discourse came the Duke, Duchesse, and Don Quixote, when straight they heard a great noise of peo­ple in the Palace: and Sancho came in, into the Hall, vnlookt 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, & one came with a little kneading tub with water, that seemed, by the colour and sluttishnesse, to bee dish-water, who followed and persecuted Sancho, and sought by all meanes to ioyne the vessell to his chinne, and another would haue washed him.

What's the matter, Hoe (quoth the Duchesse?) Wh [...] yee to this honest man? What? doe yee not know [...] uernour-Elect? To which the Barber-Scullion rep [...] Gentle-man will not suffer himselfe to bee washed, acco [...] [Page 218] the custome, as my Lord the Duke, and his Master were. Yes marry will I (sayd Sancho) in a great huffe: but I would haue cleaner towels, and cleerer sudds, and not so sluttish hands; for there is no such difference betweene my Master and mee, that they should wash him with rose-water, and me with the Deuils lie: the customes of great mens Palaces are so much the better, by how little trouble they cause: but your Lauatory custome heere, is worse then Penitentiaries, my beard is cleane, and I neede no such refreshing; and hee that comes to wash mee, or touch a haire of my head (of my beard, I say) sir-reuerence of the company, Ile giue him such a boxe, that Ile set my fist in his skull; for these kinde of ceremonies and soape-layings, are rather flouts, then entertainers of ghests.

The Duchesse was ready to die with laughter, to see Sancho's choller, and to heare his reasons; but Don Quixote was not very well pleased to see him so ill dressed with his iasperd to well, and hemmed in by so many of the Kitchin Pensioners; so making a low legge to the Dukes, as if he intended to speake, with a graue voyce he spoke to the skoundrels:

Harke, ye Gentlemen, pray let the Youth alone, and get you gone as ye came, if you please, for my Squire is as cleanly as a­nother, and these troughs are as straight and close for him, as your little red clay drinking cups: take my counsaile and leaue him, for neither he nor I can abide iests. Sancho caught his words out of his mouth, and went on, saying; No, let vm come to make sport with the setting dogge, and Ile let vm alone, as sure as it is now night; let vm bring a comb hither, or what they wil, and curry my beard, and if they finde any thing foule in it, let vm sheare me to fitters. Then quoth the Duchesse (vnable to leaue laughing) Sancho sayes well, he is cleane, as he sayes, and needes no washing: and if our custome please him not, let him take his choyce, besides, you ministers of cleanlinesse haue beene very slacke and carelesse, I know not whether I may say, pre­sumptuous, to bring to such a personage and such a beard, in stead of a Bason & Ewre of pure gold, and Diaper towels, your kneading-troughes and dish-clouts; but you are vnmannerly raskals, and like wicked wretches must needs shew the grudge [Page 219] you beare to the Squires of Knights Errant.

The raskall regiment, together with the Caruer that came with them, thought verily the Duchesse was in earnest: so they tooke the siue-cloth from Sancho's necke, & euen ashamed went their waies, and left him, who seeing himselfe out of that (as he thought) great danger, kneeled before the Duchesse, saying, From great Ladies, great fauors are still expected, this that your worship hath now done me, cannot be recompenced with lesse, then to desire to see my self an armed Knight Errant, to employ my selfe all daies of my life in the seruice of so high a Lady. I am a poor Husbandman, my name is Sancho Pansa, children I haue, and serue as a Squire, if in any of these I may serue your Great­nesse, I will be swifter in obeying, then your Ladiship in com­manding.

Tis well seene, Sancho, quoth the Duchesse, that you haue learnt to be courteous in the very schoole of courtesie: I meane, it seemes well, that you haue been nursed at Don Quixote's brest, who is the Creame of complement, and the flower of ceremo­nies: well fare such a Master, and such a Seruant; the one for North-starre of Knight Errantry, the other for the Starre of Squire-like fidelitie: Rise, friend Sancho, for I will repay your courtesie, in making my Lord the Duke as soone as he can, per­forme the promise he hath made you, of being Gouernor of the Iland.

With this, their discourse ceased, and Don Quixote went to his after-noones sleepe, and the Duchesse desired Sancho, that if he were not very sleepie, hee would passe the afternoone vvith her and her Damozels in a coole roome. Sancho answered, that though true it were, that he was vsed in the afternoones to take a some fiue houres nappe, yet to doe her goodnesse seruice, hee would do what he could, not to take any that day, and would o­bey her command: so he parted.

The Duke gaue fresh order for Don Quixote's vsage, to be like a Knight Errant, without differing a iot from the ancient stile of those Knights.

CHAP. XXXIII.

WEll the Storie tells vs, that Sancho slept not that day, but according to his promise, came, when he had di­ned, to see the Duchesse, who for the delight shee re­ceiued to heare him, made him sit downe by her in a low chaire, though Sancho, out of pure mannerlinesse would not [...]t: but the Duchesse bade him sit as he was Gouernour, and speake as hee was Squire, though in both respects he deserued the very seate of Cid Ruydiaz the Champion.

Sancho The Spani­ards lowsie humility. shrunke vp 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, & that no body heares vs, I would, Signior Gouernor would resolue me of certaine doubts I haue, arising from the printed History of the Graund Don Quixote, one of which is, that since honest Sancho neuer saw Dulcinea, I say, the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, neither carried her Don Quixotes letter for it remained in the note-booke in Sierra Mo­rena, how he durst feigne the answer, and that he found her sif­ting of wheat; this being a mocke and a lye, and so preiudiciall to the Lady Dulcinea's reputation, and so vnbefitting the con­dition and fidelity of a faithfull Squire.

Here Sancho rose without answering a word, & softly croo­king his body, and with his finger vpon his lippes, he went vp and downe the roome, lifting vp the hangings: which done, he came and sate downe againe and said, Now I see, Madam that nobody lies in wait to heare vs, besides the by-standers, I will answer you without feare or fright, all that you haue asked, and all that you will aske mee And first of all I say, that I hold my Master Don Quixote, for an incureable Madde-man, though [Page 221] sometimes he speakes things, that, in my opinion, and so in all theirs that heare him, are so discreet, and carried in so euen a tracke, that the Deuill himselfe cannot speake better; but truely and without scruple, I take him to be a very Franticke; for so I haue it in my mazard, I dare make him beleeue 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 beleeue she is enchanted, it being as true, as the Moone is made of greene cheese.

The Duchesse desired him to tell her that Enchantment and conceit: which he did, iust as it passed: at which the hearers were not a little delighted. And prosecuting her discourse, the Du­chesse sayd, I haue one scruple leapes in my minde, touching what Sancho hath told mee, and a certaine buzze comming to mine eares, that tels me; If Don Quixote de la Mancha be such a shallow mad-man and Widgin, and Sancho Pansa his Squire know it; yet why for all that, he serues and followes him, and relies on his vaine promises; doubtlesse, hee is as very a Mad-man and Block-head, as his Master, which being so as it is, it will bee very vnfitting for my Lord the Duke, to giue Sancho an Iland to gouerne; for hee that cannot gouerne himselfe, will ill gouerne others.

By'r Lady (quoth Sancho) that scruple comes in pudding-time: but bid your Buzze speake plaine, or how hee will; for I know he sayes true; and if I had beene wise, I might long since haue left my Master: but twas my lucke, and this vilde Errantry, I cannot doe withall, I must follow him, wee are both of one place, I haue eaten his bread, I loue him well, he is thankfull, hee gaue me the Asse-colts, and aboue all, I am faithfull, and it is im­possible any chance should part vs, but death: and if your Alti­tude will not bestow the Gouernment 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 vnderstand the Prouerbe that sayes, The Ant had wings to doe her hurt, and it may bee, Sancho the Squire may sooner goe to Heauen, then Sancho the Gouernour. Heere is as good bread made, as in France; and in [Page 222] the night Iono is as good as my Lady; and vnhappy 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, haue God for their Prouider and Cater; and foure yards of course Cuenca cloth, keepe a man as warme, as foure of fine Their Lem­ster breed came first out of England. Lemster wooll of Segouia; and when wee once leaue this world, and are put into the earth, the Prince goes in as narrow a path as the Iourney-man; and the Popes body takes vp no more roome then a Sextons, though the one be higher then the other; for when we come to the pit, all are euen, or made so in spite of their teethes, and good-night.

Let mee say againe, If your Lady-ship will not giue mee the Iland, as I am a foole, Ile refuse it, for being a wise-man: for I haue 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 beleeue the rimes of the old Romants, that lye not.)

Why, no more they doe not (sayd Donna Rodriguez, the Wayting-woman, that was one of the Auditours) for you haue one Romant that sayes, that Don Rodrigo was put aliue 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 me in the place where I sinned most: and according to this, this man hath reason to say, he had rather be a Labourer then a King, to bee eaten to death with vermine.

The Duchesse could not forbeare laughing, to see the simpli­city of her woman, nor to admire to heare Sancho's prouerbiall reasons, to whom she sayd; Honest Sancho knowes, that when a Gentle-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 enuy or the worlds ma­lice. Be of good cheere, Sancho; for when thou least dreamest [Page 223] of it, thou shalt be seated in the Chayre of thy Iland, & of Estate, and shalt claspe thy Gouernment in thy robes of Tissue. All that I charge thee, is, that you looke to the gouerning your Vassalls, for you must know, they are all well-borne and loyall.

For gouerning (quoth Sancho) there's no charging mee; for I am naturally charitable and compassionate to the poore, 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, & vnderstand 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 vvhere my shoo wrings me: this I say, because honest men shall haue hand and heart, but wicked men neyther foot nor fellowship. And me-thinkes for matter of Gouernment, there is no more but to begin, and in fifteene daies Gouernour, I could manage the place, and know as well to gouerne, as to labour, in which I was bredde. You haue 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 then assured, that that imagination that Sancho had to put a tricke vpon his Ma­ster, and to make him thinke the Country wench was Dulcinea, that if his Master knew her not, all was inuented by some of those Enchanters that persecute Signior Don Quixote; for I know partly, that that Country wench that leapt vpon the Asse­colt, was, and is Dulcinea, and Sancho thinking to be the decei­uer, is himselfe deceiued; and there is no more to be doubted in this, then in things that we neuer saw: and know, Sancho, that here we haue our Enchanters too, that loue, and tell vs plainely and truly, what passeth in the world, without trickes or deui­ces; and beleeue 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 deceiued.

All this may be (quoth Sancho) and now will I beleeue all that my Master told me of Montesino's Caue, where he said he saw our Mistresse Dulcinea, in the same apparell and habit, that I said I had seene her in, when I enchanted her at my pleasure; [Page 224] and it may be, Madam, all is contrary (as you say) for from my rude witte, it could not be presumed that I should in an instant make such a witty lye; neyther doe I beleeue that my Master is so madde, that with so poore & weake a perswasion as mine, he should beleeue a thing so incredible: but for all that, good La­dy, doe not thinke me to be so maleuolent, for such a Leeke as I am, is not bound to boare into the thoughts and maliciousnesse 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 aboue that iudgeth all harts. Tis true, said the Duchesse, but tell me, Sancho, what is that you said of Montesinos Caue? I should be glad to heare it. Then Sancho be­gan to tell word for word, all that passed in that Aduenture. Which when the Duchesse heard, shee said, Out of this successe may be inferred, that since the Grand Don Quixote sayes that he saw there the same labouring wench that Sancho saw at their comming from Toboso, without doubt it is Dulcinea, and that in this the Enchanters heere are very listning and wary. This I said (quoth Sancho) that if my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso be en­chanted, at her peril bee it, for Ile haue nothing to doe with my Masters Enemies, who are many, and bad ones. True it is, that she that I saw was a Country wench, & so I held her, & so I iud­ged her to be; & if that were Dulcinea, Ile not meddle with her, neyther shall the Blowze passe vpon my account. I, I, let's haue giuing & taking euery foot. Sancho said it, Sancho did it, Sancho turned, Sancho return'd, as if Sancho were a dish-clout, & not the same Sancho Pansa that is now in Print all the world ouer, as Samson Carrasco told mee, who at least is one that is Bachelori­zed 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 haue a good report, and as I haue heard my Master say, Better haue an honest name then much wealth. Let vm ioyne mee to this Gouernment, and they shall see wonders: for hee that hath beene a good Squire, will easily be a good Gouernour.

Whatsoeuer Sancho hitherto hath said (quoth the Duchesse) is Catonian sentences, or at least taken out of the very entrailes [Page 225] of Michael Verinus, Florentibus occidit annis. Well, well, to speake as thou dost, a badde cloake often hides a good drinker. Truly Madam, said Sancho, I neuer drunke excessiuely in my life, to quench my thirst sometimes I haue, for I am no hypo­crite, I drinke when I am dry, and when I am vrged too, for I loue not to be nice or vnmannerly; 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 trauell by Forrests, Woods, Medowes, Mountaines, cragy Rockes, and meete not with a pittance of wine, though they would giue an eye for it.

I beleeue it, said the Duchesse, and now, Sancho, thou maist repose thy selfe, and after we will talke at large, and giue order how thou maist be ioyned, as thou saist, to the Gouernment.

Sancho againe gaue the Duchesse thankes, but desired her she would doe him the kindnesse, that his Dapple might bee vvell lookt to. What Dapple (quoth shee?) My Asse (said Sancho) for not to call him so, I say my Dapple: and when I came into the Castle, I desired this waiting woman to haue a care on him, and she grew so loud with me, as if I called her vgly or old, for I held it fitter for them to prouender Asses, then to authorize Roomes: Lord God, a Gentleman of my towne could not en­dure these waiting women. Some Pesant, quoth Donna Rodri­guez the waiting woman; for if he had beene a Gentleman, and well bredde, hee would haue extolled them aboue 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 vpon those Apples of your Greatnesse 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 Gouernment, [Page 226] for there thou maist cherish him at thy pleasure, and manumit him from his labour. Doe not thinke you haue spoken iesting­ly, Lady Duchesse, (quoth Sancho) for I haue seene more then two Asses goe to Gouernments, and 'twould be no nouelty 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 gaue order, to put a iest vpon 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 Aduentures of this Grand History.

CHAP. XXXIV.

GReat was the pleasure the Duke and Duchesse receiued with Don Quixote and Sancho Pansa's conuersation, and they resolued to play some trickes with them, that might carry some twi-lights and appearances of Aduentures. They tooke for a Motiue that which Don Quixote had told vnto them of Montesinos Caue, because they would haue it a famous one: but that which the Duchesse most admired at, was, that Sancho's simplicity should be so great, that he should beleeue for an infal­lible truth, that Dulcinea was enchanted, hee himselfe hauing beene the Enchanter, and the Impostor of that businesse: So giuing order to their seruants for all they would haue 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 gaue 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 [Page 227] againe to the hard exercise of Armes, and that therfore he could carry no Wardrobes or Sumpters. But Sancho tooke his, mea­ning to sell it with the first occasion offered.

The wisht for-day being come, Don Quixote armed him­selfe, and Sancho clad himselfe, and vpon his Dapple, (for hee would not leaue him, though they had giuen him a horse) thrust himselfe amongst the troope of the Wood men. The Duchesse was brauely attired, and Don Quixote out of pure courtesie and manners, tooke the reines of her Palfrey, though the Duke would not consent: at last they came to a wood that was be­tweene two high mountaines, where taking their stands, their lanes and paths, and the hunters deuided into seuerall stands, the chase began with great noyse, hooting and hollowing, so that one could scarce heare another, as well for the cry of the dogges, as for the sound of the Hornes. The Duchesse alighted, and with a sharpe Iauelin in her hand, shee tooke a stand, by which she knew some wilde Boares were vsed 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 leaue, lest some ill chance should befall him, and they had scarce lighted, and set themselues in order with some seruants, when they saw there came a huge Boare by them, baited vvith the dogges, and followed by the hunters, gnashing his teeth & 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 Iaue­lin; but the Duchesse would haue 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 strining to get vp into a high Oake, it was not possible for him, but being euen in the middest of it, fastned to a bough, and striuing to get to the toppe, he was so vnlucky and vnfortunate, that the bough broke, and as he was tumbling to the ground, he hung in the ayre fastned to a suagge of the Oake, vnable to come to the ground, and seeing himselfe in that perplexity, and that his greene coat was torne, and thinking, that if that vvilde beast should come thither, he might lay hold on him, he began [Page 228] to cry out and call for helpe so outragiously, that all that heard him, and saw him not, thought verily some wilde beast was de­uouring him.

Finally, the Tuskie Boare was laid along, with many iauelins points, and Don Quixote turning aside to Sancho's noyse, that knew him by his note, he saw him hanging on the Oake, and his head downward, and Dapple close by him, that neuer left him in all his calamity, and Cid Hamete sayes, that hee seldome saw Sancho without Dapple, or Dapple without Sancho, such was the loue and friendship betwixt the couple.

Don Quixote went and vnhung Sancho, who seeing himselfe free, and on the ground, beheld the torne place of his hunting sute, and it grieued him to the soule, for hee thought hee had of that sute at least an inheritance. And now they layed the Boare athwart vpon a great Mule, and couering him with Rose­mary bushes, and Myrtle boughes, he was carried in signe of their victorious spoiles, to a great field-Tent, that was set vp in the midst of the wood, where the Tables were set in or­der, and a dinner made ready, so plentifull and well drest, that it well shewed the bounty and magnificence of him that gaue it.

Sancho, shewing the wounds of his torn garment to the Du­chesse, said, If this had beene hunting of the Hare, my coate had not seene 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 haue often heard an olde song, that sayes, Of the Beares maist thou be eat; as was Fauila the great. He was a Gothish King (quoth Don Quixote) that going a hun­ting in the mountaines, a Beare eate him. This I say (said Sancho) I would not that Kings and Princes should thrust themselues into such dangers, to enioy their pleasure; for what pleasure can there be to kill a beast that hath committed no fault?

You are in the vvrong, 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 Warre, vvhere there be stratagems, crafts, deceits, to ouercome the enemy at plea­sure; [Page 229] in it you haue 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 vsed vvithout preiudice to any body, and to the pleasure of euery body, and the best of it is, that it is not common, as o­ther kindes of sports are, except flying at the fowle, onely fit for Kings and Princes. Therefore (Sancho) change thy opini­on, and when thou art a Gouernour, follow the chase, and thou shalt be a hundred times the better.

Not so, quoth Sancho, tis better for your Gouernour, to haue his legges broken, and be at home: twere very good that poore suiters should come and seeke him, and hee should be ta­king his pleasure in the woods: 'twould bee a sweet Gouern­ment yfaith. Good saith sir, the Chase and Pastimes are rather for idle companions then Gouernours: 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 seuerall 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, vvithout doubt I shall gouerne as well as a Ier-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 haue often told thee) speake a wise speech, without a Prouerbe? My Lords, I beseech you leaue this: Dunce, for he will grinde your very soules, not with his two, but his two thousand Prouerbs, so seasonable, as such be his health or mine, if I hearken to them.

Sancho's Prouerbs (quoth the Duchesse) although they bee more then Mallaras, yet they are not lesse to be esteemed then his, for their sententious breuity. For my part, they more delight mee then others, that bee farre better, and more fit­ting.

With these & such like sauoury 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 light and calme as the time of the yeere required, it being about Mid-summer: but a certaine dismalnesse it had, agreeing much with the Dukes in­tention, and so as it grew to be quite dark, it seemed that vpon a sudden, all the wood was on fire, thorow euery part of it, and there were heard heere and there, this way and that way, an in­finite company of Cornets, and other warlike instruments, and many troopes of horse that passed thorow the wood; the light of the fire, and the sound of the warlike instruments, did as it were blinde, and stunned the eyes and eares of the by-standers, and of all those that were in the wood. Straight they heard a company of L [...], Lik [...] [...]e cries of the wilde Irish. Moorish cryes, such as they vse when they ioyne battell, Drums and Trumpets sounded, and Fifes, all, as it were, in an instant, and so fast, that he that had had his sences, might haue lost them, with the confused sound of these instruments.

The Duke was astonisht, the Duchesse dismayd, Don Qui­xote wondred, Sancho trembled: And finally, euen they that knew the occasion, were frighted: their feare caused a generall silence, and a Post in a Deuils weede passed before them, soun­ding, in stead of a Cornet, a huge hollow Horne, that made a hoarce and terrible noyse. Harke you, Post, quoth the Duke, What are you? Whither goe you? And what men of warre are they that crosse ouer the wood? To which the Post answered, with a horrible and free voyce; I am the Deuill, I goe to seeke Don Quixote de la Mancha, and they which come heere, are six troopes of Enchanters, that bring the peerelesse Dulcinea del To­boso vpon a triumphant Chariot, she comes here enchanted with the braue French man Montesinos, to giue order to Don Qui­xote, how she may be dis-enchanted.

If thou wert a Deuill, as thou sayest (quoth the Duke) and as thy shape shewes thee to bee, thou wouldst haue knowne that Knight Don Quixote de la Mancha: for hee is heere before thee. In my soule and conscience (quoth the Deuill) I thought not on it; for I am so diuerted with my seuerall cogitations, that I quite forgot the chiefe, for which I came for. Certainely (sayd San­cho) [Page 231] this Deuill is an honest fellow, and a good Christian; for if he were not, he would not haue sworne by his soule and consci­ence: And now I beleeue, that in Hell you haue honest men. Straight the Deuill, without lighting, directing his sight toward Don Quixote, sayd; The vnlucky, but valiant Knight Montesi­nos, sends mee to thee, O Knight of the Lyons (for mee thinkes now I see thee in their pawes) commanding mee to tell thee from him, that thou expect him heere, where he will meet thee; for he hath with him Dulcinea del Toboso, and meanes to giue thee instruction, how thou shalt dis-enchant her; & now I haue done my message, I must away, and the Deuils (like me) be with thee: and good Angels guard the rest. And this sayd, he winds his monstrous Horne, 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, Dulcinea must bee enchanted: Don Quixote, to thinke whether that were true that befell him in Montesino's Caue, and being eleuated 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 vndanted, though all the Deuils in Hell should close with mee. Well (quoth Sancho) if I heare another Deuill and another Horne, I'le stay in Flanders as much as heere.

Now it grew darker, and they might perceiue many lights vp and downe the wood, like the dry exhalations of the earth in the skie, that seeme to vs to be shooting-stars: besides, there was a terrible noyse heard, iust like that of your creaking wheeles of Oxe-waines, from whose piercing squeake (they say) Beares and Wolues 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 encounters 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.

Lastly, the Trumpets, Cornets, & Hornes, Drums, Canons, [Page 232] and Guns, and aboue all, the fearefull noyse of the Carts, all to­gether made a most confused & horrid sound, which tried Don Quixotes vttermost courage, to suffer it: but Sancho was quite gone, and fell in a swound vpon the Duchesses coats, who recei­ued him, & commanded they should cast cold water in his face; which done, he came to himselfe, iust as one of the Carts of those whistling wheeles came to the place, foure lazie Oxen drew it, couered with blacke clothes; at euery horne they had a lighted Torch tyed, and on the top of the Cart there was a high seat made, vpon 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 seene: two vgly spirits guided it, clad in the said bucko­ram, so monstrous, that Sancho, after hee had seene them, win­ked, because he would see vm no more: when the Cart drew neere to their standing, the venerable olde man rose from his seat, and standing vp with a loud voyce, sayd; I am the 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 inthronized; who making the Cart stay, with a voyce no lesse lofty then the other, sayd; I am the wise Al­quife, great friend to the vngratefull 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-fauoured, who when hee came neere, rose vp, as the rest; but with a voyce more hoarce and diuellish sayd; I am Archelaus the Enchanter, mortall enemy to Amadis de Gaulo, 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 consenting sound of well-for­med musike, which comforted Sancho, and hee held it for a good signe, and hee sayd thus to the Duchesse, from whom hee stirred not a foot, not a iot.

Madam, where there is musike, there can bee no ill. Neither [Page 233] (quoth the Duchesse) where there is light and brightnesse. To which (sayd Sancho) the fire giues light, and your bon-fires (as wee see) and perhaps might burne vs: but musike is alwayes a signe of feasting and iollity. You shall see that (quoth Don Quixote) for he heard all, and he sayd well, as you shall see in the next chapter.

CHAP. XXXV.

WHen the delightfull musike was ended, they might see one of those you call triumphant chariots come towards them, drawne by six dun Mules, but coue­red with white linnen, and vpon each of them came a Penitenti­ary with a Torch, clothed likewise all in white: the Cart was twice or thrice as big as the three former, and at the top and sides of it, were twelue other Penitentiaries, as white as snow, all with their torches lighted, a sight that admired and astonisht ioyntly: and in a high throne sate a Nymph, clad in a vaile of cloth of siluer, a world of golden spangles glimmering about her, her face was couered 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 vnder seuenteene: Next her came a shape, clad in a gowne of those you call Side-garments, downe to her foot, her head was couered with a blacke vayle: but euen as the Cart came to bee iust ouer-against the Dukes and Don Quixote, the musike of the Hoboyes cea­sed, and the Harps and Lutes that came in the Cart began, and the gowned shape rising vp, vnfolding her garment on both sides, and taking her vaile off from her head, shee [Page 234] discouered plainely the picture of raw-boned Death, at which Don Quixote was troubled, and Sancho afrayd, and the Dukes made shew of some timorous resenting. This liue Death stan­ding vp, with a drowzie voice, and a tongue not much waking, began in this manner:

By Gad (quoth Sancho) I say not three thousand; but I will as soone giue my selfe three stabs, as three; the Deuill take this kinde of dis-enchanting. What haue my buttocks to doe with Enchantments? Verily, if Master Merlin haue found no other meanes to dis-enchant the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, shee may goe enchanted to her graue.

Good-man Rascall (quoth Don Quixote) you Garlicke slin­kard; 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 Ile giue 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, Ile teare out thy very soule.

Which when Merlin heard, quoth he, It must not be so, for the stripes that honest Sancho must receiue, 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 receiue it from anothers hand that may lay it on well.

No other, nor laying on (quoth Sancho) no hand shall come neere mee: am I Dulcinea del Toboso's Mother trow ye? that my buttocks should pay for the offence of her eyes? My Ma­ster indeed, he is a part of her, since euery stitch while, hee calls her, My life, my soule, my sustenance, my prop; he may bee whipped for her, and doe all that is fitting for her dis-enchan­ting, but for me to whip my selfe, I Mistaken in stead of re­nounce, for so it goes in the Spanish. bernounce.

Sancho scarce ended his speech, when the siluer Nymph that came next to Merlius Ghost, taking off her thin vaile, she disco­uered her face, which seemed vnto al to be extraordinary faire, & with a manly grace, and voice not very amiable, directing her speech to Sancho, she said, Oh thou vnhappy Squire, soul of lead, & heart of corke, and entrailes 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 & sharpe Scimitar: no maruel though thou shouldst shew thy selfe nice and squeamish? but to make [...]redge [...] doe for three thousand and three hundred lashes (since the poo­rest schoole-boy that is, hath them euery 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 skittist. [Page 237] Moyles eyes, vpon the bals of mine, compared to shining stars, and thou shalt see them weep drop after drop, making furrowes, careeres and paths, vpon the faire fields of my cheekes. Let it mooue thee, knauish and vnto ward Monster, that my flourishing age (which is yet but in it's ten, and some yeeres; for I am nine­teene, and not yet twenty) doth consume and wither vnder the barke of a rusticke Labourer: and if now I seeme not so to thee, tis a particular fauour 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 cotton, and Tygres into Lambes: Lash, lash that thicke flesh of thine, vn­tamed beast, and rowze vp 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 condition, 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 trauersed 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 trauersed in my throte, like the nocke of a crosse­bow. What say you to this, Sancho, quoth the Duchesse? I say what I haue 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 haue, doe so trouble mee, that I know not what [...] 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 Deuill 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, [Page 238] to soften me with? onely some kinde of railing or other, know­ing that the vsuall prouerbe is, An Asse laden with gold, will go lightly vp hill; and that Gifts doe enter stone-wals; and Serue God, & 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, & 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, & therefore these compassionate Gentles should consider, that they doe not onely wish a Squire to whip himselfe, but a Gouernour also, as if it were no more, but drinke to your Cher­ries, let vm learne, let vm learne with a pox, to know how to aske, and to demand; for all times are not alike, and men are not alwayes in a good humor: I am now ready 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. Caciques, are great Lords amongst the West-Indians.

By my faith, Sancho (quoth the Duke) if you doe not make your selfe as soft as a ripe fig, you finger not the Gouernment. Twere good indeede, that I should send a cruell flinty-hearted Gouernour amongst my Ilanders, that 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 Go­uernour.

Sir (quoth Sancho) may I not haue 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 Caue, & to her pristine being of a Coun­try-wench, or as she 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 loue for your Masters bread that you haue eaten, to whom all of vs are indebted for his pleasing condition, and his high Chiualry. Say I, sonne, to this whipping-cheere, and hang the Deuill, 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 Deuill Post [Page 239] passed by heere, and deliuered his message to my Master from Signior Montesinos, bidding him from him hee should expect him heere, because he came to giue order, that my Lady Dulci­nea should be dis-enchanted, where is he, that hitherto wee haue neither seene Montesinos, or any such thing?

To which, said Merlin, Friend Sancho; The Deuill is an Asse, and an arrant Knaue, I sent him in quest of your Master: but not with any message from Montesinos, but from me, for he is still in his Caue, plotting, or to say truer, expecting his dis-enchantment, for yet he wants something toward it; and if hee owe thee ought, or thou haue any thing to doe with him, Ile bring him thee, and set him where thou wilt: and therefore now make an end, and yeeld to his disciplining, and beleeue 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? euen the very Enchanters are Physicians. Well, since euery body tells me so, that it is good (yet I cannot thinke so) I am content to giue my selfe three thousand & three hundred la­shes, on condition that I may bee giuing of them as long as I please, and I will be out of debt as soone as tis possible, that the world may enioy 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 haue 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 iust 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 deceiue any bo­dy in so much as a haires breadth.

Well (quoth Sancho) a Gods name bee it, I yeeld to my [Page 240] 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, & Don Quixote hung about Sancho's necke, kissing his cheekes and forehead a thousand times. The Duke, the Duchesse, and all the by-stan­ders, were wonderfully delighted, and the Cart began to go on, and passing by, the faire Dulcinea inclined her head to the Dukes, and made a low courtsie to Sancho, and by this the mer­ry morne came on apace, and the flowers of the field began to bloome and rise vp, and the liquid Cristall of the brookes, mur­muring thorow the gray pebbles, went to giue tribute to the Riuers, that expected them, the sky was cleere, and the ayre wholesome, 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, & to haue ob­tained their purpose so discreetly and happily, they returned to their Castle, with an intention to second their ieast; for to them there was no earnest could giue them more content.

CHAP. XXXVI.

THe Duke had a Steward of a very pleasant and concei­ted witte, who played Merlins part, and contriued the whole furniture for the passed Aduenture, he it was that made the verses, and that a Page should act Dulcinea. Finally, by his Lords leaue, he plotted another piece of worke, the plea­santest and strangest that may be imagined.

The Duchesse asked Sancho the next day, if he had yet begun his taske of the penance, for the dis-enchanting of Dulcinea; he told her, yes: and that as that night, he had giuen himselfe fiue [Page 241] lashes. The Duchesse asked him, With what? hee answered, with his hand. Those (quoth the Duchesse) are rather claps then lashes: I am of opinion that the sage Merlin will not accept of this softnesse, 'twere fitter that Sancho tooke the discipline of rowels or bullets with prickles, that may smart, for the businesse will be effected with bloud, and the liberty of so great a Lady will not be wrought so slightly, or with so small a price; and know, Sancho, that works of charity are not to be done so slow and lazily, for they will merit nothing.

To which Sancho replied, Giue me, Madam, a conuenient lash of some bough, and I will lash my selfe, that it may not smart too much; for let me tell your Worship this, that though I am a Clowne, yet my flesh is rather Cotton then Mattresse, and there's no reason I should kill my selfe for anothers good. You say well (quoth the Duchesse) to morrow Ile giue you a whip that shall fit you, and agree with the tendernesse of your flesh, as if it were a kinne to them. To which (quoth Sancho) Lady of my soule, I beseech you know, that I haue written a letter to my wife Teresa Pansa, letting her know all that hath hapned to me since I parted from her; heere I haue it in my bosome, and it wants nothing but the superscription: I would your discretion would read it, for mee thinkes it goes fitte for a Gouernour, I meane, in the same stile that Gouernours should write. And who penned it, said the Duchesse? Who should, said he, Sinner that I am, but I my selfe? And did you write it (quoth shee)? Nothing lesse (said he) for I can neither write nor read, though I can set to my firme. Let's see your letter, quoth the Duchesse, for I warrant, thou shewest the ability and sufficiency of thy wit in it. Sancho drew the Letter open out of his bosome, and the Duchesse taking it of him, read the Contents, as followeth.

When the Duchesse had made an end of reading the Letter, she said to Sancho; in two things the good Gouernour is out of the way: the one, In saying or publishing, that this Gouernment hath beene giuen him for the lashes hee must giue himselfe, hee knowing, for hee cannot deny it that when my Lord the Duke promised it him, there was no dreaming in the world of lashes: The other is, that he shewes himselfe in it very couetous, and I would not haue it so preiudiciall to him; for Couetousnesse is the root of all euill, and the couetous Gouernour does vngo­uerned Iustice. I had no such meaning, Madam (quoth Sancho) and if your Worship think the Letter be not written as it should be, let it be torne, and weele haue a new, and perhaps it may be worse, if it be left to my noddle. No, no, (quoth the Duchesse) 'tis well enough, and Ile haue the Duke see it. So they went to a garden where they were to dine that day: the Duchesse shewd Sancho's Letter to the Duke, which gaue him great content. They dined, and when the cloth was taken away, and that they had entertained themselues a pretty while with Sancho's sauou­ry conuersation, vpon a sodaine they heard a dolefull sound of a Flute, and of a hoarce and vntuned Drum; all of them were in some amazement, at this confused, martiall, and sad harmony, especially Don Quixote, who was so troubled, he could not sit still in his seat; for Sancho there is no more to be said, but that feare carried him to his accustomed refuge, which was the Du­chesses side or her lap; for in good earnest, the sound they heard was most sad and melancholy. And all of them being in this maze, they might see two men come in before them into the Garden, clad in mourning weeds, so long that they dragged to the ground, these came beating of two Drums, couered likewise with blacke: with them came the Fife, blacke and besmeared as well as the rest. After these there followed a personage of a Gy­antly body, bemantled, and not clad in a cole-blacke Cassocke, whose skirt was extraordinarily long, his Cassocke likewise was girt with a broad blacke belt, at which there hung an vnmeasu­rable Scimitar with hilts and scabberd; vpon his face hee vvore a transparent blacke vaile, thorow which they might see a huge long beard as white as snow. His pace was very graue and stay­ed, [Page 244] according to the sound of the Drum and Fife. To conclude, his hugenesse, his motion, his blackenesse, and his consorts, might haue held all that knew him not, and looked on him, in suspence.

Thus he came with the state and Prosopopeia aforesaid, and kneeled before the Duke, who with the rest that stood vp there, awaited his comming: but the Duke would not by any meanes heare him speake till he rose, which the prodigious Scar-crow did; and standing vp, he pluckt his maske from off his face, and shewed the most horrid, long, white, and thicke beard, that ere till then humane eyes beheld; and straight he let loose and roo­ted out from his broad and spreading brest, a maiesticall loud voyce, and casting his eyes toward the Duke, thus said:

High and mighty Sir, I am called Trifaldin with the vvhite beard, Squire to the Countesse Trifaldi, otherwise called The Af­flicted Matron, from whom I bring an Ambassage to your Greatnesse, which is, that your Magnificence be pleased to giue her leaue and licence to enter and relate her griefes, vvhich are the most strange and admirable that euer troubled thoughts in the world could thinke: but first of all, she would know whe­ther the valorous & inuincible Knight Don Quixote de la Man­cha be in your Castle, in whose search she comes afoot, and hun­gry from the kingdome of Candaya, euen to this your Duke­dome: a thing miraculous, or by way of Enchantment: she is at your Fortresse gate, and onely expects your permission to come in; thus he spoke, and forthwith coughed and wiped his beard from the top to the bottome, with both his hands, and with a long pawse attended the Dukes answer, which was;

Honest Squire Trifaldin with the white beard, long, since the misfortune of the Countesse Trifaldi hath come to our notice, whom Enchanters haue caused to be stiled, The afflicted Ma­tron: tell her, stupendious Squire, shee may come in, and that heere is the valiant Knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, from whose generous condition shee may safely promise her selfe all aide and assistance: and you may also tell her from me, that if she need my fauour, she shall not want it, since I am obliged to it by being a Knight, to whom the fauouring of all sorts of her sexe [Page 245] is pertaining and annexed, especially Matron widdows ruin'd, and afflicted, as her Ladiship is. Which when Trifaldin heard, he bent his knee to the ground, and making signes to the Drum and Fife, that they should play to the same pace and sound as when they entred, he returned backe out of the garden, and left all in admiration of his presence and posture.

And the Duke turning to Don Quixote, said; In fine, Sir Knight, neyther the clouds of malice or ignorance can darken or obscure the light of valour and vertue. This I say, because it is scarce sixe daies since that your A forced word put in, in mockage purposely. bounty hath beene in this my Castle, when the sad and afflicted come from remote parts, on foot, and not in Carroches and on Dromedaries to seeke you, confident that in this most strenuous arme they shall find the re­medy for their griefes and labours, thankes to your braue ex­ploits, that runne ouer and compasse the whole world.

Now would I, my Lord, quoth Don Quixote, that that same blessed Clergy-man were present, who the other day, at table, seemed to be so distasted, and to beare such a grudge against Knights Errant, that he might see with his eyes, whether those Knights are necessary to the world; he might feele too with his hands that your extraordinary afflicted and comfortlesse, and great affaires and enormious mis-haps goe not to seeke redresse to Booke-mens houses, or to some poore Country Sextons, nor to your Gentleman that neuer stirred from home, nor to the la­zie Courtier that rather harkens after newes which hee may re­port againe, then procures to performe deeds and exploits, that others may relate and write; the redresse of griefes, the succou­ring of necessities, the protection of Damozels, the comfort of widdows, is had from no sort of persons so wel as from Knights Errant; and that I am one, I giue heauen infinite thankes, and I thinke my disgrace well earned that I may receiue in this noble calling. Let this Matron come, and demand what shee will, for I will giue her redresse with this my strong arme, and vndanted resolution of my couragious spirit.

CHAP. XXXVII.

THe Duke and Duchesse were extremely glad, to see how well Don Quixote satisfied their intentions, & then Sancho sayd; I should be loth this Mistris Matron should lay any stumbling blocke in the promise of my Gouernment: for I haue heard a Toledo Apothecary say (and hee spoke like a Bull-finch) that where these kinde of Duennas, Heere Sancho takes Duenna in the former sence, for an old Wayting-woman. women were intermed­ling, there could no good follow. Lord, what an enemy that Apothecary was to them? for since all your Matrons, of what condition or quality soeuer they bee, are irksome and foolish, what kinde of ones shall your Afflicted bee? as this Countesse, Alluding to the name Tri­faldi, as if shee had beene cal­led tres faldes, which signifies three skirts, and this was his mistake. Three skirts, or Three tailes; for tailes and skirts, all is one.

Peace, friend Sancho, quoth Don Quixote; for since this Ma­tron-Lady comes from so remote parts to seeke mee, she is none of those that the Apothecary hath in his bed-roll: besides, this is a Countesse, and when your Countesses are Wayting-women, tis either to Queenes or Empresses, who in their houses are most absolute, and are serued by other Wayting-women. To this (quoth Donna Rodriguez, that was present) My Lady the Du­chesse hath women in her seruice, that might haue beene Coun­tesses, if Fortune had beeene pleased: but the weakest goe to the wals, and let no man speake ill of Wayting-women, and especi­ally of ancient Mayds; for although I am none, yet I well and cleerely perceiue the aduantage, that your Mayden Wayting-women haue ouer Widdow-women, and one paire of sheeres went betweene vs both.

For all that (quoth Sancho) there is so much to bee sheered in your Wayting-women (according to mine Apothecary) that, The more you stirre this businesse, the more it will stinke. Al­wayes these Squires (quoth Donna Rodriguez) are malicious a­gainst vs; for, as they are Fairies that haunt the out-roomes, and [Page 247] euery foot spy vs, the times that they are not at their deuotions (which are many) they spend in back-biting vs, vndigging our bones, and burying our reputation. Well, let me tell these moo­uing Blockes, that in spite of them, wee will liue in the world, and in houses of good fashion, though wee starue for it, or couer our delicate or not delicate flesh with a blacke Monkes weede, as if we were old wals couered with tapistry, at the pas­sing of a Procession. I faith, if I had time and leisure enough, I would make all that are present, know, that there is no vertue, but is contained in a Wayting-woman. I beleeue (sayd the Du­chesse) my honest Donna Rodriguez is in the right: but she must stay for a fit time to answer for her selfe, and the rest of Way­ting-women, to confound the Apothecaries ill opinion, and to root it out altogether from Sancho's brest. To which (quoth Sancho) since the Gouernourship smokes in my head, all Squire­ly fumes are gone out, and I care not a wilde figge for all your Wayting-women.

Forward they had gone with this Wayting-woman discourse, had they not heard the Drum and Fife play, wherby they knew that the Afflicted Matron was entring: the Duchesse askt the Duke, if they should meet her, since shee was a Countesse, and noble personage. For her Counteship (quoth Sancho) before the Duke could answer, I like it that your Greatnesse meet her: but for her Matronship, that yee stirre not a foot. Who bids thee meddle with that, Sancho, quoth Don Quixote? Who, Sir (sayd he?) I my selfe, that may meddle, that, as a Squire, haue learnt the termes of courtesie in your Worships Schoole, that is the most courteous and best bred Knight in all Courtship, and as I haue heard you say in these things. Better play a card too much, then too little; and, Good wits will soone meet. Tis true as Sancho sayes (quoth the Duke) we will see what kinde of Coun­tesse she is, and by that, ghesse what courtesie is due to her. By this the Drum and Fife came in, as formerly: and heere the Au­thor ended this briefe Chapter, beginning another, which con­tinues the same Aduenture, one of the notablest of all the Hi­story.

CHAP. XXXVIII.

AFter the Musicke, there entred in at the Garden, about some twelue Matron-wayters, diuided into two rankes, all clad in large Monks weedes, to see to, of fulled Serge, with white Stoles of thin Callico, so long, that they onely shew­ed the edge of their blacke weeds. After them came the Coun­tesse Trifaldi, whom Trifaldin with the white beard led by the hand, clad all in finest vn-napped Bayes; for had it been napped, euery graine of it would haue been as big as your biggest pease: her taile or her traine (cal it whether you will) had three corners, which was born by three Pages, clad likewise in mourning: thus making a sightly and Mathematicall shew with those three sharp corners, which the poynted skirt made, for which belike she was called the Countesse The word in Spanish im­porting so. Trifaldi, as if we should say the Countesse of the three traines, and Benengeli sayes, it was true, and that her right name was the Countesse Lobuna, because there were many Wolues bred in her Countrey; and if they had beene Foxes, as they were Wolues, they would haue called her the Countesse Zorra, in Spanish, a Fox. Zorruna, by reason that in those parts it was the custome, that great ones took their appellations, from the thing or things that did most abound in their States: but this Countesse, taken with the strangenes of her three-fold traine, left her name of Lobuna, and tooke that of Trifaldi.

The twelue Wayters and their Lady came a Procession-pace, their faces couered with blacke vayles, and not transparent, was as Trifaldins, but so close, that nothing was seen thorow. Iust as the Matronly Squadron came in, the Duke, the Duchesse, and Don Quixote stood vp, and all that beheld the large Procession. The twelue made a stand, and a Lane, thorow the middest of which, The Afflicted came forward, Trifaldin still lea­ding her by the hand, which the Duke, the Duchessee, and Don Quixote seeing, they aduanced some doozen paces to meet her. Shee kneeling on the ground, with a voyce rather course and hoarce, then fine and cleere, sayd; May it please your Great­nesses to spare this courtesie to your seruant, I say, to mee your [Page 249] seruant; for as I am The Afflicted; I shall not answer you as I ought, by reason that my strange and vnheard of misfortune, hath transported my vnderstanding, I know not whither, and sure tis farre off; since the more I seeke it, the lesse I finde it. He should want it, Lady (quoth the Duke) that by your person could not iudge of your worth, the which without any more looking into, deserues the Creame of courtesie, & the Flower of al mannerly ceremonies: so taking her vp by the hand, he led her to sit downe in a chaire by the Duchesse, who welcommed her also with much courtesie.

Don Quixote was silent, and Sancho longed to see the Trifal­dis face, and some of her Wayting-women: but there was no possibility, till they of their owne accords would shew them: so all being quiet and still, they expected who should first breake silence, which was done by the Afflicted Matron with these words. A Fustian speech on purpose, and so continued. Confident I am (most powerfull Sir, most beautifull Lady, and most discreet Auditors) that my most Miserablenesse shall finde in your most valorous brests shelter, no lesse pleasing, then generous and compassionate; for it is such, as is able to make marble relent, to soften the Diamonds, and to mollifie the steele of the hardest hearts in the world: but before it come into the market-place of your hearing (I will not say your eares) I should be glad to know, if the most Purifiediferous Don Qui­xote of the Manchissima, and his Squiriferous Pansa, bee in this Lap, this Quire, this Company.

Pansa is heere (quoth Sancho) before any body else could an­swer, b Sancho striues to answer in the same key. and Don Quixotissimo too, therfore most Afflictedissimous Matronissima, speake what you will-issimus, for we are all ready & most forward to be your Seruitorissimus. Then Don Quixote rose vp, and directed his speech to the Afflicted Matron, and sayd; If your troubles, straightned Lady, may promise you any hope of remedy, by the valour and force of any Knight Errant; Behold, heere are my poore and weake armes, that shall bee im­ployed in your seruice. I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose Function is to succour the needy, which being so (as it is) you neede not, Lady, to vse any Rhetoricke, or to seeke any Pream­bles; but plainely, and without circumstances, tell your [Page 250] griefes; for they shall be heard by those, that if they cannot re­dresse them, yet they will commiserate them.

Which when the Afflicted Matron heard, she seem'd to fall at Don Quixotes feet, and cast her selfe downe, striuing to em­brace them, & sayd; Before these feet & legs I cast my selfe, oh inuincible Knight: since they are the Basis and Columnes of Knight Errantry, these feet will I kisse, on whose steps the whole remedy of my misfortunes doth hang and depend. Oh valorous Errant! whose valorous exployts do obscure & darken the fabulous ones of the Amadises, Esplandiasus, and Belianises: And leauing Don Quixote, she layd hold on Sancho Pansa, and griping his hands, sayd; Oh thou the loyallest Squire that euer serued Knight Errant, in past or present times! longer in good­nesse then my Vsher Trifaldins beard, well mayest thou vaunt, that in seruing Don Quixote, thou seruest, in Cipher, the whole Troope of Knights, that haue worne armes in the world: I con­iure thee, by thy most loyall goodnesse, that thou be a good In­tercessour with thy Master, that hee may eft-soones fauour this most humble, most vnfortunate Countesse.

To which (sayd Sancho) that my goodnes, Lady, be as long as your Squires beard, I doe not much stand vpon, the businesse is, bearded or with mustacho's, let mee haue my soule goe to Hea­uen when I die: for, for beards heere I care little or nothing: but without these clawings or entreaties, I will desire my Ma­ster (for I know he loues me well, and the rather, because now in a certaine businesse he hath neede of mee) that he fauour and helpe your Worship as much as he may: but pray vncage your griefes, and tell them vs, and let vs alone to vnderstand them.

The Dukes were ready to burst with laughter, as they that had taken the pulse of this Aduenture, and commended within themselues the wit and dissimulation of the Trifaldi, who sit­ting her downe, sayd; Of the famous Kingdome of Taprobana, which is betweene the great Taprobana and the South sea, some two leagues beyond Cape Comorin, was Queene the Lady Don­na [...] Maguncia, widdow to King Archipielo, her Lord and Husband, in which matrimony they had the Princesse Antono­masia, heire to the Kingdome: the sayd Princesse was brought [Page 251] vp, and increased vnder my tutorage and instruction, because I was the ancientest and chiefest Matron that waited on her mo­ther. It fell out then, that times comming and going, the childe Antonomasia being about foureteene yeeres of age, shee was so faire, that Nature could giue no further addition. Discretion it selfe was a Snotty-nose to her, that was as discreet as faire, and she was the fairest in the world, and is, if enuious Fates and in­flexible Destinies haue not cut the thred of her life: but sure they haue not; for Heauen will not permit, that Earth suffer such a losse, as would be the lopping of a branch of the fairest Vine in the world.

On this beauty (neuer-sufficiently extolled by my rude tongue) a number of Princes were enamoured, aswell Neigh­bours as Strangers, amongst whom, a priuate Gentle-man durst raise his thoughts to the Heauen of that beauty, one that liued in Court, confident in his youth and gallantry, and other abilities, and happy facilities of wit; for let mee giue your Greatnesses to vnderstand (if it be not tedious) hee played on a Gitterne, as if he made it speake, he was a Poet, and a great Dancer, and could very well make Bird-cages, and onely with this Art, might haue gotten his liuing, when he had beene in great necessity: so that all these parts and adornments were able to throw downe a mountaine, much more a delicate Damozell: but all his gentry, all his graces, all his behauiour and abilities, could haue little pre­uailed, to render my childes fortresse, if the cursed theefe had not conquered mee first. First, the cursed Rascall Vagamund sought to get my good will, and to bribe me, that I, ill keeper, should deliuer him the keyes of my fortresse.

To conclude, he inueigled my vnderstanding, and obtained my consent, with some toyes and trifles (I know not what) that he gaue mee: but that which most did prostrate mee, and made me fall, was certaine verses, that I heard him sing one night from a grated window, toward a Lane where he lay, which were as I remember these.

The Ditty was most precious to me, and his voyce as sweet as sugar, & many a time since haue I thought, seeing the mis-hap I fell into, by these and such other like verses, and haue considered, that Poets should be banisht from all good and well-gouerned Common-wealths, as Plato counselled, at least lasciuious Poets; for they write lasciuious verses, not such as those of Old ballad­verses, the Author speaks heere Satyri­cally. the Mar­quesse of Mantua, that delight and make women and children weepe, but piercing ones, that like sharp thornes, but soft, tra­uerse the soule, and wound it like lightning, leauing the garment sound, and againe he sung,

Other kindes of songs he had, which being sung, enchanted, and written, suspended: for when they daigned to make a kinde of verse in Candaya, then in vse, called Roundelaies, there was your dancing of soules, and tickling with laughter and vnquietnesse of the body: and finally, the quick-siluer of all the sences. So, my Masters, let me say, that such Rithmers ought iustly to bee banished to the Iland of Lizards: but the fault is none of theirs, but of simple creatures that commend them, and foolish wen­ches that beleeue in them: and if I had been as good a Wayting-woman, as I ought to haue beene, his ouer-nights conceits would not haue mooued mee, neither should I haue giuen credit to these kinde of speeches: I liue dying, I burne in the frost, I shake in the fire, I hope hopelesse, I goe, and yet I stay: with other impossibilities of this scumme, of which his writings are full: and then, your promising the Phoenix of Arabia, Ari­adne's Crowne, the Lockes of the Sunne, the Pearles of the South, the Gold of Tyber, and Balsamum of Pancaia: and heere they are most liberall in promising that, which they neuer think to performe.

But whither, aye mee vnhappy, doe I diuert my selfe? What folly or what madnesse makes mee recount other folkes faults, hauing so much to say of mine owne? Aye mee againe, vnfor­tunate, for not the verses, but my folly, vanquished mee; not [Page 253] his musike, but my lightnesse, my ignorance softned mee; that, and my ill fore-sight opened the way, and made plaine the path to Don Clanixo, for this is the aforesayd Gentle-mans name; so that I being the Bawde, hee was many times in the chamber of the (not by him, but mee) betrayed Antonomasia, vnder colour of being her lawfull Spouse; for though a sinner I am, I would not haue consented, that without being her Husband, hee should haue come to the bottome of her shoo­sole.

No, no, Matrimony must euer bee the colour in all these bu­sinesses, that shall bee treated of by mee: onely there was one mischiefe in it, that Don Clanixo was not her Equall, hee being but a priuate Gentle-man, and shee such an Inheritrix. A while this iuggling was hid and concealed, with the sagacity of my warinesse, till a kinde of swelling in Antonomosia's belly, at last discouered it, the feare of which made vs all three enter into counsell, and it was agreed, that before the mis-hap should come to light, Don Clanixo should demand Antonomasia for wife before the Vicar, by vertue of a bill of her hand, which shee had giuen him to bee so: this was framed by my in­uention so forcibly, that Samson himselfe was not able to breake it.

The matter was put in practice, the Vicar saw the bill, and tooke the Ladies confession: who confessed plainely, hee com­mitted her prisoner to a Sargeants house. Then (quoth Sancho) haue you Sargeants too in Candaya, Poets, and Roundelayes? I sweare I thinke, the world is the same euery-where: but make an end, Madam Trifaldi: for it is late, and I long to know the end of this large story. I will, answered the Countesse.

CHAP. XXXIX.

AT euery word that Sancho spoke, the Duchesse vvas as vvell pleased as Don Quixote out of his wits, and com­manding him to bee silent; the Afflicted went on, say­ing: The short and the long vvas this, after many giuings and takings, by reason the Princesse stood euer stiffely to her tack­ling, the Vicar sentenced in Don Clanixo's fauour, vvhereat the Queene Donna Maguncia Antonomasia's Mother vvas so full of wrath, that some three daies after wee buried her. Well, Sir Squire, quoth Sancho, it hath beene seene ere now, that one that hath beene but in a swound, hath beene buried, thinking he was dead; and me thinkes that Queene Magunica might but rather haue beene in a swound, for with life many things are remedied, and the Princesses error vvas not so great, that she should so re­sent it. If shee had married with a Page or any other seruant of her house (as I haue heard many haue done) the mischance had beene irreparable: but to marry with so worthy a Gentleman, and so vnderstanding as hath beene painted out to vs, truly, tru­ly, though 'twere an ouer-sight, yet twas not so great as vvee thinke for; for according to my Masters rules here present, who will not let mee lye, as Schollers become Bishops, so priuate Knights (especially if they be Errant) may become Kings and Emperours.

Thou hast reason, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote) for a Knight Errant, giue him but two inches of good fortune, he is in poten­tia proxima to be the greatest Soueraigne of the world. But let the Afflicted proceed, for to mee it appeares, the bitterest part of her sweet History is behinde. The bitterest, quoth you, said shee? Indeed so bitter, that in comparison of this, Treacle and Elicampane is sweet.

The Queene being starke dead, and not in a trance, wee bu­ried her, and scarce had wee couered her with earth, and tooke [Page 255] our vltimum vale, when Quis talia fando temperet a lachrimis? the Gyant Malambruno, Maguncia's Cousin Germane, appea­red before her graue vpon a woodden horse, who besides his cruelty, was also an Enchanter, who with his Art to reuenge his Cousins death, & for Don Clanixos boldnesse, and for despight of Antonomasia's ouer-sight, enchanted them vpon the same Tombe, turning her into a brazen Ape, and him into a fearefull Crocodile of vnknowne metall, and betwixt them both is like­wise set a Register of metall, written in the Siriacke tongue, which being translated into the Candayan, and now into the Ca­stilian, conteines this sentence:

These two bold Louers shall not recouer their naturall forme, till the valiant Manchegan come to single combat with me, for the De­stinies reserue this vn-heard of Aduenture only for his great valour.

This done, he vnsheathed a broad and vnwieldy Scimitar, and taking me by the haire of the head, he made as if he would haue cut my throat, or sheared off my necke at a blow. I was ama­zed, my voice cleaued to the roofe of my mouth, I was troubled extremely: but I enforced my selfe as well as I could, and vvith a dolorous and trembling voyce, I told him such and so many things, as made him suspend the execution of his rigorous pu­nishment.

Finally, hee made all the waiting-Women of the Court be brought before him, which are heere present now also; and af­ter he had exaggerated our faults, and reuiled the conditions of Waiting-women, their wicked wiles, and worse slights, and lay­ing my fault vpon them all, hee said hee would not capitally pu­nish vs, but with other dilated paines, that might giue vs a ciuill and continuate death: and in the very same instant & moment that he had said this, we all felt that the Pores of our faces ope­ned, and that all about them wee had prickles, like the pricking of needles: by and by we clapped our hands to our faces, and found them iust as you see them now; with this the Afflicted, and the rest of the Waiting-women lifted vp their masks which they had on, and shewed their faces all vvith beards, some red, [Page 256] some blacke, some white, and lime-smeared: at sight of vvhich, the Duke & Duchesse admired; Don Quixote and Sancho were astonisht, and all the by-standers wonder-strooken, and the Tri­faldi proceeded: Thus that fellon, and hard-hearted Malambru­no punished vs, couering the softnesse and smoothnesse of our faces with these rough bristles: would God he had beheaded vs with his vnweldy Scimitar, and not so dimmed the light of our faces with these blots that hide vs; for, my Masters, if vvee fall into reckoning, (and that which now I say, I vvould speake it vvith mine eyes running a fountaine of teares, but the conside­ration of our misfortunes, and the Seas that hitherto haue rai­ned, haue drawne them as dry as eares of Corne, and therefore let mee speake vvithout teares.) Whither shall a Waiting-wo­man with a beard goe? What Father or Mother vvill take com­passion on her? For vvhen her flesh is at the smoothest, and her face martyrized with a thousand sorts of slibber-slabbers & wa­ters, she can scarce finde any body that vvill care for her, what shall she doe then when she vveares a vvood vpon her face? O Matrons, Companions mine, in an ill time vvere vve borne, in a lucklesse howre our Fathers begat vs; and saying this, she made shew of dismaying.

CHAP. XL.

CErtainely, all they that delight in such Histories as this, must be thankfull to Cid Hamete the Author of the Ori­ginal, for his curiosity in setting downe euery little tittle, without leauing out the smallest matter, that hath not beene di­stinctly brought to light: hee paints out conceits, discouers ima­ginations, answers secrets, cleeres doubts, resolues arguments: To conclude, manifests the least moat of each curious desire. Oh famous Author! Oh happy Don Quixote! Oh renowned Dul­cinea! Oh pleasant Sancho! all together, and each in particular, [Page 257] long may you liue, to the delight and generall recreation of mor­talls. The Story then goes on, that iust as Sancho saw the Af­flicted dismaid, he said, As I am honest man, and by the me­mory of the Pansa's, I neuer heard nor saw, nor my master ne­uer told me, nor could he euer conceit in his fancy such an Ad­uenture as this. A thousand Satans take thee (not to curse thee) for an Enchanteras thou art, Gyant Malambruno, and hadst thou no kinde of punishment for these sinners but this bear­ding them? What? had it not beene better & fitter for them, to haue bereaued them of halfe their noses, though they had snuffled for it, and not to haue clapt these beards on them? I hold a wager they haue no money to pay for their shauing. You say true Sir, quoth one of the twelue, we haue nothing to cleanse vs with, therefore some of vs haue vsed a remedy of sticking Plai­sters, which, applied to our faces, and clapped on vpon a sodain, make them as plaine and smooth as the bottome of a stone mor­ter; for though in Candaya there be women that goe vp and downe from house to house to take away the haire of the body, and to trimme theeye-browes, and other slibber-sawces touch­ing women, yet wee my Ladies women would neuer admit them, because they smell something of the Bawde: and if Sig­nior Don Quixote doe not helpe vs, wee are like to goe vvith beards to our graues.

I would rather lose mine amongst Infidels, quoth Don Quix­ote, then not ease you of yours. By this the Trifaldi came to her selfe againe, and said, The very iyngling of this promise came into my eares in the midst of my Trance, and was enough to re­couer my sences: therefore once againe, Renowned Errant, and vntamed Sir, let me beseech you that your gracious promise be put in execution. For my part it shall, quoth Don Quixote, tell me Lady, what I am to doe, for my minde is very prompt to serue you.

Thus it is (quoth the Afflicted) from hence to the Kingdom of Candaya, if you goe by land, you haue fiue thousand leagues, wanting two or three; but if you goe in the ayre, some three thousand two hundreth and seuen and twenty by a direct line. You must likewise know that Malambruno told me, that when [Page 258] Fortune should bring me to the Knight that must free vs, that he would send a horse much better, and with fewer trickes then your hirelings, which is the selfe-same horse of wood, on which the valiant Pierres stole and carried away the faire Magalona, which horse is gouerned by a pinne that he hath in his forehead, that serues for a bridle, and flies in the ayre so swiftly, as if the Deuils themselues carried him. This horse, according to Tra­dition, was made by the Sage Merlin, and he lent him to his friend Pierres, who made long voyages vpon him, and stole a­way (as is said) the faire Magalona, carrying her in the ayre at his Crupper, leauing all that beheld them on earth in a staring gaze, and he lent him to none but those whom he loued, or that payed him best, and since the Grand Pierres, hitherto vvee haue not heard that any else hath come vpon his backe: Malambruno got him from thence by his Art, and keepes him, making vse of him in his voyages, which he hath euery foot thorow all parts of the world, and he is heere to day, and to morrow in France, and the next day at Ierusalem: and the best is, that this horse nei­ther eates nor sleepes, nor needs shooing, and hee ambles in the ayre, without wings, that he that rides vpon him, may carry [...] cup full of water in his hand, without spilling a iot: he goes so soft and so easie, which made the faire Magalona glad to ride vpon him.

Then (quoth Sancho) for your soft and easie going, my Dap­ple beares the bell, though hee goe not in the Aire; but vpon earth. Ile play with him with all the Amblers in the world.

All of them laughed, and the Afflicted went on: and this horse (if Malambruno will grant an end of our misfortune) within halfe an houre at night will be with vs; for he told mee, that the signe that I had found the Knight that should procure our liberty, should be the sending of that horse whither hee should come speedily. And how many (quoth Sancho) may ride vpon that horse? The Afflicted answered, Two; one in the Saddle, and the other at the Crupper, and most commonly such two are, Knight and Squire, when some stolne Damozell is wanting. I would faine know, Afflicted Madam, quoth San­cho, what this horses name is. His name (quoth she) is not like [Page 259] Bellerophons horse, called Pegasus or Alexanders the great, Bu­cephalus, or Orlando Furioso's Briliadoro, or Bayarte Reynaldos de Montaluans, or Rogeros Frontino, or Bootes or Perithons, the hor­ses of the Sunne, nor Orelia Rodrigo the last vnhappy King of the Gothes his Horse, in that battell where hee lost his life and kingdome together.

I hold a wager (said Sancho) that since he hath none of all these famous knowne names, that his name neither is not Rozi­nante my Masters horses name, which goes beyond al those that haue been named already.

Tis true (quoth the bearded Countesse) notwithstanding he hath a name that fits him very well, which is Clau [...] a naile or woodden pinne, Leno wood in Spa­nish. Clauileno the swift: first, because he is of wood, and then, because of the pinne in his fore-head, so that for his name he may compare with Ro­zinante. I dislike not his name (said Sancho) but what bridle, or what halter is he gouerned with? I haue told you (said the Tri­faldi) that with the pinne, turned as pleaseth the party that rides on him, he will goe either in the ayre, or raking and sweeping along the earth, or in a meane which ought to bee sought in all well-ordered actions. I would faine see him (quoth Sancho) but to thinke that Ile get vp on him, eyther in the saddle, or at the Crupper, were to aske Peares of the Elme. Twere good indeed, that I, that can scarce sit vpon Dapple, and a packe-saddle as soft as silke, should get vp vpon a woodden crupper without a Cu­shion or Pillow-beare: by Gad Ile not bruise my selfe to take a­way any bodies beard: let euery one shaue himselfe as well as he can; for Ile not goe so long a voyage with my Master: be­sides, theres no vse of me for the shauing of these beards, as there is for the dis-enchanting my Lady Dulcinea. Yes marry is there, said the Trifaldi, and so much, that I beleeue, without you we shall doe nothing. Aqui del R [...]y, the vsuall speech of Offi­cers in Spai [...] [...] when any are sted p [...] resist [...]. God & the King (quoth Sancho) what haue the Squires to doe with their Masters Aduentures, they must reape the credit of ending them, and wee must beare the burden? Body of mee, if your Historians would say, Such a Knight ended such an Aduenture, but with the helpe of such and such a Squire, without whom it had been impossible to end it, twere something: but that they write dryly, Don Parlalipo­menon, [Page 260] Knight of the three starres, ended the Aduenture of the sixe Hob-goblins, without naming his Squires person that was present at all, as if he were not aliue: I like it not, my Masters, I tell you againe, my Master may goe alone, much good may it doe him, and Ile stay heere with my Lady the Duchesse, and it may be when he comes backe, he shall finde the Lady Dulcinea's businesse three-fold, nay fiue-fold bettered, for I purpose at idle times, and when I am at leysure to giue my selfe a Bout of whip­ping, bare breech'd. For all that (quoth the Duchesse) if need be, you must accompany him, honest Sancho, for all good peo­ple will entreat, that for your vnnecessary feare these Gentlewo­mens faces be not so thick-bearded; for it were great pitty.

God and the King againe (quoth Sancho) when this charity were performed for some retired Damozels, as some vvorking girles, a man might vndertake any hazard; but for to vnbeard waiting-women, a pox: I would I might see vm bearded from the highest to the lowest, from the nicest to the neatest. You are still bitter against waiting-women, friend, quoth the Duchesse, you are much addicted to the Toledanian Apothecaries opinion: but on my faith you haue no reason, for I haue women in my house, that may be a patterne for Waiting-women, and heere's Donna Rodriguez, that will not contradict me. Your Excellen­cy (quoth Rodriguez) may say what you will, God knowes all, whether we be good or bad: bearded or smooth, as we are, our Mothers brought vs forth as well as other women, and since God cast vs into the world, he knowes to what end, and I relye vpon his mercy, and no bodies beard.

Well, Mistresse Rodriguez, and Lady Trifaldi, (quoth Don Quixote) I hope to God hee will behold your sorrowes vvith pittying eyes, and Sancho shall doe as I vvill haue him, if Claui­lenno vvere come once, and that I might encounter Malambru­no: for I know, no Rasor vvould shaue you vvith more facility, then my sword should shaue Malambruno's head from his shoul­ders, for God permits the vvicked, but not for euer.

Ah (quoth the Afflicted) now all the starres of the heauenly Regions looke vpon your Greatnesse, valorous Knight, with a gentle aspect, and infuse all prosperity into your minde, and all [Page 261] valour, and make you the shield and succour of all deiected and reuiled Waiting-woman-ship, abhominable to Apothecaries, back-bited by Squires, and scoffed at by Pages, and the Deuill take the Queane that in the flower of her youth put not her selfe in a Nunnery, rather then be a Waiting-woman, vnfortunate as we are, for though we descend in a direct line, by man to man from Hector the Troian, yet our Mistresses will neuer leaue be­thou-ing of vs, though they might be Queenes for it: O Gyant Malambruno, (for though thou beest an Enchanter, thou art most sure in thy promises) send the matchlesse Clauileno vnto vs, that our misfortune may haue an end: for if the heates come in, and these beards of ours last, woe be to our ill fortune.

This the Trifaldi said with so much feeling, that shee drew teares from all the spectators eyes, and stroaked them euen from Sancho's, so that now he resolued to accompany his Master to the very end of the world, so he might obtaine the taking the wooll from those venerable faces.

CHAP. XLI.

IT grew now to bee night, and with it the expected time when Clauileno the famous horse should come, whose delay troubled Don Quixote, thinking that Malambruno deferring to send him, argued, that eyther hee was not the Knight for whom the Aduenture was reserued, or that Malambruno durst not come to single combat with him: But looke ye now, when all vnexpected, foure Sauages entred the Garden, cladde all in greene Yuie, bearing vpon their shoulders a great woodden horse: they set him vpon his legges on the ground, and one of them said, Let him that hath the courage, get vp vpon this En­gine.

Then (quoth Sancho) not I, I haue no courage, I am no [Page 262] Knight, and the Saluage replied, saying, And let his Squire ride behinde, and let him be assured, that no sword but Malambru­no's shall offend him, and there is no more to be done, but to turne that pinne, which is vpon the horses necke, and hee will carry them in a moment where Malambruno attends: but lest the height and distance from earth make them light-headed, let them couer their eyes till the horse neigh; a signe that they haue then finisht their voyage. This said, with a slow pace, they mar­ched out the same way they came.

The Afflicted, as soone as she saw the horse, with very teares in her eyes, she said to Don Quixote; Valorous Knight, Ma­lambruno hath kept his word, the horse is heere, our beards in­crease, and each of vs with euery haire of them beseech thee to shaue and sheere vs, since there is no more to be done, but that thou and thy Squire both mount, and begin this your happy new voyage. That will I willingly, said Don Quixote, my La­dy Trifaldi, without a cushion or spurres, that I may not delay time, so much, Lady, I desire to see you and all these Gentlewo­men smooth and cleere. Not I (quoth Sancho) neyther willing­ly nor vnwillingly, and if this shauing cannot be performed without my riding at the Crupper, let my Master seeke some other Squire to follow him, and these Gentlewomen some o­ther meanes of smoothing themselues; for I am no Hagge that loue to hurry in the Ayre: and what will my Islanders say, when they heare their Gouernour is houering in the winde? Besides, there being three thousand leagues from hence to Candaya, if the horse should be weary, or the Gyant offended, wee might bee these halfe doozen of yeeres ere we returne, and then perhaps there would be neyther Iland nor dry-land in the world to ac­knowledge me: and since 'tis ordinarily said, that delay breeds danger, and he that will not when he may, &c. these Gentle­womens beards shall pardon mee, for 'tis good sleeping in a whole skinne, I meane, I am very well at home in this house, where I receiue so much kindnesse, and from whose Owner I hope for so great a good, as to see my selfe a Gouernour.

To which (quoth the Duke) Friend Sancho, the Iland that I promised you, is not moueable, nor fugitiue, it is so deepe roo­ted [Page 263] in the earth, that a great many pulls will not root it vp: and since you know, that I know that there is none of these prime kinde of Officers, that payes not some kinde of bribe, some more, some lesse, yours for this Gouernment shall be, that you accompany your Master Don Quixote to end and finish this me­morable Aduenture, that, whether you returne on Clauileno with the breuity that his speed promiseth, or that your contrary fortune bring and returne you home on foot like a Pilgrime from Inne to Inne, and from Alehouse to Alehouse; at your comming backe, you shall finde the Iland where you left it, and the Ilanders with the same desire to receiue you for their Gouer­nour, that they haue alwaies had, and my good will shall alwaies bee the same; and doubt not, Signior Sancho, of this, for you should do much wrong (in so doing) to the desire I haue to serue you.

No more, Sir, quoth Sancho, I am a poore Squire, and cannot carry so much courtesie vpon my backe: let my Master get vp, and blindefolde me, and commend me to God Almighty, and tell mee, if, when I mount into this high-flying, I may recom­mend my selfe to God, or inuoke the Angels that they may fa­uour me.

To which the Trifaldi answered, You may recommend your selfe to God, or to whom you will; for Malambruno, though he bee an Enchanter, yet hee is a Christian, and performes his Enchantments with much sagacity, and very warily, without meddling with any body. Goe to then (quoth Sancho) God and the holy Trinity of Gaeta helpe me. Since the memorable Aduenture of the Full-mills (quoth Don Quixote) I neuer saw Sancho so fearefull as now, & if I were as superstitious as some, his pusillanimity would tickle my conscience: but harke thee, Sancho, by these Gentles leaues, I will speake a word or two with thee: and carrying Sancho amongst some trees in the gar­den, taking him by both the hands, he sayd, Thou seest, Bro­ther Sancho, the large voyage that we are like to haue, and God knowes when wee shall returne from it, nor the leisure that our affaires heereafter will giue vs. I prethee therefore, retire thy selfe to thy chamber, as if thou wentst to look for some necessary for [Page 264] the way, and giue thy selfe in a trice, of the three thousand and three hundred lashes, in which thou standest engaged, but fiue hundred onely: so that the beginning of a businesse is halfe the ending of it.

Verily (quoth Sancho) I thinke you haue lost your wits, this is Iust: I am going, and thou art crying out in haste for thy mayden-head, I am now going to sit vpon a bare piece of wood, and you would haue my bumme smart. Beleeue mee, you haue no reason, let's now goe for the shauing these Matrons, and when we returne, Ile promise you to come out of debt: let this content you, and I say no more. Don Quixote made answer, Well, with this promise, Sancho, I am in some comfort, and I beleeue thou wilt accomplish it; for though thou beest a foole, Heere I left cut a line or two of [...] dull conceit; so it was no great matter; for in English it could not be expressed. yet I thinke thou art honest.

So now they went to mount Clauileno, and as they were getting vp, Don Quixote sayd, Hud-winke thy selfe, Sancho, and get vp: for hee that sends from so farre off for vs, will not deceiue vs; for hee will get but small glory by it, and though all should succeede contrary to my imagination, yet no malice can obscure the glory of hauing vndergone this Aduen­ture. Lets goe, Master (quoth Sancho) for the beards & teares of these Gentle-women are nailed in my heart, & I shal not eat a bit, to doe me good, till I see them in their former smoothnesse. Get you vp, Sir, and hud winke you selfe first; for if I must ride be­hinde you, you must needes get vp first in the saddle.

Tis true indeede, sayd Don Quixote, and taking a hand-ker­chiefe out of his pocket, he desired the Afflicted to hide his eyes close: & when it was done, he vncouered himselfe again, & said; As I remember, I haue read in Virgil of the Palladium, that horse of Troy, that was of wood, that the Grecians presented to the Goddesse Pallas, with childe with armed Knights, which after were the totall ruine of all Troy, and so it were fit first to try what Clauileno hath in his stomacke.

You neede not (sayd she) for I dare warrant you, and know that Malambruno is neither traytor nor malicious, you may get vp without any feare, and vpon me be it, if you receiue any hurt. But Don Quixote thought, that euery thing thus spoken [Page 265] to his safety, was a detriment of his valour: so, without more exchanging of words, vp hee got, and tried the pin that easily turned vp and downe: so with his legs at length, without stir­rups, hee looked like an Image painted in a piece of Flanders Ar­ras, or wouen in some Roman triumph. Sancho got vp faire and softly, and with a very ill will, and settling himselfe the best hee could vpon the crupper, found it somewhat hard, and nothing soft, and desired the Duke, that if it were possible, hee might haue a cushionet, or for failing, one of the Duchesses cushions of State, or a pillow from one of the Pages beds; for that horses crupper, he sayd, was rather marble then wood.

To this (quoth Trifaldi) Clauileno will suffer no kinde of fur­niture nor trapping vpon him: you may doe well for your ease, to sit on him woman-wayes, so you will not feele his hardnesse so much. Sancho did so, and saying farewell, hee suffered him­selfe to be bound about the eyes, and after vncouered himselfe againe, & looking pittifully round about the garden with teares in his eyes, he desired that they would in that dolefull trance ioyne with him each in a Pater-noster, and an Aue Maria, as God might prouide them some to doe them that charitable of­fice when they should be in the like trance.

To which (quoth Don Quixote) Rascall, are you vpon the Gallowes, trow? or at the last gaspe, that you vse these kinde of supplications? Art thou not, thou soule-lesse cowardly creature, in the same place, where the faire Magalona sate, from whence she descended not to her graue; but to bee Queene of France, if Histories lie not? and am not I by thee? cannot I compare with the valorous Pierrs, that pressed this seat, that I now presse? Hudwinke, hudwinke thy selfe, thou dis-heartned Beast, and let not thy feare come forth of thy mouth, at least in my pre­sence. Hudwinke mee (quoth Sancho) and since you will not. haue me pray to God, nor recommend me, how can I chuse but be afrayd, lest so me legion of Deuils bee heere, that may carry vs headlong to destruction.

Now they were hudwinked, and Don Quixote perceiuing that all was as it should be, layd hold on the pin, and scarce put his fingers to it, when all the Wayting-women, and as many as [Page 266] were present, lifted vp their voyces, saying; God be thy speed, Valorous Knight; God be with thee, Vndaunted Squire: now, now you fly in the aire, cutting it with more speede then an ar­row: now you begin to suspend, and astonish as many as behold you from earth. Hold, hold, valorous Sancho; for now thou goest wauing in the aire, take heede thou fall not; for thy fall will be worse then the bold Youths, that desired to gouerne his father, the Suns, charriot.

Sancho heard all this, and getting close to his Master, hee girt his armes about him, and sayd; Sir, why doe they say we are so high, if wee can heare their voyces? and mee thinkes they talke heere hard by vs. Ne're stand vpon that (quoth Don Quixote) for as these kindes of flying are out of the ordinary course of thousands of leagues, thou mayst heare and see any thing, and doe not presse me so hard; for thou wilt throw me downe: and verily, I know not why thou shouldest thus tremble and bee a­frayd; for I dare sweare, in all my life, I neuer rode vpon an ea­sier-paced horse, he goes as if hee neuer mooued from the place. Friend, banish feare; for the businesse goes on successe-fully, and we haue winde at will. Indeede tis true, quoth Sancho: for I haue a winde comes so forcibly on this side of mee, as if I were blowed vpon by a thousand paire of bellowes: and it was true indeede, they were giuing him aire, with a very good paire of bellowes.

This Aduenture was so well contriued by the Duke, the Duchesse, and the Steward, that there was no requisite awan­ting, to make it perfect. Don Quixote too feeling the breath, sayd: Vndoubtedly, Sancho, wee are now come to the middle Region, where haile, snow,thunder and lightning, and the thun­der-bolt are ingendred in the third Region, & if we mount long in this manner, we shall quickly be in the Region of fire, and I know not how to vse this Pin, that wee mount not where wee shall be scorcht.

Now they heated their faces with flax set on fire, and easie to be quencht, in a caue a far off: and Sancho, that felt the heat, said▪ Hang me, if [...]e be not now in that place where the fire is; for a great part of my heard is sindged: Ile vnblind-fold my selfe, Ma­ster, [Page 267] and see where-abouts we are, Doe not (quoth Don Qui­xote) and remember that true tale of the Scholler Toralua, whom the Deuill hoysted A Story be­leeued in Spaine as Gospell. vp into the aire a horse-backe on a reede, with his eyes shut, and in twelue houres hee arriued at Rome, and lighted at the Towre of Nona, which is one of the streets of the City, & saw all the mis-chance, the assault & death of Borbon, and the morrow after returned backe to Madrid, where he related all that he had seene: who also sayd, that as hee went in the aire, the Deuill bid him open his eyes, which he did, and saw himselfe, as he thought, so neere the body of the Moon, that he might haue touched her with his hands, and that he durst not looke toward the earth, for feare to be made giddy. So that, Sancho, there is no vncouering vs; for hee that hath the charge of carrying vs will looke to vs, and peraduenture wee goe dou­bling of poynts, and mounting on high to fall euen with the Kingdome of Candaya, as doth the Sacar or Hawke vpon the Heron to catch her, mount shee neuer so high; and, though it seeme to vs not halfe an houre, since we parted from the garden, beleeue me, we haue trauelled a great way.

I know not what belongs to it (quoth Sancho) but this I know, that if your Lady Magallanes, or Magalona were plea­sed with my seat, she was not very tender-breecht. All these dis­courses of the two most valiant were heard by the Duke and Duchesse, and them in the garden, which gaue them extraordi­nary content: who willing to make an end of this strange and well-composed Aduenture, clapt fire with some flax at Clauile­no's taile: and straight the horse, being stuffed with Crackers, flew into the aire, making a strange noyse, and threw Don Quixote and Sancho both on the ground, and sindged. And now all the bearded Squadron of the Matrons vanished out of the garden, and Trifaldi too and all, and they that remained, counterfeited a dead swound, and lay all along vpon the ground.

Don Quixote and Sancho, ill-intreated, rose vp, and loo­king round about, they wondred to see themselues in the same garden, from whence they had parted, and to see such a company of people layd vpon the ground: and their admirati­on was the more increased, when on one side of the garden, [Page 268] they saw a great lance fastned in the ground, and a smooth white piece of parchment hanging at it, with two twisted strings of greene silke, in which the following words were written with letters of gold.

When Don Quixote had read these letters of the parchment, he vnderstood plainely, that they spoke of the dis-enchanting of Dulcinea, and giuing many thankes to Heauen, that with so little danger he had ended so great an exployt, as reducing the faces of the venerable Wayting-women, to their former smooth­nesse, that were now gone: he went towards the Duke and the Duchesse, who were not as yet come to themselues, and taking the Duke by the hand, hee sayd; Courage, courage, noble Sir, all's nothing, the Aduenture is now ended, without breaking of barres, as you may plainely see by the writing there in that Register.

The Duke (like one that riseth out of a profound sleepe) by little and little came to himselfe, and in the same Tenor the Du­chesse, and all they that were downe in the garden, with such shewes of maruell and wonderment, that they did euen seeme to perswade, that those things had happened to them in earnest, which they counterfeited in iest. The Duke read the scrowle with his eyes halfe shut; and straight, with open arme, hee went to imbrace Don Quixote, telling him he was the brauest Knight that euer was. Sancho looked vp and downe for the Afflicted, [Page 269] to see what manner of face shee had, now shee was dis-bearded, and if shee were so faire, as her gallant presence made shew for: but they told him, that as Clauileno came downe burning in the aire, and lighted on the ground, all the Squadron of Wayting-women with Trifaldi vanished, and now they were shaued and vnfeathered.

The Duchesse asked Sancho, how he did in that long voyage? To which he answered, I, Madam, thought (as my Master told me) we passed by the Region of fire, and I would haue vncoue­red my selfe a little; but my Master (of whom I asked leaue) would not let me: but I that haue certaine curious itches, and a desire to know what is forbidden me, softly, without being per­ceiued, drew vp the handkerchiffe that blinded me, a little a­boue my nose, and there I saw the earth, and me thoughts it was no bigger then a graine of Mustard-seed, and the men that wal­ked vpon it, somewhat bigger then Hazel-nuts, that you may see how high we were then. To this (sayd the Duchesse) Take heede, friend Sancho, what you say; for it seemes you saw not the earth, but the men that walked on it: for it is plaine, that if the earth shewed no bigger then a graine of Mustard-seede, and euery man like a Hazel-nut, one man alone would couer the whole earth.

Tis true indeede (quoth Sancho) but I looked on one side of it, and saw it all. Looke you, Sancho (quoth the Duchesse) one cannot see all of a thing by one side. I cannot tell what belongs to your seeing. Madam (quoth Sancho) but you must thinke, that since wee flew by Enchantment; by Enchantment, I might see the whole earth and all the men, which way soeuer I looked: and if you beleeue not this, neither will you beleeue, that vncouering my selfe about my eye-browes, I saw my selfe so neere heauen, that betwixt it and me there was not a handfull and a halfe; and I dare sweare, Madam, that 'tis a huge thing: and it hapned that we went that way where the se­uen Shee-goat-starres were, and in my soule and conscience, I hauing been a Goat-heard in my youth, as soone as I saw them, I had a great desire to passe some time with them; which had I not done, I thought I should haue burst. Well, I come then, and [Page 270] I take; What doe I do? without giuing notice to any body? no, not to my Master himselfe: faire and softly I lighted from Cla­uileno, and playd with the Goates that were like white Violets, and such pretty flowers, some three quarters of an houre, and Clauileno moued not a whit all this while.

And while Sancho was playing with the Goats all this while, quoth the Duke, what did Signior Don Quixote? To which (quoth Don Quixote) As all these things are quite out of their naturall course, tis not much that Sancho hath sayd: onely for me, I say, I neither perceiued my selfe higher or lower, neither saw I Heauen, or Earth, or Seas, or Sands. True it is, that I per­ceiued I passed thorow the middle Region, and came to the fire: but to thinke we passed from thence, I cannot beleeue it; for the Region of fire being betweene the Moone, and Heauen, and the latter Region of the aire, wee could not come to Heauen, where the seuen Goats are, that Sancho talkes of, without bur­ning our selues: which since wee did not, either Sancho lies or dreames.

I neither lie nor dreame, quoth Sancho; for aske mee the signes of those Goats, and by them you shall see whether I tell true or no. Tell them, Sancho, quoth the Duchesse. Two of them (quoth Sancho) are greene, two bloud-red, two blew, and one mixt-coloured. Heere's a new kinde of Goats (quoth the Duke) in our Region of the earth wee haue no such coloured ones. Oh, you may bee sure (quoth Sancho) there's difference betweene those and these. Tell mee, Sancho (quoth the Duke) did you see amongst those Shee's An equiuo­call question; for in Spaine they vse to call Cuckolds, Ca­brones, He-goats. any He-goat? No, Sir (quoth Sancho) for I heard say that none passed the hornes of the Moone.

They would aske him no more touching his voyage; for it seemed to them, that Sancho had a clew to carry him all Heauen ouer, and to tell all that passed there, without stirring out of the garden. In conclusion, this was the end of the Aduenture of the Afflicted Matron, that gaue occasion of mirth to the Dukes, not onely for the present; but for their whole life-time, and to Sancho to recount for many ages, if he might liue so long. But Don Quixote whispering Sancho in the eare, told him; Sancho, [Page 271] since you will haue vs beleeue all that you haue seene in Hea­uen, I pray beleeue all that I saw in Montesino's Caue, and I say no more.

CHAP. XLII.

THe Dukes were so pleased with the happy and pleasant successe of the Aduenture of The Afflicted, that they determined to goe on with their iests, seeing the fit sub­iect they had, to make them passe for earnest; so hauing contri­ued and giuen order to their seruants & vassals, that they should obey Sancho in his Gouernment of the promised Iland, the next day after the iest of Clauileno's flight, the Duke bade San­cho prepare, and put himselfe in order, to goe to be Gouernor; for that now his Ilanders did as much desire him, as showres in May.

Sancho made an obeysance to him, and sayd; Since I came downe from Heauen, and since from on high I beheld the earth, and saw it so small, I was partly cooled in my desire to be a Go­uernor; for what greatnes can there be, to command in a graine of Mustard-seede? or what dignity or power to gouerne halfe a doozen of men about the bignesse of Hazel-nuts? for to my thinking, there were no more in all the earth. If it would please your Lordship to giue mee neuer so little in Heauen, though twere but halfe a league, I would take it more willingly then the biggest Iland in the world. Looke yee, friend Sancho (quoth the Duke) I can giue no part of Heauen to no body, though it be no bigger then my nayle: for these fauours and graces: are onely in Gods disposing. What is in my power, I giue you, that is, an Iland, right and straight, round and well-proportio­ned, and extraordinarily fertill and abundant, where, if you haue the Art, you may with the riches of earth, hoord vp the trea­sure of Heauen.

Well then (quoth Sancho) giue vs this Iland, and in spight of Rascals Ile go to heauen; and yet for no couetousnesse to leaue my poore Cottage, or to get me into any Palaces, but for the desire I haue to know what kinde of thing it is to bee a Gouer­nour.

If once you proue it, Sancho, quoth the Duke, you will be in loue with gouerning; so sweet a thing it is to command, and to be obeyed. I warrant, when your Master comes to be an Empe­rour, for without doubt he vvill be one (according as his affaires goe on) that he vvill not bee drawne from it, and it will grieue him to the soule, to haue beene so long otherwise.

Sir, (quoth Sancho) I suppose 'tis good to command, though it be but a head of Cattell.

Let me liue and die with thee, Sancho, (quoth the Duke) for thou knowest all, and I hope thou wilt be such a Gouernour as thy discretion promiseth, and let this suffice; and note, that to morrow about this time thou shalt goe to the Gouernment of thy Iland, and this afternoone thou shalt be fitted with conueni­ent apparell to carry with thee, and all things necessary for thy departure.

Clad mee (quoth Sancho) how you vvill, for howsoeuer ye clad me, Ile be still Sancho Pansa.

You are in the right (quoth the Duke) but the Robes must be sutable to the Office or dignity which is professed; for it were not fit that a Lawyer should be clad like a Souldier, or a Souldier like a Priest. You, Sancho, shall bee clad, partly like a Lawyer, and partly like a Captaine: for in the Iland that I giue you, Armes are as requisite as Learning.

I haue little learning (quoth Sancho) for as yet I scarce know my A. B. C. but 'tis enough that I haue my Christs Crosse rea­dy in my memory to bee a good Gouernour. Ile manage my weapon till I fall againe, and God helpe mee. With so good a memory (quoth the Duke) Sancho cannot doe amisse.

By this time Don Quixote came, and knowing what passed, and that Sancho vvas so speedily to go to his Gouernment, with the Dukes leaue, hee tooke him by the hand, and carried him a­side, with a purpose to aduise him how hee should behaue him­selfe [Page 273] in his Office. When they came into Don Quixote's cham­ber, the doore beeing shut, hee forced Sancho, as it vvere to sit downe by him, and vvith a stayed voyce said:

I giue infinite thankes, friend Sancho, that before I haue re­ceiued any good fortune, thou hast mette vvith thine: I that thought to haue rewarded thy seruice with some good lucke of mine to haue saued that labour, and thou sodainely past all expe­ctation hast thy desires accomplished, others bribe, importune, sollicit, rise earely, intreat, grow obstinate, and obtaine not what they sue for; and another comes hab-nab, and goes away vvith the place or Office, that many others sought for, & heere the Prouerbe comes in and ioynes well; that, Giue a man luck, and cast him in the Sea. Thou, that in my opinion art a very Goose, without early rising, or late sitting vp, without any la­bour, onely the breath of Knight-Errantry breathing on thee, without any more adoe art Gouernour of an Iland, a matter of nothing. All this I say, Sancho, that thou attribute not this hap­pinesse to thy deserts, but that thou giue God thankes, that sweetly disposeth things; next, thou shalt impute them to the greatnesse of the profession of Knight Errantry. (Thy heart then disposed to beleeue what I haue said) be attentiue, oh my sonne, to this thy Cato, that will aduise thee, be thy North-starre and guide to direct and bring thee to a safe port, out of this trou­blesome Sea where thou goest to ingulfe thy selfe in; for your Offices and great charges are nothing else but a profound gulfe of confusions.

First of all, O sonne, thou must feare God: for to feare him, is wisedome, and being wise, thou canst erre in nothing.

Secondly, thou must consider who thou art, and know thy selfe, which is the hardest kinde of knowledge that may be ima­gined: from this knowledge thou shalt learne not to be swolne like the frogge, that would equall himselfe with the Oxe, for if thou doe this, thou shalt (falling downe the wheele of thy mad­nesse) come to know thou wert but a hogge-keeper.

That's true (quoth Sancho) but 'twas when I was a boy: but after, when I grew to be somewhat mannish, I kept Geese, and not Hogges: but this me thinkes is nothing to the purpose, for [Page 274] all they that gouerne, come not from the loynes of Kings.

Tis true (said Don Quixote) therefore these that haue no no­ble beginnings, must mixe the grauity of their charge they ex­ercise, with milde sweetnesse, which, guided with wisedome, may free them from malicious murmuring, from which no state or calling is free.

Reioyce, oh Sancho, in the humility of thy linage, & scorne not to say, thou commest of labouring men, for when thou art not ashamed thy selfe, no body will seeke to make thee so, and alwaies striue to be held meane and vertuous, rather then proud and vicious: an infinite number from low beginnings haue come to great risings, as Pontificiall and Imperiall dignities: and to confirme this, I could bring thee so many examples as should weary thee.

Note, Sancho, that if you follow Vertue for your meane, and striue to doe vertuous deeds, you need not enuy those that are borne of Princes and great men, for bloud is inherited, but ver­tue is atchieued, vertue is of worth by it selfe alone, so is not birth.

Which being so, if perchance any of thy kindred come to see thee when thou art in thy Iland, refuse him not, nor affront him, but entertaine, welcome, and make much of him, for with this, God will be pleased, that would haue no body despise his making, and thou shalt also in this correspond to good nature.

If thou bring thy wife with thee (for it were not fit that those who are to gouern long, should be without them) teach her, in­struct her, refine her naturall rudenesse: for many times all that a discreet Gouernour gets, a clownish foolish woman spills and loses.

If thou chance to be a widdower (a thing that may happen) and desire to marry againe, take not such a one as may serue thee for a baite and fishing rodde to take bribes: for let me tell thee, the husband must giue an account of all that (being a Iudge) his wife receiues, and at the generall resurrection, shall pay foure­fold what he hath beene accused for in his life-time.

Neuer pronounce iudgement rash or wilfully, which is very frequent with ignorant Iudges, that presume to be skilfull.

Let the teares of the poore finde more compassion (but not more iustice) then the informations of the rich.

Seeke as well to discouer the truth, from out the promises and corruptions of the rich, as the sobs and importunities of the poore.

When equity is to take place, lay not all the rigour of the law, vpon the delinquent; for the fame of the rigorous Iudge, is not better then of the compassionate.

If thou slacken Iustice, let it not be with the waight of a bribe; but with the waight of pitty.

When thou happenest to iudge thine enemies case, forget thy iniury, and respect equity.

Let not proper passion blinde thee in another mans cause, for the errors thou shalt commit in that, most commonly are incure­able, or if they be helped, it must be with thy wealth and credit.

If any faire woman come to demand iustice of thee, turne thy eyes from her teares, and thy eares from her lamentations, and consider at leisure the summe of her requests, except thou mean that thy reason be drowned in her weeping, and thy goodnesse in her sighes.

A good Item to our Iudges of the Commō Law. Him that thou must punish with deeds, reuile not vvith words, since to a wretch the punishment is sufficient, vvithout adding ill language.

For the delinquent that is vnder thy iurisdiction, consider that the miserable man is subiect to the temptations of our de­praued nature, and as much as thou canst, without grieuance to the contrary party, shew thy selfe milde & gentle, for although Gods attributes are equall, yet to our sight his mercy is more precious and more eminent then his iustice.

If Sancho, thou follow these rules and precepts, thy daies shall be long, thy fame eternall, thy rewards full, thy happinesse in­delible, thou shalt marry thy children how thou wilt, they shall haue titles, and thy grand-children, thou shalt liue in peace and loue of all men, and when thy life is ending, death shall take thee in a mature old age, and thy Nephewes shall close thy eyes with their tender and delicate hands.

Those I haue told thee hitherto, are documents, concerning [Page 274] [...] [Page 275] [...] [Page 276] thy soule; to adorne it, hearken now to those that must serue for the adorning thy body.

CHAP. XLIII.

WHo could haue heard this discourse, and not held Don Quixote for a most wise Personage, and most honest? But as it hath beene often told in the pro­gresse of this large History, he was onely besotted, when he tou­ched vpon his Cauallery, and in the rest of his talke hee shewed a cleere and currant apprehension: so that euery foot his works bewrayed his iudgement, and his iudgement his workes. But in these secōd documents he gaue now to Sancho, he shew'd a great deale of lenity, and ballanced his iudgement and his madnesse in an equall Scale. Sancho harkened most attentiuely vnto him, and stroue to beare in minde his instructions, as thinking to obserue them, and by them to be very well deliuered of his big-swolne Gouernment. Don Quixote proceeded, saying;

Touching the gouerning thine owne person and houshold, Sancho, the first thing I enioyne thee to, is to be cleanly, and to paire thy nailes, not letting them grow, as some doe, whose ig­norance hath made them thinke 'tis a fine thing to haue long nailes, as if that excrement and superfluity that they let grow, were onely their nailes, rather the clawes of a lizard-bearing Ca­strell, and a foule abuse it is.

Goe not vn-girt or loose, for a slouenly garment is a signe of a carelesse minde, if so be this kinde of slouenly loosenesse be not to some cunning end, as it was iudged to be in Iulius Caesar.

Consider with discretion vvhat thy Gouernment may bee worth, & if it will afford thee to bestow liueries on thy seruants, giue them decent and profitable ones, rather then gawdie or sightly, and so giue thy cloth amongst thy seruants & the poore, I meane, that if thou haue sixe Pages, giue three of them liueries, [Page 279] and three to the poore, so shalt thou haue Pages in earth, and in heauen: and your vaine-glorious haue not attained to this kinde of giuing liueries.

Eat not Garlicke or Onions, that thy Pesantry may not bee knowne by thy breath: walke softly, and speak stayedly, but not so as if it appeared thou hearkenedst to thy selfe, for all kinde of affectation is naught.

Eat little at dinner, but lesse at supper, for the health of the whole body is forged in the forge of the stomake.

Be temperate in drinking, considering that too much wine neyther keepes secret, nor fulfils promise.

Take heede, Sancho, of chewing on both sides, or to ruct before any body.

I vnderstand not your ructing, quoth Sancho: to ruct (quoth he) is as much as to belch, and this is one of the fowlest words our language hath, though it be very significant; so your more neat people haue gotten the Latin word, and call belching, ruc­ting, & belchers, ructers: and though some perhaps vnderstand not this, tis no great matter, for vse and custome will introduce them that they may easily be vnderstood, and the power that the vulgar and custome hath, is the enriching of a language.

Truly (said Sancho) one of your aduices that I meane to re­member, shall be not to belch, for I am vsed to do it often. Ruct, Sancho, not belch, quoth Don Quixote. Ruct I will say, quoth he, hence-forward, and not forget it.

Likewise, Sancho, you must not intermixe your discourse vvith that multiplicity of Prouerbs you vse; for though Pro­uerbs be witty short sentences, yet thou bringest them in so by head and shoulders, that they are rather absurdities then senten­ces. This (quoth Sancho) God Almighty can onely helpe, for I haue more Prouerbs then a booke will hold, & when I speake, they come so thick to my mouth, that they fall out, & striue one with another, who shall come out first: but my tongue casts out the first it meetes withall, though they bee nothing to the pur­pose, but I will haue a care heereafter, to speake none but shall be fitting to the grauity of my place; for where there is plenty, the ghests are not empty, and he that works, doth not care for [Page 280] play, and he is in safety that stands vnder the bels, and his iudge­ment's rare, that can spend and spare.

Now, now, quoth Don Quixote, glue, thred, fasten thy pro­uerbs together, no body comes: the more thou art told a thing, the more thou dost it; I bid thee leaue thy prouerbs, and in an instant thou hast cast out a Letany of vm, that are as much to the purpose, as, To morrow I found a horse-shoo. Looke thee Sancho, I finde not fault with a prouerbe brought in to some purpose, but to load and heap on Prouerbs huddling together, makes a discourse wearisome and base.

When thou getst on horse-backe, doe not goe casting thy bo­dy all vpon the crupper, nor carry thy legges stiffe downe, and straddling from the horses belly, nor yet so loosely, as if thou wert still riding on thy Dapple, for your horse-riding makes some appeare Gentlemen, others Groomes.

Let thy sleepe be moderate, for hee that riseth not with the Sunne, loseth the day: and obserue, Sancho, that diligence is the mother of good Fortune, and sloth the contrary, that neuer could satisfie a good desire.

This last aduice that I meane to giue thee, though it be not to the adorning of the body, yet I would haue thee beare it in thy memory; for I beleeue it will bee of no lesse vse to thee, then those that I haue hitherto giuen thee, and it is,

That thou neuer dispute of Linages, comparing them toge­ther, since of necessity amongst those that are compared, one must be the better, and of him thou debasest thou shalt bee ab­horred, and of him ennoblest, not a whit rewarded.

Let thy apparell be a pained hose, and long stockings, a long-skirted iacket, and a cloake of the longest: but long hose by no meanes, for they become neyther Gentlemen nor Gouernours.

This is all, Sancho, I will aduise thee to for the present; as the time and occasions serue hereafter, so shall my instructions bee, so that thou be carefull to let me know how thou dost.

Sir, (quoth Sancho) I see well that you haue told me nothing but what is good, holy, and profitable: but to what purpose, if I remember nothing? True it is that, that of not letting my nailes grow, and to marry againe if need be, I shall not forget; [Page 281] but your other slabber-sawces, your tricks and quillets, I cannot remember them, nor shall not, no more then last yeeres clouds: therefore I pray let me haue them in writing, for though I can neyther write nor read, Ile giue them to my Confessor, that he may frame them into me, and make me capable of them at time of need.

Wretch that I am, quoth Don Quixote, how ill it appeares in a Gouernour, not to write or reade! for know, Sancho, that for a man not to read, or not to be left-handed, argues that eyther he was a sonne of meane Parents, or so vnhappy and vntoward­ly, that no good would preuaile on him.

I can set to my name, quoth Sancho, for when I was Con­stable of our Towne, I learnt to make certaine letters, such as are set to marke trusses of stuffe, which they said spelt my name: Besides now, Ile faine that my right hand is maimed, and so an­other shall firme for me; for theres a remedy for euery thing but death; and since I beare sway, Ile doe what I list: for accor­ding to the Prouerb. A troope of absurd spee­ches still to Sancho's part. He that hath the Iudge to his Father, &c. and I am Gouernour, which is more then Iudge. I, I, let vm come and play at boe-peepe, let vm backe-bite me, let vm come for wooll, and Ile send them backe shorne; whom God loues, his house is sauoury to him, and euery man beares with the rich mans follies, so I being rich, and a Gouernour, and liberall too, as I meane to be, I will be without all faults. No, no, pray be dainty, and see what will become on't, haue much, and thou shalt be esteemed much, quoth a Grandame of mine, and might ouercomes right.

Oh, a plague on thee, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote) three­score thousand Satans take thee and thy Prouerbs, this howre thou hast beene stringing them one vpon another, and giuing me tormenting potions with each of them: I assure thee, that one of these dayes these Prouerbs will carry thee to the gallows, for them thy vassalls will bereaue thee of thy Gouernment, or there will be a community amongst them. Tell mee, ignorant, Where dost thou finde them all? or how dost thou apply them, Ninny-hammer? for, for me to speake one and apply it well, it makes me sweat and labour, as if I had digged.

Assuredly, Master mine, quoth Sancho, a small matter makes you angry: why the Deuill doe you pine that I make vse of my owne goods? for I haue no other, nor any other stocke but Prouerbs vpon Prouerbs: and now I haue foure that fall out iump to the purpose, like Peares for a working basket: but I wil say nothing, for now Sancho shall be called Silence: Rather bab­ling, quoth Don Quixote, or Obstinacy it selfe; yet I would faine know what foure Prouerbs they be that came into thy minde, so to the purpose; for I can think vpon none, yet I haue a good memory.

What better) said Sancho) then Meddle not with a hollow tooth: And, Go from my house, What will you haue vvith my wife? Theres no answering: and, If the pot fall vpon the stone, or the stone on the pot, ill for the pot, ill for the stone; all which are much to the purpose. That no body meddle with their Go­uernour, nor with their Superiour, lest they haue the worst, as he that puts his hand to his teeth (so they be not hollow, tis no matter if they be teeth) Whatsoeuer the Gouernour saies, there is no replying, as in saying, Get you from my house, and, What will you haue with my wife? and that of the pot and the stone, a blinde man may perceiue it: so that he that sees the moate in an­other mans eye, let him see the beame in his owne, that it may not be said by him, The dead was afraid of her that was flayd. And you know, Sir, that the foole knowes more in his owne house, then the wise man doth in anothers.

Not so, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote:) for the foole, neyther in his owne house nor anothers, knowes ought, by reason that no wise edifice is seated vpon the increase of his folly: and let vs leaue this, Sancho, for if thou gouerne ill, thou must beare the fault, and mine must be the shame; but it com­forts mee that I haue done my duty in aduising thee truly, and as discreetly as I could, and with this I haue accomplisht with my obligation, and God speed thee Sancho, and gouerne thee in thy Gouernment, and bring mee out of the scruple I am in, that thou wilt turne thy Gouernment with the heeles vpwards, which I might preuent, by letting the Duke knovv thee better, and telling him, that all that fatnesse, and [Page 283] little corps of thine, is nothing but a sack of Prouerbs and knauerie.

Sir (quoth Sancho) if you thinke I am not fit for this Gouern­ment, from henceforward I lose it: I had rather haue a poore little scrap of the naile of my soule, then my whole body: and I can as well keepe my selfe with, plaine Sancho, a Loafe and an Onyon, as a Gouernour with Capons & Partridges: and whilst we are asleepe, all are alike: great and small, poore and rich: and if you consider on't, you shall finde, that you onely put me into this veine of gouerning: for I know no more what belongs to gouerning of Ilands then a Vulture, and rather, then in being a Gouernour, the Diuell shall fetch my soule; I had rather be San­cho, and goe to heauen, then a Gouernour and go to hell. True­ly, Sancho, quoth Don Quixote: for these last words thou hast spoken, I deeme thee worthy to gouern a thousand Ilands; thou hast a good naturall capacitie, without which no science is worth ought; serue God, and erre not in thy maine intentions, I meane that thou alwayes haue a firme purpose and intent, to be sure in all businesses that shall occurre, because Heauen alwayes fauours good desires, and let's goe dine: for I beleeue now the Lords expect vs.

CHAP. XLIV.

TIs sayd, that in the originall of this History, it is read, that when Cid Hamete came to write this Chapter, the Interpreter translated it not as he had written it, which was kinde a of complaint of himselfe, that he vndertooke so dry and barren a story, as this of Don Quixote, because it seemed that Don Quixote and Sancho were the sole speakers, and that he durst not enlarge himselfe with other digressions, or grauer ac­cidents and more delightfull: and he sayd, That to haue his in­uention, [Page 284] his hand and his quill, tyed to one sole subiect, and to speake by the mouthes of few, was a most in supportable labor, and of no benefit to the Author: so that to auoyd this inconue­nience, in the first part he vsed the Art of Nouels, as one, of The Curious Impertinent, another of The captiu'd Captaine, which are (as it were) separated from the History, though the rest that are there recounted, are matters that happened to Don Quixote, which could not but be set downe: he was of opinion likewise, as he sayd, that many being carried away with attention to Don Quixotes exployts, would not heede his Nouels, and skip them, either for haste or irkesomnesse, without noting the cunning worke-manship, and framing of them, which would be plainely shewne, if they might come to light by themselues alone, with­out Don Quixotes madnesse, or Sancho's simplicities; therefore in this second part, hee would not engraffe loose Nouels, or ad­ioyning to the Story, but certaine accidents that might bee like vnto them, sprung from the passages that the truth it selfe offers, and these too sparingly, and with words only proper to declare them: and since, he is shut vp and contained in the limits of this narration, hauing vnderstanding, sufficiency and ability to treat of all, his request is, that his labour bee not contemned, but ra­ther that hee bee commended, not for what hee writes, but for what he hath omitted to write: so he goes on with his History, saying;

That when Don Quixote had dined, the same day that hee gaue Sancho his instructions, in the after-noone he let him haue them in writing, that he might seeke some body to read them to him: but as soone as euer he had giuen him them, he lost them, and they came to the Dukes hands, who shewed them to the Duchesse; and both of them afresh admired at Don Quixotes madnesse, and his vnderstanding together: and so going for­ward with their iests, that afternoone they sent Sancho well ac­companied to the place, that to him seemed an Iland.

It fell out then that the charge of this businesse was laid vpon a Steward of the Dukes, a good wise fellow, and very conceited; for there can be no wit that is not gouerned with discretion; hee it was that playd the Countesse Trisaldis part, with the cun­ning [Page 285] that hath beene related, with this and with his Masters in­structions how he should behaue himselfe towards Sancho, hee performed his taske maruellously. I say then, that it hapned, that as Sancho saw the Steward, the very face of Trifaldi came into his minde, and turning to his Master, hee said: Sir, the Diuell beare me from hence iust as I beleeue, if you doe not confesse, that this Steward of the Dukes heere present, hath the very countenance of the Afflicted.

Don Quixote earnestly beheld the Steward, and hauing tho­rowly seene him, said to Sancho: There is no need of the Diuels taking thee iust as thou beleeuest (for I know not what thou meanest) for the Afflicteds face is iust the same that the Stewards is: but for all that, the Steward is not the Afflicted; for, to bee so, were a manifest contradiction, and now tis no time to sift out these things, which were to enter into an intricate Laby­rinth: beleeue me, friend; 'twere fit to pray to God very ear­nestly, to deliuer vs from these damned Witches and Enchan­ters. Tis no iesting matter, quoth Sancho, for I heard him speak before, and me thought the very voice of Trifaldi sounded in my eares.

Well, I will bee silent: but yet I will see henceforward, if I can discouer any signe to confirme or forgoe my iealousie. You may doe so, Sancho, quoth Don Quixote; and you shall giue me notice of all that in this businesse you can discouer, and of all that shall befall you in your Gouernment.

Sancho in conclusion departed with a great troope, clad like a Lawyer, & vpon his backe he had a goodly tawny riding Coat of watred Chamlet, and a Hunters Cap of the same, he rode vp­on a Hee Moyle The Stir­rops short, and his legges trussed vp. after the Ginet fashion, and behinde him, by the Dukes order, his Dapple was ledde, with trappings and Asse-like ornaments all of silke: Sancho turned his head now and then to looke vpon his Asse, with whose company he was so well pleased, that he would not haue changed to haue beene Emperour of Germany. At parting he kissed the Dukes hands, and receiued his Masters benediction, who gaue it him vvith teares, and Sancho receiued it with blubberings.

Now, Reader, let honest Sancho part in peace and in good [Page 286] time, and expect two bushels of laughter, which his demeanour in his Gouernment will minister to thee: and in the meane time, marke what befell his Master, that very night: for if it make thee not laugh outright, yet it will cause thee shew thy teeth, and grin like an Ape: for Don Quixotes affaires must either bee so­lemnized with admiration or laughter.

Tis said then, that Sancho was scarce departed, when Don Quixote resented his solitarinesse, and if it had been possible for him to haue reuoked his Commission, or taken away his Go­uernment, he would haue done it.

The Duchesse knew his Melancholy, and asked him why he was so sad: for if it were for Sancho's absence, shee had Squires, and Waiting-women, and Damozels in her house, that would doe him all seruice.

True it is, Madam, quoth Don Quixote, that I resent San­cho's absence: but that is not the principall cause, that makes me appeare sad: and of those many kindnesses, that your Excellency offers me, I onely accept and make choyse of the good will with which they are offered, and for the rest, I humbly beseech your Excellencie, that you giue me leaue in my Chamber to serue my selfe.

Truely, Signior Don Quixote, quoth the Duchesse, it must not be so: for foure of my Damozels shall waite vpon you, as faire as flowers. They shall be no flowers to mee (quoth he) but very thornes, that pricke my soule. They shall fly as soone as enter into my Chamber, or come neere me. If your Great­nesse will continue in your fauours towards me, let this be one, that I may serue my selfe within mine owne doores, that I may put a wal in midst of my desires and honesty; and I will not for­goe this custome, for all the liberalitie that your Highnesse will shew vnto. To conclude, I will rather sleepe in my cloathes, then yeeld that any body shall help to vndresse me.

Enough enough, Signior Don Quixote (quoth the Duchesse) for my part, Ile giue order that not so much as a Fly, shall come within your distance, much lesse a Damozell: I am none of those that would make Signior Don Quixote transcend his decency▪ [...] as I haue a kind of glimmering, one of Signior Don Quixote [...] [Page 287] most eminent vertues, is his honestie. Vndresse your selfe, and goe to bed alone after your owne fashion how you will, and no body shal hinder you, & in your chamber you shal haue al things necessary, and locke your doore to you: your vessels shall be rea­dy, that no naturall cause make you rise to open your doore.

Long liue the Grand Dulcinea del Toboso, and her name farre extended vpon the Globe of the earth, since she deserued to bee beloued of so honest and valiant a Knight: and the gracious heauens infuse into Sancho Pansa our Gouernour his heart, a de­sire to finish the disciplining of himselfe quickly, that the world may re-enioy the beauty of so great a Lady.

To which (quoth Don Quixote) your Highnesse hath spo­ken like your selfe: for no ill thing can proceed from the mouth of so good a Lady, and Dulcinea shall be the more happie, and more esteemed in the world, in that your Greatnesse hath prai­sed her, then if she had had the praises of the best Rhetoricians in the world.

Well: Goe too, Signior Don Quixote (quoth the Duchesse) tis now supper time, and the Duke expects vs; come, Sir, let's sup, and to bed betimes: for your voyage yesterday from Can­daya, was not so short, but it hath left some wearinesse in you.

None at all, Lady (quoth he:) for I may sweare to your Ex­cellencie, that in my life time I neuer rode vpon a gentler nor bettter-paced Beast then Clauileno; and I know no reason why Malambruno should lose so swift and so gentle a horse, and so burne him without more adoe.

You may imagine (quoth she) that hee repenting him of the hurt he had done Trifaldi and her company, and many others; and of the wickednes, that as a Witch & Enchanter he had com­mitted) would destroy the instruments of his office; and so burnt Clauileno as the chiefest of them; and that which did most disquiet him, rouing vp and downe; and so with his burnt ashes, and the trophy of the scrowle, Don Quixotes valour is e­ternalized.

Don Quixote afresh gaue fresh thankes to the Duchesse: and when hee had supt, he retyred to his Chamber alone, without permitting any body to serue him, he was so afraid to meet with [Page 288] occasions that might induce him to forget the honest Decorum due to his Lady Dulcinea, Amadis his goodnes being alwayes in his imagination, the flower and Looking-glasse of Knights Errant.

The doore he shut after him, and vndressed himselfe by the light of two Waxe Candles, as he pulled off his stockings (Oh ill lucke vnworthy such a personage) there broke from him, not sighs or any such thing that might discredit his cleanely neat­nesse, but some foure and twenty stitches and a halfe, that made his stocking looke like a Lettice-window: the good Knight was extremely afflicted, and would haue giuen for a dram of greene silke, an ounce of siluer: greene silke, I say, for his stoc­kins were greene: and here Benengeli exclaimed, saying: Oh Pouertie, pouertie, I know not what moou'd thrt famous Cor­douan Poet, to call thee holy thankelesse gift. For I that am a Moore, know very well, by the communication I haue had with Christians, that holinesse consists in Charitie, Humilitie, Faith, Obedience and pouertie: but yet a man had need haue [...] speciall grace from God, that can be contented, being poore, ex­cept it be with such a kinde of pouertie, as one of the greatest Saints speakes of: Esteeme of all things as if you had them not, and this is called poorenesse of Spirit. But thou, second pouer­tie, (of that kinde that I meane) why do'st thou mixe thy selfe with Gentlemen, and those that be well borne? Why dost thou make them cobble their shooes; and that the Buttons of their Ierkins, be some Silke, others Hayre, others Glasse? Why must their Ruffes for the most part be vnset Lettice-wayes, and not set with the sticke? (and by this you may perceiue how ancient the vse of Starch is, and of setting Ruffes. He proceeds: Vnhap­py he, that being well borne, puts his credit to shifts, as by ill faring, w^th his doore locked to him, He describes the right cu­stome of his hungry coun­trey men in generall. making his Tooth-picker an Hypocrite, with which he comes to the street doore picking his teeth, though he haue eate nothing that should require such cleanelinesse. Vnhappy he, I say, whose credit is skarred, and thinkes that a patch vpon his shoo is spied a League off, or the thorow sweating of his Hat, or the thred-barenesse of his Cloke, or the hunger of his Maw. All this was renued in Don Quixote [Page 289] by the breach of his Stocking: but his comfort was, that San­cho had left him a payre of Bootes, which he thought to put on the next day. Finally, to bed hee went heauy and pensatiue, as well for want of Sancho's company, as for the irreparable mis­fortune of his Stocking, whose stitches he would haue taken vp, though it had beene with silke of another colour, which is one of the greatest signes of misery, that may befall a Gentleman in the Progresse of his Prolixe necessitie. He put out the lights, twas hot, and he could not sleepe; so he rose from his bed, and opened a little the lidde of an Iron window that looked toward a faire garden; and opening it, hee perceiued and heard people stirring and talking in the Garden; they below raised their voi­ces; insomuch, that these speeches might be heard:

Be not so earnest with me, O Emerencia, to haue mee sing: for thou knowest that euer since this stranger hath beene in the Castle, and that mine eyes beheld him, I cannot sing, but weep: besides, my Ladies sleepe is rather short, then sound; and I would not that she should know we were heere, for al the goods in the world: and though she should sleepe, and not wake, my singing yet were in vaine, if this new Aeneas sleepe, and wake not to giue eare to it, this, that is come into my Kingdome to leaue me scorned and forsaken.

Thinke not of that, friend Altisidora (said they) for doubt­lesse the Duchesse and euery body else in the house is asleepe, except the Master of thy heart, and thy soules alarum; for now I heard him open his window, and he is certainly awake: sing poore grieued wretch, in a low and sweet tune, to the sound of thy Harpe, and if the Duchesse should perceiue it: our excuse shall be, that we are heere by reason tis so hote within doores.

Tis not for our being here, O Emerencia, quoth Altisidora, but that I am not willing my Song should discouer my heart; and that I should bee held by those that haue no notice of the powerfull force of loue, for a longing and light huswife: but come what will on it, better shame in the face, then a spot in the heart: and with this shee heard a Harpe most sweetly playd on. Which when Don Quixote heard, it amazed him: and in the in­stance an infinite company of Aduentures came into his minde, [Page 290] of Windowes, Grates, Gardens, Musick, Courting, and foppe­ries, that he had read in his sottish bookes of Knighthood; and straight he imagined that some Damozell of the Duchesses was enamored on him, and that her honesty enforced her to con­ceale her affection, he was afraid lest he should yeeld, but firme­ly purposed not to be vanquished; so recommending himselfe, heart and soule, to his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he determined to hearken to the Musick: and that they might know hee was there, he fained a sneeze which not a little pleased the Damo­zels, that desired nothing else: so Altisidora running on, and ru­ning her Harpe, began this Song:

Here the sore wounded Altisidora ended her song, and the fright of the required Don Quixote began, who fetching a deepe sigh, said within himselfe, That I must be so vnhappy an Errant, that no Damozell that sees me, but is enamoured on mee? that, Dulcinea del Toboso should be so vnfortunate, that they will not let her alone enioy my incomparable firmenesse? Queens, What meane you toward her? Empresses, why do you persecute her? Damozels of fourteene or fifteene yeeres, why doe you baite her? Leaue, leaue the poore creature, let her triumph, ioy, and reioyce, with the lot that Loue gaue her, in yeelding her my heart, and deliuering her my soule. Look, ye enamoured troop, for Dulcinea onely am I of paste and sugar-pellets, and for all else of Flint; for her I am hony, for you bitter Aloes: Dulcinea on­ly is to me, faire, discreet, honest, gallant, well-born; and others, foule, foolish, light, and worse-borne. Nature threw mee into the world to bee onely hers, and no-bodies else: let Altisidora weepe or sing, His aduen­ture in the first part with the Carrier & Moritornes in the Vente. let the Lady despaire for whom I was banged in the Castle of the Enchanted Moore; for sod or roasted, I am Dulcinea's, cleane, well-nurtured and honest, in spight of all the powerfull witch-crafts of the earth: and with this he clapt to the window sodainely, and all angry and despiteous, as if some dis­grace had befalne him, hee got him to bed: where for the pre­sent we will leaue him, for the Grand Sancho Pansa calls vpon vs, who meanes to begin his famous Gouernment.

CHAP. XLV.

O Perpetuall discouerer of the Antipodes, Torch to the world, Eye of Heauen, sweet stirrer of wine-cooling vessels, one while Titan, another Phoebus, sometimes an Archer, other-whiles a Physician, Father of Poesie, Inuenter of Musicke, thou that alwaies risest, and (though it seemes so) yet neuer settest. To thee I speake, O Sunne, by which man begets man: to thee I speake, helpe me, and lighten my obscure wit, that I may punctually runne thorow the narration of the Grand Sancho Pansa's Gouernment; for without thee I am dull, vnmolded, and confused. I proceed then thus:

Sancho with all his troope came to a Towne, which had in it about a thousand Inhabitants, which was one of the best the Duke had, they told him the Iland was called Barataria, eyther because the town was called Baratario, or else because he had ob­tained his Gouernment so cheap. When he came to the Town-gates (for it was walled) the Officers came out to welcome him, the bells rung, and all the Inhabitants made shew of a generall gladnesse, and they carried him in great pompe to the high Church, to giue God thankes: and straight after some ridicu­lous ceremonies, they deliuered him the keyes, and admitted him for perpetuall Gouernour of the Iland Barataria. His appa­rell, his beard, his fatnesse, and the shortnesse of this new Go­uernour, made all the people admire, that knew not the Iigge of the matter, and those also that knew it, which were many.

Finally, when he came out of the Church, they carried him to the Iudgement seat, and seated him in it, and the Dukes Stew­ard told him, It is an olde custome, Sir Gouernour, in this Iland, that he that comes to take possession of this famous Iland, must answer to a question that shall be asked him, that must be some­what hard and intricate, by whose answere the Towne ghesseth and taketh the pulse of their new Gouernours capacity, and ac­cordingly, [Page 295] is either glad, or sorry at his comming.

Whilst the Steward said this to Sancho, he was looking vpon certaine great Letters that were written vpon the wall ouer-a­gainst his seat, and because he himselfe could not reade, hee as­ked what painting that was in the wall? It was answered him: Sir, the day is set downe there in which your Honor tooke pos­session of this Iland, and the Epitaph saies thus, This day, such a day of the Moneth and Yeere, Signior Don Sancho Pansa tooke pos­session of this Iland, long may hee enioy it. And whom call they Don Sancho Pansa, said Sancho? Your Honor (quoth the Stew­ard:) for no other Pansa hath come into this Iland, but he that is seated in that seat. Well, marke you, Brother, quoth Sancho, there belongs no Don to mee, neyther euer was there any in all my Linage, I am plaine Sancho, my Father was called Sancho, my Grandfather and all were Pansa's, without any additions of Dons or Donnas, and I beleeue this Iland is as full of Dons, as stones: but 'tis enough, God knowes my meaning, and perhaps, if my Gouernment last but foure daies to an end, Ile weed out these Dons, that with their multiplicity doe weary and trouble like Mosquitos. On with your question, Master Steward, Ile answer you as well as I can, let the towne be sorry or not sorry.

At this instant two men came into the iudgement place; the one clad like a husbandman, and the other like a Taylor, ha­uing sheeres in his hand; the Taylor sayd, Sir Gouernor, I and this Husbandman are come before you for this cause: This ho­nest man came yesterday to my shop, and I, sauing your reue­rence, am a Taylor, and a free-man, God be thanked, and shew­ing mee a piece of cloth, asked mee; Sir, will there bee e­nough heere to make me a Capouche? I measuring the cloth, answered him, Yes: hee thought as I did, and I thought true, that I would steale some of his cloth, being maliciously bent, and out of the ill opinion he had of Taylors: and hee replied a­gaine, that I should tell if there were enough to make two: I smelt his drift, and told him, I; and my Gallant in his first kna­uish intention, went adding more Capouches, and I answe­red with more yes-ses, till we came to fiue, and euen now hee came for them, I giue them him, but he will not pay me for the [Page 296] making, rather he demands that I pay him, or returne him his cloth. Is it true this (quoth Sancho)? Yes, said the fellow; but pray, Sir, let him shew his fiue Capouches that hee hath made me. With a very good will, (quoth the Taylor:) and inconti­nently taking his hand from vnder his cloake, hee shewed fiue Capouches in it, vpon each finger one, and said; Behold heere the fiue Capouches that this man would haue me make, and in my soule and conscience I haue not a iot of cloth left, as any workeman shall iudge.

All the by-standers laughed at the number of the Capouches, and the strange contention. Sancho, after a little consideration, said; Me thinkes, in this suit there need no delayes, but a quicke and plaine iudgement; My sentence therefore is, that the Tay­lor lose his labour, and the Husbandman his cloth, and that the Capouches be carried to the poore in the prison, without any more adoe.

If the sentence that passed of the Grazier bredde admiration in the by-standers, this moou'd them to laughter; but what the Gouernour commanded, was fulfilled: before whom, two anci­ent men were now presented; the one had a hollow Cane, in stead of a staffe, the other had none: hee without the staffe, said, Sir, I lent this honest man long since, tenne Crownes in good Gold, to doe him a kindnesse: I let him alone a good while, without asking for them, because I would not put him to more trouble to repay me, then hee had to borrow them of mee; but because I saw him carelesse of the payment, I haue asked him more then once or twice for my money, which hee not onely doth not returne me, but denies, and sayes, hee neuer receiued the tenne Crownes I lent him, or that if I did lend them him, he hath payd me▪ I haue no witnesses, neyther of the lending, or of the payment: I pray, Sir, will you take his Oath? and if he will sweare that hee hath payd mee, I giue him an acquittance from henceforth, and before God. What say you to this, honest olde man with the staffe (quoth Sancho?) Sir, I confesse that hee lent them mee, and The custome in Spaine be­ [...] th [...]t hee who is to [...], makes [...] ouer the rod of Iu­stice. hold downe your rodde, and since he will haue mee sweare, I will, that I haue payd him really and truely. The Gouernour held out his rod, and in the meane time, he with [Page 297] the staffe, gaue it to the other old man to hold, whilest hee was to sweare, as if it had hindred him: so with his hand he made a crosse ouer the rod of Iustice, saying, Twas true that he had lent him the ten crownes that he demanded; but that hee had truely restored them to him againe, and that his forgetting of it, made him continually demand them. Which when the Grand Go­uernour saw, hee asked the Creditor what hee could say against his Aduersary? He said, that surely his debter said true, for hee held him to be an honest man, and a good Christian, and that it might be he had forgotten, how or when he payd him, and that from henceforward hee would neuer demand him ought. The debtor tooke his staffe againe, and making an obeysance, was go­ing out of the iudgement place: Which when Sancho saw, and that he was going without any more adoe, and seeing likewise the others patience, hee nodded with his head on his brest, and clapt the Index of his right hand, vpon his nose & eye-browes, and a pretty while was as it were considering, and by and by lif­ted vp his head, and commanded that the olde man with the staffe should be brought to him: and Sancho seeing him, said, Honest man, giue me that staffe; for I haue vse for it. With a very good will, quoth the olde man; heere tis, Sir, and gaue it him. Sancho tooke it, and giuing it to the other olde man, sayd, Goe on Gods name, now you are payd. I Sir, said the old man? why, can this Cane be worth ten crownes? Yes, said the Gouer­nour, or else I am the veriest block-head in the world: and now you shall see whether I haue a braine or no to gouerne a vvhole kingdome: so hee commanded that before them all the Cane should be broken, which was done, and in the midst of it, they found the ten crownes.

All of them admired at this, and held their Gouernour for a second Salomon. They asked him, how hee gathered that the ten crownes was in the Cane? He answered, That because hee saw the old man that was to sweare, giue his Aduersary the staffe whilest he tooke his oath, and that hee swore he had giuen him the money truely and really; and that when he had ended his oath, he demanded his staffe of him againe, it came into his ima­gination, that within it the money was hidden: whereby it may [Page 298] be collected, that although many Gouernours are starke Asses, yet sometimes it pleaseth God to direct them in their Iudge­ments; for besides, hee had heard the Vicar of his parish tell of such an accident as this, and that he had a speciall memory, for if it were not for forgetting all he desired to remember, there were not such a memory in the whole Iland.

At last one of the old men ashamed, and the other payd his money, they departed, and those that were present, were asto­nisht; and he that wrote downe Sancho's words, deeds, and be­hauiour, could not resolue, whether he should set him downe, A foole or a wise-man.

As soone as this sute was ended, there came a woman into the place of iudgement, laying hold strongly on a man clad to see to, like a rich Grazier, who came crying aloud, and saying, Iustice, Lord Gouernour, Iustice, and if I haue it not on earth, I will seeke it in heauen. Sweet Gouernour, this wicked man met me on the high way, and hath abused my body, as if it had beene an vnwashed ragge; and, vnhappy that I am, he hath got­ten that, that I haue kept these three and twenty yeeres, defen­ding it from Moores and Christians, from home-bred ones and sttangers; I haue beene as hard as a Corke-tree, and kept my selfe as entire as the Salamander in the fire, or as the wooll a­mongst the Briars, and this man must come now with a vvasht hand and handle mee. This is to be tried yet (quoth Sancho) whether this gallants hands be washt or no; and turning to the fellow, he said, What answer you to yonder womans complaint? who all in a fright answered: Sir (quoth he) I am a poor Grazier, and deale in swine, and this morning I went (with pardon be it spoken) from this towne to sell foure hogges, and the tallage and other fees cost me little lesse then they were worth: as I went homeward, by the way I met with this good Matron, & the De­uill the Author of all mischiefe, yoak'd vs together: I gaue her sufficient pay, but she not satisfied, layd hold on me, and would not let me goe till shee had brought mee hither: she sayes that I forced her, and I sweare she lies, and this is true euery iot of it. Then the Gouernour asked him, if he had any mony about him? who answered him, Yes; that he had in a lethern purse in his bo­some, [Page 299] some twenty Crownes in siluer. He commanded him to take it out, & to deliuer it iust as it was to the plaintife; which he did trembling: the woman receiu'd it, and making a thousand Moorish ducks to the company, & praying to God for the Go­uernors life and health, that was so charitable to poore Orphans & Maidens, she went out frō the place of Iudgement, laying fast hold with both her hands on the purse, though first she looked whether twere siluer within or no. She was scarce gone, when Sancho said to the Grazier, that had teares standing in his eyes, & his heart going after his purse; Honest fellow, run after yonder woman, and take her purse from her whether she will or no, and bring it me hither. He spoke not to a foole or a deafe man, for straight he parted like lightning, and went to perform what was commanded him. All that were present were in suspence, & ex­pectation of the end of that suite, and a little after, both man and woman returned together, more fastned and clung together then formerly, she with her coat vp, and her purse in her lappe, and he striuing to get it from her, which was not possible, she did so resist, crying out and saying, Iustice of God & the world: looke you, Sir Gouernour, marke the little shame or feare of this desperate man, that in the middest of a congregation, and in the midst of a street, would take away my purse that you comman­ded him to giue me.

And hath he got it, said the Gouernor? Got it (said she?) I had rather lose my life then the purse. I were a pretty childe yfaith then; you must set other manner of Coltes vpon mee then this poore nasty sneake-vp: Pincers, hammers, beetles, scraping tooles, shall not get it out of my clawes, out of my Lyons pawes; they shall rather get one halfe of my soule out of my flesh. Shee sayes right (quoth the fellow) I yeeld to her, I haue no more power, I confesse my force is not sufficient to take it away.

Then said the Gouernour to the woman; You, honesty, Vi­rago, giue me that purse hither: which shee did: and the Gouer­nor restored it againe to the man, & said to the forcible woman, but not forced, Do you heare, sister? if you had shewed but halfe your valor & breath to defend your body, that you did for your purse, Hercules his force could not haue forced you: get you gon [Page 300] with a Pox; come not into this Iland, nor in sixe Leagues round about it, on paine of two hundreth lashes: get you gone straight (I say) make-bate, shamelesse coozener: the woman was affrigh­ted, and away she went like a sheepe-biter, and melancholy, and the Gouernour said to the man, Honest fellow, get you home on Gods name with your money, and henceforward if you meane not to lose it, pray haue no minde to yoake with any body. The man as clownishly as he could, thanked him, and went his way: the by-standers admired afresh at the iudgement, and sentences of their new Gouernour. All which noted by his Chroniclist, was straight written to the Duke, that with much desire expe­cted it. And leaue we honest Sancho here: for his Master hastens vs now, that was all in a hurly-burly with Altisidora's Musick.

CHAP. XLVI.

WEe left the Grand Don Quixote enveloped in the imaginations, which the Musicke of the enamoured Damozell Altisidora had caused in him: to bed hee went with them, and as if they had beene Fleas; they gaue him no rest or quiet, and to these were added those of his torne Stoc­kings: but as time is swift, and no stumbling blocke will stay him, he went on horse-backe on the houres, and the morning came on speedily. Which when Don Quixote saw, hee left his soft bed, and nothing lazie, put on his Chamoized apparell and his Bootes, to hide the hole of his Stockings; he cast his Scarlet Mantle vpon him, and put on his head his hunters Cap of green Veluet, laced with siluer Lace, his Belt he hung at his shoulder, with his trusty cutting Blade, hee layd hold on a Rosary which he vsed still to carry with him; and with goodly representation and gate he went towards an out-roome, where the Duke and Duchesse were ready drest, and as it were expecting him: and as [Page 301] he was to passe rhorow a Gallery, Altisidora and the other Da­mozell her friend, were greedily expecting him: And as soone as Altisidora saw him, shee fained a swounding; and her friend got her into her lappe, and in all haste went to vn­lace her.

Don Quixote that saw it, comming neere them, said, Now I know from whence these fits proceed.

I know not from whence (said her friend) for Altisidora is the healthiest Damozell in all this house, and I neuer perceiued so much as a sigh from her, since I haue knowne her: a mischiefe on all Knights Errant in the world, if all be so vngratefull: pray Signior Don Quixote, get you gone; for as long as you are here, this poore Wench will not come to her selfe.

To which said Don Quixote, Get me, Mistris, a Lute into my Chamber soone at night, and Ile comfort this afflicted Damo­zell as well as I can: for in amarous beginnings plaine dealing is the most approoued remedy; so he went away, because they that passed by, should not note or obserue him: he was no sooner gone, when the disinayed Altisidora comming to her selfe, said to her cōpanion, By all meanes let him haue the Lute: for vndoub­tedly Don Quixote will giue vs Musicke, and being his, it can­not bee bad.

Straight they went to let the Duchesse know what passed, and of the Lute that Don Quixote required: and she iocund aboue measure, plotted with the Duke and her Damozels, to play a trick with him that should be more pleasant then hurtful; and so with much longing they expected till it should be night, which came on speedily as the day had done, w^ch the Dukes passed in sauoury discourse with Don Quixote: and that day the Duchesse indeed dispatcht a Page of hers, that in the wood acted the enchanted Dulcinea's part, to Teresa Pansa, with her Husband Sancho's Letter, and with the bundle of stuffe that he had left to be sent her, charging him to bring her a true Relation of all that he passed with her.

This done, and it growing towards eleuen of the clocke at night, Don Quixote found a Vyoll in his Chamber: hee tuned it, opened the window, and heard people walke in the Garden, [Page 302] and hauing runne ouer the frets of the Violl, and ordering it as well as he could, he spit and cleared his brest, and straight vvith a voyce somewhat hoarceish, though tuneable, he sung the ensu­ing Romant, which the same day he had composed.

Here Don Quixote ended his Song, which was hearkened to by the Duke, Duchesse, Altisidora, and almost all the folke of the Castle; when suddenly from the toppe of an open Turret, there fell heauily downe vpon Don Quixotes window, by the letting downe of a Cord, a great sacke of Cats with little Low­bels tyed at their tayles, the noise of which was so great, and the mewing of the Cats, that although the Dukes were the in­uenters of the Iest, yet they themselues were euen affrighted, & Don Quixote was timorous and amazed: and such was his ill lucke, that two or three of the Cats got in at the window of his Cabbin, and leaping vp and downe on euery side, it seem'd to him that there were a Region of Diuels in his Chamber: they put out the Candles that were burning there, and now they sought how to get out: the rising and falling of the cord, at which the Low-bels were hanged, ceased not; and the most of the people in the Castle, that knew not the certaintie of the bu­sinesse, were astonisht.

Don Quixote got him on his legges, and laying hold on his sword, began to thrust and slash at the window, crying out a­loud: Auant, ye wicked Enchanters, auant, yee haggish scum; for I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, against whom your wio­ked plots cannot preuaile, or haue any power: and turning to the Cats that were in his Chamber, hee strucke many blowes at them; they got to the Iron window, and there got out: but one of them that saw himselfe so baited with Don Quixotes slashes, leapt vpon his face, and with his nayles and teeth, layd hold on his nose with the pawe. Don Quixote roared out as lowd as hee could. Which when the Duke and Duchesse heard, and considering what it might bee, they ranne yp in all haste to his Chamber, and opening it with a Master Key, they found the poore Knight striuing with all his might, to vnroote the Cat from his face: they called for lights, and saw the vnequal Combate: The Duke came to part the fray, and Don Quixote cryed alowd, Let him alone, leaue mee hand to hand with this Diuell, this Witch, this Enchanter: for Ile make him know the difference betwixt me and him; and who Don Quixote de la Mancha is: but the Cat carelesse of these threats, purred and held fast.

But at length the Duke vnloosed him, and flung him out of the window. Don Quixotes face was sifted ouer, and his nose was not very sound; yet hee was very angry, that they would not let him finish the battell, that was so long drawne out be­twixt him, and that cursed Enchanter. They made some oyle of Aparice to be brought, and Altisidora her selfe with her faire hands bound vp the wounds; and laying to the cloathes, she told him in his eare, All these mis-haps befall thee, flinty Knight, for the sinne of thy hard-hearted obstinacy: and God grant that Sancho thy Squire may forget to whip himselfe, that thy beloued Dulcinea may still be enchanted, neither maist thou enioy her, or come to her bed, at least whilst I liue, that adore thee.

To all this Don Quixote answered not a word; but fetcht a deepe sigh, and straight layd him downe on his bed, thanking the Dukes for their courtesie; not for that he was afraid of that [Page 305] Cattish-Low-Belly Enchanting crue: but that hee was perswa­ded of their good wils to come to retire him.

The Dukes left him to his rest, and went away sorrowfull for the ill successe of the iest; for they thought that Aduenture would not haue lighted so heauily on Don Quixote, which cost him fiue dayes retirement and keeping his bed, where another Aduenture befell him more pleasing then the former, which the Historian will not recount yet, because of repayring to Sancho Pansa, that was very carefull and conceited in his Go­uernment.

CHAP. XLVII.

THe Story tels vs, that Sancho from the Iudgement Seat was carried to a sumptuous Palace, where, in a great and spacious Hall was spred a Royall and plen­tifull Table: the winde-Musick played, and foure Pages came in to minister water to him, which he vsed with much state: the winde-Instruments ceased, and Sancho sate him downe at the vpper end of the Table, because there was no other seate, nor no other Napkin layd but that.

At his elbow there stood a certaine Personage, that after she­wed to be a Physician, with a Whale-bone rod in his hand: then they tooke off a rich white Towell, which couered many sorts of fruits, and a great varietie of seuerall dishes of meates: One that serued to be a kinde of Student, said grace; and a Pag [...] [...]ut a laced Bib vnder Sancho's chinne: and another that play [...] the Caruers part, set a dish of fruit before him: but he had no [...] ­ner eaten a bit, when he with the rod touching the dish, i [...] very suddenly taken from before him: but the Caruer s [...] other dish of meate before him. Sancho would haue tasted [...] but before he could touch it, he with the rodde was at it, [...]nd a Page set it away with as much celeritie as the fruit: which [Page 306] when Sancho saw, he began to be in suspence, and beholding all that were by, asked if that meat were to be eaten like Onely to be toucht, but not swallowed. your chil­drens Corall.

To which, he with the Rod made answere, It must bee eaten, Sir Gouernor (quoth he) according to the vse & custome of Go­uernours in other Ilands. I, Sir, am a Physician, and am stipen­ded in this Iland to bee so to the Gouernours of it: and I am much more carefull of their health, then of mine own; studying night & day, and weighing the complexion of the Gouernour, that I may hit the better vpon the curing him, whensoeuer hee falls sicke: and the principall thing I doe; is, to be present vvith him at meates, and to let him eate what I thinke fit for him, and to take away, what I imagine may doe him hurt, or bee naught for his stomake: and therefore I now commanded the dish of Fruit to be taken away, because it is too moyst; and the other dish, because it was too hote, and had much spice, that prouo­ked thirst; and he that drinkes much, killes and consumes his humidum radicale, wherein life consists. So that (quoth Sancho) you dish of Partridges there rosted, and in my opinion well sea­soned, will doe me no hurt at all.

To which (said the Physician) You shall not eate of them, Sir, as long as I liue.

Why so (quoth Sancho?) the Physician answered, Because Hypocrates our Master, North-starre and light of Physick, sayes in an Aphorisme of his: Omnis saturatio mala, Perdicis autem pessima: the meaning is: All surfet is ill, but that of a Partridge is worst of all.

If it be so (quoth Sancho) pray see, Master Doctor, which of all these dishes will be most holesome for me, and doe mee least hurt, and let me eate of that, without banging of it with your Rod: for in good sadnesse, I tell you plaine, I am ready to dye with hunger; and to deny me my victuals, in spight of Master Doctor, let him say what he will, is rather to take away my life, then to increase it.

You say true, Sir Gouernour (quoth the Physician) and ther­fore my opinion is, that you touch not those boyld Conies, nor that Veale, for it is watrish meate: if it were roasted or pow­dred? [Page 307] but twere much about one. Then (quoth Sancho) that great dish that stands fuming there before me, me thinkes 'tis an A pot of all kinde of [...] sod together. Olla Podrida, and by reason of the diuersities of things it hath in it, I cannot but meet with something that will doe mee good. Absit, quoth the Physician, farre be such an ill thought from vs, quoth the Physician: there is nothing in the world that vvorse nourisheth then an Olla Podrida, fit only for your Prebends and Rectors of Colledges, or for your Country marriages: Let your Gouernours Tables be without them, and let them be furnished with all prime dainties and quaintnesse: And the reason is, be­cause alwaies, and wheresoeuer, and by whomsoeuer, your sim­ple medicines are in more request then your compounds; be­cause in simples there can be no error, in compounds there are many, altring the quantity of things of which they are compo­sed, but that that I know is fit for the Gouernour to eat at pre­sent, to preserue his health, and corroborate it, is, some hundred of little hollow Wafers, and some pretty slice or two of Quince Mermelad, that may settle his stomacke, and help his digestion.

When Sancho heard this, hee leaned himselfe to the backe of his chaire, and by fits now and then looked at the Physician, and with a graue voyce, asked him his name, and where he had stu­died.

To which he answered, My name, Sir Gouernor, is Doctor Pedro Rezio de Agnero, I was borne in a Towne called Tirte a fuera, which is betweene Caraguel and Almodonar del Campo, vpon the right hand, and I tooke my degree of Doctor in the Vniuersity of Osuna. To which (quoth Sancho) all enflamed with choller; Well, Master Doctor Pedro Rezio of Agnero, borne at Tirte a fuera, a towne on the right hand as we goe from Caraguel to Almodonar del Campo, Graduated in Osuna, get you strait out of my sight, or I vow by the Sunne, Ile get me a cud­gell, and with bangs begin with you, and so forward, till I leaue not a Physician in all the Iland, at least such as I know to bee ig­norant; for your wise, prudent, & discreet Physicians, I will hug them, and honor them as Diuine persons. I say againe, Pedro Rezio, get you gone, or else Ile take the chaire I sit vpon, and dash it vpon your head, and let me be called in question for it, [Page 308] when I giue vp my Office; for I can discharge my selfe, by say­ing that I did God seruice to kill such a Physician, the common­wealths hang-man: and let me eat, or else take your Gouernment againe; for an Office that will not afford a man his victuals, is not worth two Beanes.

The Doctor was in an vprore to see the Gouernor so chole­rike, & would haue gone out of the Hall, but that at that instant a posting-horne sounded in the street, and the Caruer peeping out of the window, turned backe, saying; A Post is come from my Lord the Duke, that brings some important dispatch. The Post came straight in, sweating and amazed, and drawing a Pac­ket out of his bosome, he deliuered it to the Gouernor. Sancho gaue it to the Steward, and bade him read the superscription, which was this, To Don Sancho Pansa, Gouernour of the Iland Barataria, to his owne hands, or to his Secretary. Which when Sancho heard, he said, Who is here my Secretary? and one that was by, answered, I, Sir: for I can write and reade, for I am a Biscayner. With that addition, quoth Sancho, you may vvell be Secretary to the Emperour himselfe; open your Packet, and let's heere the Contents.

The new-borne Secretary did so, & hauing viewed the Con­tents, said, that it was a businesse to be imparted in priuate. San­cho commanded those in the Presence to auoid, and onely the Steward and the Caruer to remaine, and the rest, with the Phy­sician went out, and presently the Secretary read the Letter fol­lowing,

Sancho was astonisht, and the standers by seemed to be no o­therwise; and turning to the Steward, he said, Ile tell you what is fit to be done, and that presently; Clappe mee Doctor Rezio into dungeon; for if any body kill me, it is hee, and with so vile and triuiall a death as hunger: Me thinks too, said the Caruer, you should doe well to eat nothing of all this meat vpon the Ta­ble; for this dinner was presented by Nunnes, and it is an olde saying, The neerer the Church, the farther from God. I grant ye so (quoth Sancho) and therefore for the present giue me only a piece of bread, and some foure pound of grapes; for in them there can be no poyson, and indeed I cannot liue without ea­ting: for if we must prouide our selues for these wars that threa­ten vs, twere fit to be well victualled; for the guts vphold the heart, and not the heart the guts. And you, Secretary, answere my Lord the Duke, tell him that his commands shall be fulfilled most punctually: and commend mee to the Duchesse, and say that I request her, that she forget not to send my letter by a spe­ciall messenger, and likewise the fardell to my wife Teresa Pan­sa, and in it shee shall doe mee a particular fauour, and I will bee carefull to serue her to the vttermost of my power: And by the way you may clappe in a commendation to my Master, Signior Don Quixote de la Mancha, that he may see I am thankefull for his bread; and you like a good Secretary, and an honest Biscay­ner, may in the rest adde what you will, or shall thinke fitting. And take away here, and yet leaue me something to eat, and let these Spies, these Murderers and Enchanters come vpon me and my Island, Ile deale with them well enough.

And now a Page came in, saying, Heere's a Husbandman, a suiter that would speake with your Honor in a businesse of im­portance (as hee sayes.) Tis a strange thing of these suiters (quoth Sancho) Is it possible they should be so foolish as not to perceiue that these be not times for them to negotiate in? be­like, we that gouerne, wee that are Iudges, are not men of flesh and bloud: and is it not fit that we should ease our selues, when necessity requires, except they thinke wee should be made of marble? Verily, and in my Conscience if my Gouernment last, (as I haue a glimmering it will not) Ile lay one of these fellowes [Page 310] vp for it. Well, bid this honest fellow come in for this once; but see first that hee be none of the Spies, or any of my murde­rers: No, Sir (quoth the Page) for he is a very dull soule to see to, eyther I know little, or he hath no more harme then a piece of good bread. There's no fearing him (said the Steward) for wee all are heere.

Caruer (quoth Sancho) were it not possible, now that Doctor Rezio is not here, that I might eat a bit of some substantiall meat, though 'twere but a crust and an Onion? To night at Supper (quoth the Caruer) your dinner shall bee amended, and your Honor shall be satisfied. God grant it (quoth Sancho) and now the Husbandman came in, one of a very goodly presence, and that you might see a thousand miles off, was a good hurtlesse soule. The first thing that he said, was, Which is my Lord the Gouernour? Who should it be (quoth the Secretary) but he that sits there in the Chayre? I humble my selfe to his Presence then (quoth the Husbandman) and kneeling on his knees, desired his hand to kisse. Sancho denied it, and commanded him to rise, and to say what he would haue. The Husbandman did so, and said;

I, Sir, am a Husbandman, borne in Miguel Turra, a towne some two leagues from Cindarcal. Here's another Tirte a fuera, quoth Sancho: Say on brother, for let mee tell you, I know the place very well, and it is not farre from my towne. The busi­ness, Sir, is this, quoth the Husbandman; I by Gods blessing, & the full consent of the Catholike Romane Church, am married, haue two sonnes that be Students; the yongest studies to be Ba­chelor, and the eldest to be Master. I am a Widdower, for my wife died, or to say trulier, a wicked Physician killed her, that purged her when she was great with childe: and if it had plea­sed God that she had beene deliuered, and it had beene a sonne, I would haue set him to study to haue beene Doctor, that hee might not haue enuied his brothers, the Bachelor and Master. So that (quoth Sancho) if your wife had not beene dead, or if they had not killed her, you had not now beene a Widdower? No, Sir, by no meanes (quoth the Husbandman.) We are much the neerer (quoth Sancho:) forward, brother, tis time to sleepe, haue you any more to say? I say (quoth the Husbandman) that [Page 311] my sonne that was to be the Bachelor, fell in loue in the same town with a Maiden, called Clara Perlerina, daughter to An­drew Perlerina a rich Farmer: & this name of Perlerina's comes not to them by any off-spring or discent, but that all of this race and name are Palsigiste, and to better the name, they were called Perlerina's; and indeed, the maide is as faire as an O­rientall Pearle: and looking vpon her right side, she is like a flower in the field, but on her left, otherwise; for there shee vvants an eye, that flew out of her head vvith the small pockes: and though shee haue many holes left still in her face, many say that loue her vvell, that those are not holes, but graues vvhere her Louers soules are buried.

Shee is so cleanely, that because shee vvill not bewray her face, shee weares her nose (as you would say) tucked vp, as if it fledde from her mouth, and for all that, it becomes her passing vvell; for shee hath a vvide mouth: and vvere it not that she vvanted tenne or twelue teeth and her grinders, shee might passe, and set a marke for the vvell-fauouredst to come to. For her lippes I say nothing, for they are so thinne and delicate, that if they did vse to reele lippes, they might make a skeine of hers: but because they are of a more different colour then vve see ordinarily in lippes, they are mi­raculous; for they are Iaspered vvith blue and greene, and Berengena-coloured, and vnder correction, Sir Gouernour, since I paint out the parts of her that I meane to make my daughter so exactly, it is a signe I loue her, and that I doe not dislike her.

Paint vvhat you will (quoth Sancho) for I recreate my selfe with the painting: and if I had dined, there were no better dish of fruit to me then your picture.

I humbly thanke you, sir, for that (quoth the Husbandman:) but time will come that I may be thankefull, if I be not now, and if I should paint out to you her gentlenesse, and the height of her body, 'twould admire you: but that cannot be, for she is crooked, her knees and her mouth meet, and for all that 'tis well seene, that if shee could stand vpright, shee would touch the roofe with her head, and long ere this, shee would haue [Page 312] giuen her hand to my sonne to be his spouse, but that shee can­not stretch it out, tis so knotted and crumpled vp; for all that her goodnesse and good shape appears in her long and guttured nailes.

Tis very well (quoth Sancho) and make account, Brother, that now you haue painted her from head to foot. What would you now? come to the matter without fetches, or lanes, or di­gressions, or additions. I would desire you (quoth the Hus­bandman) to giue me a Letter of fauour to my brother by mar­riage, her father; to desire him to consent that this mariage may goe forward, since our fortunes be equall and our births; for to say true, Sir Gouernour, my sonne is possessed with the Deuill, and there's not a day passeth, but the wicked spirits torment him, and once falling in the fire, hath made his face as wrinkled as a piece of parchment, and his eyes are somewhat bleered and running, and hee is as soft conditioned as an Angell; for if it were not for buffeting of himselfe now and then, he were a very Saint.

Will you any thing else, honest friend, quoth Sancho? One thing more (quoth he) but that I dare not tell it; but let it out, it shall not rotte in my brest, speed how it will. I desire, Sir, that you would giue me three hundred, or sixe hundred Dukats to helpe my Bachelors portion, I meane to helpe him to furnish his house, for they will liue by themselues, without being sub­iect to the impertinencies of fathers in Lawes.

Will you haue any thing else (quoth Sancho?) and be not aba­shed or ashamed to tell it. No truly (quoth the Husbandman:) and he had scarce sayd this, when the Gouernor rising vp, layd hold on the chayre that he sate on, saying; I vow to you, good­man splay-foot, vnmannerly clown, if you go not strait & hide your selfe out of my presence, Ile breake your head vvith this chayre here, ye whoor-son Rascall, the Deuils painter: commest thou at this time of day to aske mee sixe hundred Ducats? and where haue I them, stinkard? and if I had them, why should I giue them thee, sottish knaue? What a poxe care I for Miguel Turra, or all the linage of the Perlerinas? Get thee out of my sight, or I sweare by my Lord the Dukes life, that Ile doe as I [Page 313] haue said, Thou art not of Miguel Turra, but some crafty knaue, sent from hell to tempt me: Tell me, desperate man! 'tis not yet a day and a halfe since I came to the Gouernment: how wouldst thou haue mee haue sixe hundreth Ducats? The Caruer made signes to the Husbandman, to get him out of the Hall; who did so like a sheepe-byter, and to see to very fearefull, lest the Gouernour should execute his choller on him: for the cun­ning knaue very wel knew what belonged to his part: but leaue we Sancho to his choller, and peace be in the Quire, and returne we to Don Quixote; for we left his face bound vp, and dressed for his Cattish wounds, of which hee was not sound in eight daies: in one of which this befel him, that Cid Hamete promiseth to recount with all the punctualitie, & truth that he vsually doth in the most triuiall matters of this History.

CHAP. XLVIII.

THe ill-wounded Don Quixote was exceeding musty and melancholy, with his face bound vp, and scarred not by the hand of God, but by the nayles of a Cat (mis­fortunes annexed to Knight Errantry) sixe dayes past ere hee came abroad: in one of which, in a night, when he was awake and vvatching, thinking vpon his mis-haps, and his being per­secuted by Altisidora, he perceiued that somebody opened his Chamber doore with a Key; and straight he imagined that the inamored Damozell came to set vpon his honestie, and to put him to the hazzard of forgoing his loyaltie due to his Mistris Dulcinea del Toboso. No said he, beleeuing in his imagination, & this so lowd that he might easily bee heard) no beauty in the world shall make mee leaue her that is graued and stamped in the midst of my heart, and in my innermost entrailes: be thou, [Page 314] Mistris mine, either transformed into an Onion-like husband-woman, or into a Nimph of the Golden Tagus, weauing webs made of silke and gold twist: be thou in Merlins power, or in Montesino's his, where ere they will haue thee: for wheresoeuer thou art, thou art mine; and wheresoeuer I am, I will be thine His speech ended, and the doore opened both together.

Vp he stood vpon the bed, wrapped from head to foot in a quilt of yellow Sattin, a woollen cap vpon his head, his face and Mustachos bound vp: his face for his scratches; his Mustachos, because they should not dismay or fall downe: in which po­sture, hee lookt like the strangest apparition, that can bee ima­gined.

He nayled his very eyes vpon the doore: and whereas hee thought to haue seene the vanquished and pittifull Altisidora enter, he saw that it was a most reuerend Matron, with a long white gathered Stole, so long that it did couer and bemantle her from head to foot: betwixt her left hand fingers she had halfe a Candle lighted, and with her right hand shee shaddowed her selfe, to keepe the light from her eyes, which vvere hid vvith a great payre of spectacles: she came treading softly, and mo­uing her feet gently.

Don Quixote from his Watch-towre beheld her: and vvhen he saw her furniture, and noted her silence, hee thought it had beene some Hagge or Magician, which came in that shape to doe him some shrewd turne; and hee beganne apace to blesse himselfe.

The Vision came somewhat neerer: but being in the midst of the Chamber, she lifted vp her eyes, and saw with what haste Don Quixote was crossing himselfe: and if he were afraid to see such a shape, she was no lesse affrighted with his: for seeing him so lanke, and yellow in the quilt, and with the bends that dis-figured him, she cryed out, saying, Iesus, What's this? and with the sodaine fright, the Candle dropt out of her hand, and being in the darke, she turned her back to be gone; but for feare stumbled vpon her Coats, and had a sound fall.

Don Quixote timorous, began to say, I coniure thee, Appari­tion! Or whatso'ere thou art, to tell me who thou art, and what [Page 315] thou wilt haue with me: If thou bee'st a soule in Purgatory, tell me, and I will doe what I am able for thee: for I am a Ca­tholike Christian, and loue to doe good to all the world: for, for this cause I tooke vpon me the order of Knight Errant, which I professe (whose practice extends euen to doe good to the soules in Purgatorie.) The broken Matron that heard her selfe thus coniured, by her feare ghessed at Don Quixote, and with a low and pitifull voice she answered him, Signior Don Quixote, (if you be he I meane) I am no Apparition, nor Vision, nor soule of Purgatory, as you haue thought: but Donna Rodriguez, my Lady the Duchesses honour'd Matron, that come to you vvith a case of necessitie of those that you vsually giue redresse to.

Tell me, Donna Rodriguez, quoth Don Quixote, come you happely about some piece of brokage? For let me tell you, if you doe, ther's no good to bee done with mee for any body; thankes to the peerelesse beauty of my Mistris Dulcinea del Toboso. So that let me tell you, Donna Rodriguez, setting aside all amorous messages, you may goe light your Candle againe, and returne, and impart what you will command mee, and any thing you please, excepting I say, all kinde of inciting nicities. I Sir, messages from any body? You know not me, yfaith: I am not so stale yet, that I should fall to those trifles: for God bee praised, I haue life and flesh, and all my teeth and my grinders in my mouth, except some few, that the Catarres which are so common in this countrey of Aragon, haue vsurped on: but stay a little, Sir, Ile goe out and light my Candle, and Ile come in an instant, and relate my griefes to you, as to the redresser of all such like in the world: and so without staying for an answere, she left the roomes where Don Quixote remained stil and pensa­tiue expecting her: but straight, a thousand imaginations came into his minde touching this new Aduenture, and he thought it would be very ill done, or worse imagined, to endanger the breach of his vowed loyaltie to his Mistris, and said to himselfe, Who knowes whether the Diuell, that is so subtill and craftie, may deceiue me now with this Matron? which hee hath not beene able to doe with Empresses, Queenes, Duchesses, Mar­quesses: and I haue heard say often by many well experienced [Page 316] men, that he will rather make a man sinne with a foule, then a faire one: and who knowes whether this priuacie, this opportu­nitie and silence, may not awake my desires now sleeping? and that now in my old age I may fall, where I neuer stumbled in such like chances? 'tis better fly, then try the combate: but sure I am out of my wits, since I talke thus idlely; and sure it is not possible, that a white-stoled lanke-spectacled Matron should mooue or stirre vp a lasciuious thought in the vngodliest brest in the world: Is there any Matron in the world that hath soft flesh? Is there any that is not foolish, nice and coy? Auant then, you Matronly troopes, vnprofitable for mans delight.

How well did that Lady, of whom it was obserued that she had two Matrons Statue-wayes of wood, with their spectacles and Pin-pillowes at the end of her Seate of State, as if they had been at vvorke? and those Statues serued as well to authorize her roome, as if they had beene reall Matrons. And this said, he flung from the bed to haue shut the doore, and not haue let Mi­stris Rodriguez come in: but as he was going to doe it, she vvas come back with her Candle lighted of white Waxe: and when she saw Don Quixote neere her, wrapped in his Quilt, his Bends, his woollen Cap, and a thicke cloth about his neck, she began to feare againe: and stepping two or three steppes backward, she asked, Am I safe, Sir Knight? For I hold it not a very honest signe that you are vp from your bed. Twere fit I asked that question of you, quoth Don Quixote; and therefore let mee know, vvhether I shal be free from rauishing? By vvhom, quoth she? By you (said Don Quixote) for neither am I of Marble, or you of Brasse; neither is it now ten a clocke at day time, but mid-night and something more, as I thinke: and wee are in a more secret and close couch, then the Caue, in vvhich the bold Traiterous Aeneas enioyed the faire and pitying Dido: but giue me your hand, Mistris, and Ile haue no other assurance, then mine owne continencie and warinesse: and in saying this, hee kissed her right hand, and she layd hold of his, which shee gaue him with the same solemnitie.

Here Cid Hamete makes a Parenthesis, and earnestly pro­testeth, [Page 317] he would haue giuen the best Coat he had, to haue seene them both goe so ioyned and linked from the Chamber doore to the bed.

In fine, Don Quixote vvent to his bed, and Donna Rodri­guez sate downe in a Chaire a pretty vvay from it, without ta­king off her spectacles, or setting downe the Candle.

Don Quixote crowded vp together, and couer'd himselfe all o­uer, leauing nothing but his face vncouered: so both of them being quiet: the first that broke off their silence, was Don Quixote, saying, Now, Mistris Rodriguez, you may vnrip your selfe, and dis-maw all that you haue in your troubled heart, and grieued entrailes, which shall be heard by my chaste eares, and relieued with my pious vvorkes.

I beleeue no lesse, said the Matron: for from your gentle and pleasing presence, there could not bee but a Christian an­swere expected.

Thus then it is; Signior Don Quixote, that though you see me set in this Chaire, and in the midst of the Kingdome of A­ragon, in the habit of a poore and way-beaten Matron; I vvas borne in the A barren Mountainous countrey in Spaine, like our Wales. Asturias and Kingdome of Oniedo, and of a li­nage allied to the best of that Prouince: but my hard fortune, and my fathers lauishing, that grew to be a Begger before his time (God knowes how) brought me to the Court at Madrid, vvhere very quietly, and to auoid other inconueniencies, my friends plac't mee to serue as a Chamber-maid to a wor­thy Lady: and though I say it, that for white-worke, hemming and stitching, I was neuer yet put downe in all my life. My friends left me at seruice, and returned homeward, and not long after went (in likelihood) to heauen, for they were won­derfull good Catholike Christians: thus was I an Orphan, and stinted to the miserable wages, and hard allowance, that at Court is giuen to such kinde of seruants: and at that time (I not giuing any occasion thereto) a Squire of the house fell in loue with me, somewhat an elderly man, bigge-bearded, and perso­nable, and aboueall, as good a Gentleman as the King: for hee was of the mountaines; we kept not our loues so close; but that they came to my Ladies eares: who without any more a­doe, [Page 318] with full consent of our holy Mother the Catholike Ro­mane Church, caused vs to be married, by which Matrimony to end my good fortune, if I had any; I had a Daughter, if I had any, I say it was ended, not that I dyed of childbed, for I mis­carried not: but that my Husband not long after dyed of a fright he had, and had I time now to tell you of it, 'twould ad­mire you: and with this, she began to weepe most tenderly, and said, Pardon me, Signior Don Quixote, for I cannot do with­all; as often as I remember my vnfortunate husband, the teares trickle downe my eyes. Lord God! and how stately he would carry my Lady behinde him, vpon a lusty blacke Mule, as black as leat: for then they vsed no Coaches nor hand-Chaires, as now (they say they doe) and then Gentlewomen rode behind their Squires: and I cannot but tell you this Tale, that you may see the punctualnesse and good maners of my Husband.

As he was going in at Saint Iaques his street in Madrid, which was somewhat narrow, a Iudge of the Court, with two Sergeants before him, was comming out: and as soone as my honest Squire saw him, he turned his Mules reines, making shew as if he would waite vpon him: My Lady that rode behinde, as­ked him softly, What do'st thou, knaue? Do'st not see that I am heere? The Iudge very mannerly layd hold on his reine, and said, Keepe your way, Sir: for it were fitter for me to wait vp­on my Lady, Casilda: for that was my Ladies name. Yet still my Husband was earnest with his Cap in his hand, and would haue waited on the Iudge: which when my Lady saw, full of wrath and anger, she pulled out a great Pin; or rather, as I beleeue, a little Bodkin out of her Essoises, and thrust him into the rump; insomuch, that my Husband cryed out, and wriggling his bo­dy, my Lady and he came to the ground together.

Two of her Lackayes came to raise her; and the Iudge and the Sergeants likewise: the gate of Guadalaxara was in an vp­rore, I meane the idle people vp and downe there.

My Lady was faine to walke on foot, and my Husband got him to a Barbers house, saying, that he was runne quite thorow and thorow. This mannerlinesse of my Husbands, was bruted vp and downe; insomuch, that the very Boyes in the streets [Page 319] mocked him: so that for this, and because too he was somewhat pore-blind, my Lady the Duchesse turned him away: for griefe of which, I verily beleeue, he dyed, and I remained Widow, and succourlesse, with a childe to boote, that went on in increa­sing in beauty like the foame of the sea.

Finally, for as much as I had the report of an excellent Seam­stresse, my Ladie the Duchesse that vvas newly married to my Lord the Duke, would needs bring mee with her here to this Kingdome of Aragon together with my Daughter; where in Processe of time shee grew vp, and with her all the prettinesse that could be: she sings like a Larke: she danceth in company as quick as thought, and alone, like a castaway, she writes & reads like a Schoolemaster, and casts account like a Vsurer: for her cleanlines, I say nothing, the water that runnes is not cleaner: and she is now (if I forget not) about sixteene yeeres old, fiue moneths, and three dayes, one or two more or lesse. In fine, a rich Farmers sonne fell in loue with my daughter, one that li­ueth in one of my Lord the Dukes Villages, not farre from hence: in effect I know not how: but they met, and vnder co­lour of marriage, he mocked my Daughter, and will not keepe his promise, and though the Duke know it: for I haue com­plained to him often of it, and beseeched him, to command the yong Farmer to marry my Daughter: but he hath a trades-mans eares, and will not heare mee: the reason is, because the cooze­ning knaues father is rich, and lends him money, and lets him haue credit euery foote to goe on with his iuggling, and will by no meanes discontent or trouble him.

I beseech you, Sir, therefore, to take vpon you the redressing of this wrong, either by intreaties, or by force; since as all the world sayes, you were borne to right wrongs, and protect the needie; Consider that my Daughter is an Orphan; consider her gentlenesse, her youth, and al the good parts that I haue told you of: For in my soule & conscience, amongst all the Damozels that my Lady hath, there is none worthy to vntye her shoo: and one of them they call Altisidora, which is the lustiest and gallantest, in comparison of my daughter is no body. For let me tell you, Sir, All is not gold that glisters: for this Altisidora is [Page 320] more bold, then beauteous; more gamesome, then retired: be­sides, she is not very sound: for she hath a certain breath that an­noyes, and you cannot endure her to stand by you a moment; and my Ladie the Duchesse too: but Mum: they say walls haue eares.

What ayles my Ladie Duchesse: by your life, Mistris Rodri­guez? quoth Don Quixote, By that, said shee, I cannot but an­swere you with all truth.

Doe you marke, Sir, quoth she, that beauty of my Ladies, that smoothnesse of her face, that is like a polisht sword, those two cheekes of Milke and Vermillion, in one of which she hath the Sunne, in the other the Moone, and that state with which shee goes, trampling and despising the ground, as if shee went dea­ling of health vp and downe? Know, Sir, that first shee may thanke God for it: and next, two issues that she hath in both her legs, at which all the ill humour is let out, of which Physicians say she is full.

Saint Mary, quoth Don Quixote, and is it possible that my Ladie the Duchesse hath such out-lets? I should not haue beleeued it if bare-foot Fryers had told me so: but since Donna Rodriguez tels me, it is so: but from such issues, and such pla­ces, no ill humour, but liquid Amber is distilled. I now verily beleeue, that this making of issues is a thing very necessarie for the health.

Scarce had Don Quixote ended this speech, when at one pluck the Chamber doore was opened; and with the sodaine fright Donna Rodriguez Candle fell out of her hand, and the roome was as darke as Pitch, straight the Matron felt that they laid hands vpon her throat so hard, that they gaue her no time to yawle: and one of them very quickly lifting vp her Coats, with a Slipper (in likelihood) began to giue her so many ierkes, that 'twas pitie: and though Don Quixote had some compassion on her, yet he stirred not from his bed, and knew not what might be the matter: quiet was he, and silent; fearing lest the whipping task & tawing might light vpon him, & his feare was not need­lesse: for when the silent executioners, had left the Matron well curried (who durst not cry out) they came to Don Quixote, and [Page 321] vnwrapping him from the Sheet and the Quilt, they pinched him so hard and so often, that hee could but goe to buffets to defend himselfe: and all this passed in admirable silence; the combate lasted some halfe an houre; the apparitions vanished; Donna Rodriguez tucked vp her Coats, and bewailing her mis­hap, got her out of the doore, not speaking a word to Don Quixote; who, heauy and all to bee pinched, sad and pensatiue, remained alone; where we will leaue him desirous to know, who was the peruerse Enchanter, that had so drest him: but that shall be told in due time. For Sancho Pansa calls vs, and the Deco­rum of this Historie.

CHAP. XLIX.

WEe left the famous Gouernour moodie and angry with the knauish Husbandman-painter: who, in­structed by the Steward, and the Steward by the Duke; all made sport with Sancho: but he held them all tacke, though a Foole, a Dullard, and a blocke; and said to those about him, and to Doctor Pedro Rezio: for as soone as hee had ended the secret of the Dukes Letter, he came into the Hall againe.

Certainely (said he) I thinke now, Iudges and Gouernours had need bee made of Brasse, that they may haue no feeling of the importunities of suiters, that would that at all houres and all times they should giue them audience, and dispatch them, in­tending onely their businesse; let them haue neuer so much of their owne: and if the poore Iudge heare them not, or dispatch them not; either because he cannot, or because they come not in a fit time to haue audience; straight they back-bite and curse him, gnaw his bones, and vnbury his ancestors. Oh foolish Su­ter and idle, make not such haste: stay for a fit season and con­iuncture to negotiate in, come not at dinner time, or bed time: for Iudges are flesh and bloud, and must satisfie nature, except [Page 322] it be I, that giue my selfe nothing to eate, thankes to Master Doctor Pedro Rezio Tirte a fuera here present, that would haue me die for hunger, and yet stands in it, that this death is life: such a life God grant him and all of his profession: I meane such ill Physicians; for the good deserue Lawrell and Palme.

All that knew Sancho, admired him, when they heard him speake so elegantly, and knew not to what they should attribute it, except it were that Offices and great charges doe eyther sea­son the vnderstanding, or altogether dull it.

Finally, the Doctor Pedro Rezio Agnero de Tirte a fuera, promised him he should sup that night, though he exceeded all Hypocrates his Aphorismes.

With this the Gouernour was well pleased, and very gree­dily expected the comming of the night and supper-time, and though time (as he thought) stood still, not mouing a iot from his place, yet at length it came, so longed for by him; and hee had to supper a cold mince-meat of Beefe and Onions, vvith a Calues foot some-what stale, and fell to as contentedly, as if they had giuen him a God-wit of Milan, or a Pheasant of Rome, or Veale of Sorrentum, or Partridges of Moron, or Geese of L [...] ­naxos: and in the midst of his Supper, he turned to the Doctor and said, Looke ye, Master Doctor, hence-forward neuer care to giue me dainties, or exquisite meates to eat; for you will plucke my stomacke quite off the hindges, which is vsed onely to Goat, Beefe and Bacon, Porke and Turneps, and Onions: and if you come to mee with your Court-dishes, they make my stomacke squeamish, and many times I loath vm.

Caruer, let it be your care to prouide me a good Olla podrida, and the more podrida it is, the better, and more sauourie; and in your Olla's you may boile and ballast in what you will, so it be victuals, and I will be mindfull of you, and make you amends one day: and let no man play the foole with me, for eyther wee are, or wee are not. Let's bee merry and wise when the Sunne shines, he shines vpon all: Ile Gouerne this Iland without loo­king my due, or taking Bribes; and therefore let all the world be watchfull, and looke to their bolt, for I giue vm to vnder­stand, there's rods in pisse for them; and if they put mee to it, [Page 323] they shall see wonders: I, I, couer your selues with hony, and you shall see the flies will eat you.

Truly, Sir Gouernour, quoth the Caruer, you haue reason in all you speake; and let mee promise you in the behalfe of all the Ilanders of this Iland, that they will serue you with all dili­gence, loue, and good will: for the sweet and milde kinde of Gouerning that hitherto in the beginning you haue vsed, makes them neyther doe nor speake ought that may redound to your contempt.

I beleeue it, quoth Sancho, and they were very Asses if they did or thought otherwise; and therefore let me say againe, Let there be a care had for the maintenance of my Person and Dap­ples, which is very important, and to the matter: And so when tis time to walke the Round, let vs goe; for my purpose is, to clense this Iland from all kinde of filth, from vagamunds, lazy, and masterlesse persons: for know, friends, that sloth­full, and idle people in a Common-wealth, are the same that Drones in Hiues, that eat the hony which the labouring Bees make. I purpose to cherish the husbandman, & to grant the Gen­tlemen their preeminencies, to reward the vertuous, & aboue all, to haue Religion in reuerence, & to honor religious persons.

What thinke ye of this, friends? Say I ought? or doe I talke idlely? So well Sir, said the Steward, that I wonder to see that a man so without learning as you, (for I thinke you cannot skill of a letter) should speake such sentences and instructions, so contrary to what was expected from your wit by all that sent you, and by all vs that came with you. Euery day we see nouel­ties in the world, iests turn'd to earnest, and those that mocke, are mocked at.

Well, it was night, and the Gouernour supped, with Master Doctor Rezio's licence. They made ready to walke the Round, the Steward, the Secretary, and Caruer went with him, and the Chroniclist, that was carefull to keepe a Register of his acti­ons, together with Constables and Notaries; so many, that they might well make a reasonable squadron. Sancho went in the midst of them with his rod of Iustice, which was the only chiefe sight: and when they had walkt some few streets of the town, [Page 324] they heard a noyse of slashing, thither they made, and found that they were two men onely that were together by the eares; who seeing the Iustice comming, stood still, and the one of them said;

Here for God and the King, shall I be suffered to be robbed in the midst of a towne? and that the midst of the streets be made the high way?

Softly, honest friend, (quoth Sancho) and tell me what's the reason of this fray, for I am the Gouernour.

The other, his contrary, said, Sir Gouernour, Ile tell you briefly the matter. You shall vnderstand Sir, that this Gentleman euen now at a Gaming-house here ouer the way, got a thousand Ryalls, (God knowes by what trickes) and I being present, iud­ged many a doubtfull cast on his side, contrary to what my con­science told me; he came away a winner, and when I thought he would haue giuen mee a Pistolet at least for recompence, ac­cording to the vse and custome Barato signi­fies originally cheape, but a­mongst game­sters, dar Bara­to, is when a gamester by way of courte­sie giues som­thing to a stā­der by: and this in Spaine is so frequent, that from the King to the beggar, all both giue and take this Ba­r [...]. of giuing to men of my fashi­on, which stand by vpon all occasions, to order differences, and to take vp quarrels; he pursed vp his mony, and got him out of the house: I came hastily after him, yet with courteous lan­guage entreated him to giue me only a matter of foure shillings, since he knew me to be a good fellow, and that I had no other kinde of trade or liuing; for my friends brought me vp to no­thing, nor left me nothing; and this cunning skabbe, no more Thiefe then Cacus, nor lesse Cheater then Some fa­mous Cheater in Spaine. Andradilla, would giue me but two shillings: So you may see, Sir Gouernor, how shamelesse and voyd of Conscience he is. But yfaith if you had not come, I would haue made him vomit out his winning, & he should haue knowne how many pounds he had had in the scale.

What say you to this (quoth Sancho?) And the other answe­red, That true it was which his contrary had said, that he would giue him but two shillings, because hee had often before giuen him, and they that expect what shall be giuen them in courtesie, must be mannerly, and take any thing that is giuen them, in good part, without standing vpon tearmes with the winner, ex­cept they knew him to be a Cheater, and that his money was vnlawfully gotten, and that it might be seene that he for his part [Page 325] was honest, and not a theefe, as the other said, there was no grea­ter signe, then his giuing so little; for your Cheaters are alwaies large Tributaries to the lookers on that know them.

He saies true, quoth the Steward, and therefore what is your pleasure, Sir, to doe with these men?

Marry thus, quoth Sancho; you, Sir, that haue wonne, honest or knaue, or indifferent, giue your hackster heere presently, a hundreth Ryalls: besides, you shall disburse thirty more for the poore of the prison. And you, sir, that haue neyther trade nor liuing, and liue odly in this Iland, take your hundreth Ry­als, and by to morrow get you out of the Iland, and I banish you for ten yeeres, on paine, that if you breake this order, you accomplish it in another life, by being hanged vpon a gybbet, by me, or at least, by the hangman, by my command.

The one disbursed, and the other receiued; this went out of the Iland, and that home to his house: and the Gouernour that remained said, Well, it shall cost me a fall, but I will put downe these Gaming-houses; for I haue a kinde of glimpse that they are very preiudiciall.

This at least, quoth one of the Notaries, you cannot remoue, because it belongs to a man of quality, and hee loseth a great deale more at the yeeres end then he gets by his Cards. Against other petty Gamesters you may shew your authority; for they doe more mischiefe, and conceale more abuses, then Gentlemen of qualities houses, where your famous Cheaters dare not vse their slights; and since the vice of play hath turned to so com­mon a practice, 'tis better to suffer it in houses of fashion, then in poore mens, where they catch a poore snake, and from mid­night till morning flay him quicke.

Well, Notary, (quoth Sancho) there's much to be said in this case. And now one of the Sergeants Yeomen, came with a Youth which he had laid fast hold on, and said,

Sir, this Youth came towards vs, and as hee had a glimpse of the Iustice, hee turned his backe, and began to scud away like a Deere, a signe he is some delinquent; I ranne after him, and had it not beene that hee stumbled and fell, I had neuer ouertaken him.

Why ranst thou, fellow, (quoth Sancho?) To which the young man answered, Sir, to auoid the many questions that your Constables vse to aske. What trade are you of? A Wea­uer, said he. And what weaue you? Iron pegs for Lances, with your Worships good leaue. You are a pleasant companion, Sir, and you presume to play the Iester: 'tis very well. And whither went you now? To take the Ayre, Sir. And where in this Iland would you haue taken the Ayre? Where it blowes. Good, you answer to the purpose, Youth; make account then that I am the Ayre, and that I blow a-sterne on you, and steere you to the prison. Goe to, lay hold on him, carry him for to night, Ile make him sleepe without Ayre in the prison. I protest (quoth the Youth) you shall as soone make me King, as make me sleepe this night in prison. Why (quoth Sancho) haue not I power to apprehend thee, and free thee when I please? For all your power, said the Youth, you shall not make me sleepe this night in Prison. No? you shall see (quoth Sancho:) carry him present­ly where he shall see his error; and lest the layler should for a bribe befriend him, Ile lay a penalty of two thousand Crownes vpon him, if he let thee stirre a foot out of the prison. All this is needlesse, said the Youth: the businesse is, All the world shall not make me sleepe this night in prison. Tell me, fiend, quoth Sancho, hast thou some Angell to free thee, or take thy shackles off that I meane to haue clapped on thee? Well, Sir, (quoth the Youth very pleasantly) let's come to reason, and to the matter. Suppose you command mee to be carried to prison, and that I haue shackles and chaines put vpon me, and that I be put into a dungeon, and that there be extraordinary penalties inflicted vp­on the Iaylor if he let me out: for all that, if I mean not to sleep, or to ioyne my eye-lids together all night; Can you with all your Authority make me sleepe against my will?

No indeed (said the Secretarie) the fellow is in the right: so that (quoth Sancho) your forbearing to sleepe, is onely to haue your owne will, but not to contradict mine. No otherwise, Sir, (quoth the Youth) not so much as in thought.

Well, God bee with you, (quoth Sancho) get you home to bed, and God send you good rest, I meane not to disturbe you; [Page 327] but let me aduise you, that henceforward you be not so concei­ted with the Iustice; for you may meet with one that will clap your wit to your noddle.

The yong man went his way, and the Gouernour went on with his Rounding, and a while after there came two Yeomen with a man in hold, and said, Sir, heeres one that seemes to be a man, but is none, but a woman, and not ill-fauoured, clad in a mans habit. Then they set two or three Lanthornes to his face, and perceiued a womans face, to looke to, of about sixteen yeers of age; her haire plaited vp with a cawle of gold & greene silke, as faire as a thousand Pearles: they beheld her all ouer, and saw that she had on her a paire of Carnation silke stockins, & white Taffata garters fringed with gold, & embroidered with pearle; her long breeches were of cloth of gold, and the ground worke greene, with a loose Cassocke or Ierkin of the same, opened on both sides, vnder which she had also a Doublet of cloth of gold, the ground white: her shooes were white mens shooes, she had no sword, but a very faire hatched dagger, with many rings vp­on her fingers.

Finallie, shee pleased them all very well, but none of them knew her. The Inhabitants of the place said, they could not ghesse who she should be; and they that were the contriuers of the trickes against Sancho, were those that most seemed to ad­mire, because that accident and chance was not purposed by them: so they were in suspence, to see vvhat vvould be the issue of it.

Sancho was amazed at the maidens beautie, and hee askt her who she was, whither she would, and what occasion had moo­ued her to clad her selfe in that habit?

She, with her eyes fixt vpon the earth, most shamefac'dly an­swered,

Sir, I cannot tell you in publike, what concernes me so much to be kept secret: onely this let me tell you; I am no thiefe nor malefactor, but an vnhappie maid, forced by some iealousies to breake the decorum due to my honestie. Which when the Stew­ard heard, he said to Sancho; Sir, command the company aside, that this Gentlewoman may tell her tale without being abashed. [Page 328] the Gouernour gaue his command, and all of them went aside, but the Steward, the Caruer, and Secretary. Being thus pri­uate, the maid proceeded, saying;

I, Sirs, am daughter to Pedro Perez Mazorca, Farmer of this townes woolls, that often vseth to goe and come to my Fa­thers house. There's no likelihood in this, Gentlewoman, quoth the Steward; for I know Pedro Perez verie well, and know that he hath neuer a childe, neither Male nor Female: besides, you say he is your Father, and by and by you adde, that he vseth to goe often to your Fathers house. I thought vpon that too (quoth Sancho.) Why alas (quoth she) I am so frighted, that I know not what I say: but true it is, that I am daughter to Diego de la Liana, whom I belieue, you all know. This may be (said the Steward) for I know Diego de la Liana to be an honest and a wealthie Gentleman, and that he hath a sonne and a daughter, and since he hath beene a widdower, there's none in this towne can say he hath seene his daughters face; for hee keepes her so close, that hee scarce giues the Sunne leaue to looke on her: and for all that, Fame sayes she is wondrous faire.

Tis true (quoth the Maid) and I am that daughter, whether Fame lie or no, concerning my beauty; now you are satisfied, since you haue beheld me; and with this she began to weep ten­derly. Which when the Secretary saw, he whispered the Caruer in the eare, and told him; Doubtlesse some matter of conse­quence hath befalne this poore Virgin, since in this habit, and at this time of night, being so well borne, she is from her home. There's no doubt of that (quoth the Caruer) for her teares too confirme the suspition.

Sancho comforted her the best he could, and bad her without feare, tell what had befalne her; for that all of them would striue to giue her remedie with all possible diligence.

The businesse, Sirs, quoth she, is this: My Father hath kept me close these tenne yeeres; for so long it is since my Mother died: in the house wee haue a Chappell, where Masse is sayd, and I in all this time haue seene nothing but the Sunne by day, and the Moone and starres by night: neither know I what streets, or Market-places, or Churches are, nor men, except my Father. [Page 329] a Brother of mine, and Pedro Perez the former, vvho be­cause hee vseth to come ordinarily to our house, it came into my minde to say hee vvas my father, because I would con­ceale the right. This keeping mee close, and denying mee to stirre not so much as to the Church, hath this good while dis­comforted me, and I had a desire to see the world, at least, the towne where I was borne, as thinking this longing of mine vvas not against the Decorum that Maidens of my birth ought to obserue: when I heard talke of Bull-baitings, running with Reedes, and representing Comedies: I asked my Brother that is a yeere yonger then I, what kinde of things those were, and many others, vvhich I haue not seene; and he told mee as well as hee could: but all vvas to enflame my desire the more to see.

Finally, to shorten my mis-fortune, I entreated my Bro­ther, (I would I had neuer done it:) and then shee renued her teares.

Then said the Steward, On, Gentlewoman, and make an end of telling vs what hath befalne you: for you hold vs all in sus­pence, with your words, and your teares.

Few words haue I to say (quoth shee) but many teares to weepe: for they be the fruits of ill placed desires.

The Maids beauty was now planted in the Caruers heart, and he held vp his Lanthorne againe, to behold her afresh; and it see­med to him, that she wept not teares, but seed-pearle, or mor­ning dew. and he thought higher, that they were liker orientall Pearles; and his wish was, that her mis-fortune might not bee such, as the shewes of her mone and sighing might promise.

The Gouernour was mad at the Wenches slownesse and de­laying her Story; and bade her, she should make an end, and hold them no longer in suspence, for that it was late, and they had much of the towne to walke. Shee betwixt broken sobs, and halfe-fetcht sighs, said, My mis-fortune is nothing else, but that I desired my Brother that he would cloath me in mans apparell, in one of his Sutes; and that some night or other he would car­ry me to see the towne, when my father should be asleepe; hee importuned by my intreaties, condiscended to my request: and [Page 330] putting this Sute on me; and hee putting on another of mine, that fits him, as if it were made for him; for he hath neuer a haire vpon his chin, and might bee taken for a most beautifull Maid: this night somewhat aboue an houre agoe, we went abroad; and rambling vp and downe, wee haue gone thorowout the whole towne: and going homeward, we saw a great troope of people comming towards vs; and my Brother said, Sister: this is the Round, Take you to your heeles, and put wings to them, and follow me, that we be not knowne: for it will bee ill for vs; and this said, he turned his back, and began, I say not, to runne, but to flye: I within foure or fiue steppes fell downe for feare; and then came this Officer that brought me before you; where, for my vilde longing, I am shamed before so many people. So that, Gentlewoman, (qd. Sancho) no other mis-hap hath befalne you; neither was it iealousie, as you said in the beginning of your tale, that made you goe abroad? Nothing else (said shee) nor iealousies: but a desire to see the world, and which extended no furder, then to see this townes streets; and the comming now of two other Yeomen with her Brother, confirmed this to bee true, whom one of them ouertook, when he fled from his Sister: He had nothing on, but a rich Kirtle, and a halfe Mantle of blue Damaske, edg'd with a broad gold Lace: his head without any kinde of dressing or adornment, then his owne lockes; which by reason of their colour and curling, seemed to bee rings of gold. Aside they went with the Gouernor, the Steward and the Caruer, and not letting his Sister heere; they asked why hee came in that habit? And he with the same shamefac'd bashfulnes told the same Tale that his Sister had done: at which the ena­moured Caruer was wonderfully pleased. But the Gouernour said to them, Truely hoe, this hath been a great childishnesse in you; and you needed not so many sighs and teares, to tell such a piece of foolish boldnesse: for it had beene enough if you had said, We such and such a one, went out of our fathers house, on­ly for curiositie to walke vp and down the towne; and there had beene an end, without your sighing and your whining, on Gods name.

You say true, Sir, quoth the Maid: but you may think that I was [Page 331] so troubled, that I could not tell how to behaue my selfe.

There's nothing lost (quoth Sancho) let's goe, and wee will leaue you in your fathers house; perhaps he wil not haue missed you: and from hence-forward bee not such children, nor so longing to see the world: for the honest Maid better at home with a bone broken, then a gadding: the Woman and the Hen are lost with straggling: and let me tell you too; shee that de­sires to see, hath a desire likewise to bee seene, and I say no more.

The Youth thanked the Gouernour for the fauour hee did them, to let them goe home; whither they went for it was not farre from thence.

Home they came, and the Youth throwing a little stone at one of the Iron windowes, straight there came a Maid-seruant downe, that sate vp for them, and opened them the doore, and in they went, leauing those without as well to admire her gen­tlenesse and beauty; as the desire they had to see the world by night, without stirring out of the towne: but they attributed all to their slender age.

The Caruers heart was strucke thorow; and hee purposed the next day to demand her of her Father to wife; assuring himselfe, hee would not deny her him, because hee was the Dukes seruant: Sancho too had a certaine longing and inkling to marry the Youth with his Daughter Sanchica: and he de­termined to put the matter in practice betimes, as thinking that a Gouernours Daughter was fit for any Husband: and so the Round was ended for that night: and some two dayes after, his Gouernment too, vvith vvhich all his de­signes were lopped off, and blotted out, as hereafter shall be said.

CHAP. L.

CID Hamete, the most punctuall Searcher of the very moats of this true History, sayes, that when Donna Ro­driguez went out of her Chamber, to goe to Don Quix­otes lodging, another Waiting-woman that lay with her, per­ceiued her: and as all of them haue an itch to smell after nouel­ties, she went after so softly, that the good Rodriguez perceiued it not: and as soone as the Waiting-woman saw her goe in to Don Quixote, that she might not be defectiue in the generall cu­stome of make-bates; shee went presently to put this into the Duchesses head, and so told her that Donna Rodriguez was in Don Quixotes Chamber: the Duchesse told the Duke, and asked his leaue, that she and Altisidora might goe see what the Ma­tron would haue with Don Quixote: the Duke granted, and both of them very softly came close to Don Quixotes doore, and so neere, that they heard all that was spoken within: and when the Duchesse heard that Rodriguez had set the Aranxnez of her springs a running in the streets, she could not suffer it, nor Alti­sidora neither: so, full of rage, and greedy to reuenge, they entred the chamber suddenly, & stabbed Don Quixote with their nailes, and banged the Woman, as hath beene related: for affronts that are directly done against beauty, doe awaken womens choller, and enflame in them a desire of reuenge.

The Duchesse told the Duke what had passed, which made him passing merry: and the Duchesse proceeding with her in­tention of mirth and pastime with Don Quixote, dispatcht the Page that playd the Enchanted Dulcinea's part (for Sancho had forgotten it, being busied in his Gouernment) to Teresa Pansa with her Husbands Letter, and another from her selfe, and a chaine of faire Corall for a token.

The Story too tels vs, that the Page was very discreet and wit­tie, and with a desire to serue his Lords, hee went with a very good will to Sancho's towne: and before he entred into it, he saw a company of women washing in a brooke: whom he asked, if they could tell him, if there liued in that towne a woman, whose name was Teresa Pansa, wife to one Sancho Pansa, Squire to a Knight called Don Quixote de la Mancha: to which questi­on, a little Girle that was vvashing there, stood vp and said, That Teresa Pansa is my Mother, and that Sancho my Father, and that Knight our Master.

Well then, Damozell, quoth the Page, Come and bring mee to your Mother; for I bring her a Letter and a present, from your said Father.

That I will with a very good will, Sir, said the Wench, that seemed to bee about a some fourteene yeeres of age, more or lesse: and leauing the clothes that she was vvashing, to another companion of hers, without dressing her head, or putting on stockings and shooes, (for she was barelegged, and with her hayre about her eares) she leaped before the Pages Beast he rode on, and said, Come, Sir, for our house is iust as you come in at the towne, and there you shall finde my Mother, with sorrow enough, because shee hath not heard from my Father this great while.

Well, I haue so good newes for her (quoth he) that she may thanke God for it.

At length, leaping, running, and iumping, the Girle got to the towne, and before she came into the house, she cryed out aloud at the doore: Come out, mother, Teresa, Come out, come out: for here's a Gentleman hath Letters and other things from my good Father: at which noise Teresa Pansa her Mother came out, spinning a rowle of Flax, with a Russet Petti-coat, and it see­med by the shortnesse of it, that it had beene cut off at the Plac­ket; and she had Russet bodies of the same, and shee was in her smocke sleeues; she was not very old, for she lookt as if shee had beene about forty: but she was strong, tough, sinowie, and raw-boned; who seeing her Daughter, and the Page a horse­back, said, What's the matter, child? What Gentleman is this? [Page 334] A seruant of my Lady Teresa Pansa's (quoth the Page:) so, do­ing and speaking, he flung himselfe from his horse, and vvith great humilitie went to prostrate himselfe before the Lady Teresa, saying, My Lady Teresa, giue mee your hands to kisse, as you are lawfull and particular Wife to my Lord Don Sancho Pansa, proper Gouernour of the Iland Barataria.

Ah good Sir, forbeare I pray doe not do so, quoth Teresa: for I am no Court-noll, but a poore Husband-woman, a Plough­mans daughter, and wife to a Squire Errant, and not a Go­uernour.

You are (quoth the Page) a most worthy wife, to an Arch-worthy Gouernour: and for proofe of what I say, I pray receiue this Letter, and this token; when instantly he plucked out of his pocket a Corall string, with the lac'd Beads of gold, and put it a­bout her neck, and said, This Letter is from the Gouernour, and another that I bring; and these Corals are from my Lady the Duchesse that sends me to you.

Teresa was amazed, and her daughter also: and the Wench said, Hang mee, if our Master Don Quixote haue not a hand in this businesse; and hee it is that hath giuen my Father this Go­uernment or Earledome, that he so often promised him.

You say true (quoth the Page) for, for Signior Don Quixotes sake, Signior Sancho Pansa is now Gouernour of the Iland Ba­rataria, as you shall see by this Letter.

Reade it, gentle Sir, said Teresa: for though I can spin, I can­not reade a iot; nor I neither, added Sanchica: but stay a little and Ile call one that shall; either the Vicar himselfe, or the Ba­chelor Samson Carasco, who wil both come hither with all their hearts to heare newes of my Father.

You need not call any body, said hee: for though I cannot spin, yet I can reade, and therefore I will reade it; so he did tho­rowout: which, because it was before related, it is not now set downe here: and then he drew out the Duchesses, which was as followeth:

Lord! qd. Teresa, whē she heard the Letter, What a good plain meeke-Lady 'tis! God bury me with such Ladies, and not with your stately ones that are vsed in this towne, who think, because they are Iantle-folks, the winde must not touch them: and they go so fantastically to Church, as if they were Queenes at least, & they thinke it a disgrace to vm to looke vpon a poore Countrey Woman: But looke you, here's a good Lady, that though shee be a Duchesse, calls me friend, and vseth mee as if I were her e­quall: equall may I see her with the highest Steeple in the Man­cha: and concerning her Acorns, Signior mine, I will send her Ladyship a whole Pecke, that euery body shall behold, and ad­mire them for their bignesse: and now, Sanchica, doe thou see that this Gentleman bee welcome: set his Horse vp, and get some Egges out of the Stable, and cut some Bacon: he shall fare like a Prince, for the good newes hee hath brought vs, and his good face deserues it all: in the meane time I will goe tell my [Page 336] neighbours of this good newes, and to our father Vicar, and Master Nicholas the Barber, who haue beene, and still are so much thy fathers friends.

Yes marry will I (quoth Sanchica:) but harke you: you must giue mee halfe that string, for I doe not thinke my Ladie Duchesse such a foole, that she would send it all to her.

Tis all thine, Daughter, said Teresa: but let me weare it a few dayes about my neck: for verily, it glads me to the heart.

You will be glad (quoth the Page) when you see the bundle that I haue in my Port-mantue, which is a garment of fine cloth, which the Gouernour onely wore one day a Hunting, which he hath sent to Mistris Sanchica. Long may he liue (quoth San­chica) and he that brings it too.

Teresa went out with her chaine about her neck, and playd with her fingers vpon her Letters, as if they had been a Timbrel: and meeting by chance with the Vicar, and Samson Carrasco, she began to dance, and to say, I faith now there is none poore of the kinne, we haue a little Gouernment; No, no. Now let the proudest Gentlewoman of vm all meddle with mee, and Ile shew her a new tricke.

What madnesse is this, Teresa: Pansa, and what papers are these? No madnesse (quoth she) but these are Letters from Du­chesses and Gouernours: and these I weare about my neck are fine Corals; the Aue-Maries and Pater-nosters are of beaten gold, and I am a Gouernesse.

Now God shield vs, Teresa: wee vnderstand you not, nei­ther know vve vvhat you meane.

There you may see (quoth Teresa) and gaue vm the Letters.

The Vicar reads them that Samson Carrasco might heare: so he and the Vicar lookt one vpon the other, wondring at vvhat they had read.

And the Bachelor asked, Who brought those Letters? Teresa answered, that they should goe home vvith her, and they should see the Messenger; A yong Youth, as faire as a golden Pine-Apple, and that he brought her another Present twice as good.

The Vicar tooke the Corals from her neck, and beheld them againe and againe, and assuring himselfe that they vvere right, [Page 337] he began to wonder afresh and said; By my Coat I sweare, I know not what to say or thinke of these Letters and Tokens: for on the one side, I see and touch the finenesse of these Co­rals; and on the other, that a Duchesse sends to begge two do­zen of Acornes. Come cracke me this Nutte, quoth Carrasco. Well, let vs goe see the Bearer of this Letter, and by him vvee will be informed of these doubts that are offered. They did so, and Teresa went backe with them: they found the Page sifting a little Barley for his Beast, & Sanchica cutting a Rasher to Para Empe­darte. A pretty Metaphor, for in Spain they vse to fry their Collops and Egges all to­gether: not as we do, first Ba­con, and then Egges, & ther­fore the Au­thor calls it pauing. paue it, with Egges for the Pages dinner, whose presence and attire much contented them both; and after they had courteously sa­luted him, and he them, Samson asked him for newes as well of Don Quixote as Sancho: for though they had read Sancho and the Lady Duchesses Letters, yet they were troubled, and could not ghesse what Sancho's Gouernment should meane, especially of an Iland, since all or the most that were in the Mediterranean Sea belonged to his Maiesty.

To which the Page answered: That Signior Sancho Pansa is Gouernour, tis not to be doubted, but whether it be an Iland or no that he gouerns, I meddle not with it: tis enough that it is a place of aboue a thousand Inhabitants. And concerning the A­cornes, let me tell you: My Lady the Duchesse is so plaine and humble, that her sending for Acornes to this Country-woman is nothing. I haue knowne when she hath sent to borrow a Combe of one of her neighbours, and let me tell you; The La­dies of Aragon, though they be as Noble, yet they stand not so much vpon their points, neither are so lofty as your Castilians, and they are much plainer.

Whilest they were in the middest of this discourse, Sanchica came leaping with her lap full of Egges, and asked the Page; Tell me, Sir, doth my Father weare pained hose since his being Go­uernour? I neuer marked it, quoth the Page, but sure hee doth. Oh God, quoth she, what a sight it would be, to see my Father in his linnen hose first! how say you? that euer since I was born I haue had a desire to see my Father in pain'd hose. With many of these you shal see him (quoth the Page) if you liue. And I pro­test, if his Gouernment last him but two Moneths longer, hee [Page 338] will be likely to weare a cap with a Beauer.

The Vicar and Bachelor perceiued very well, that the Page playd the lacke with them; but the goodnesse of the Corall-beades, and the hunting suit that Sancho sent, made all straight a­gaine, for Teresa had shewed them the apparell, and they could not but laugh at Sanchica's desire, and most, when Teresa said, Master Vicar, pray will you hearken out if there be any bodie that goe toward Madrid or Toledo, that they may buy mee a Farthingale round and well made, iust in the fashion, and of the best sort, for intruth, intruth, I meane to credit my Husbands Gouernment as much as I can; and if I be angry, Ile to Court my selfe too, and haue my Coach as well as the best: for she that hath a Gouernour to her Husband, may very well haue it, and maintaine it.

And why not Mother (quoth Sanchica?) and the sooner the better, though those that see mee set with my Mother in the Coach should say, Looke ye on Mistresse Whacham, good-man Garlicke-eaters daughter, how she is set & stretcht at ease in the Coach, as if she were a Pope Ioane: but let them tread in the durt, and let me goe in my Coach: a poxe on all backe-biters; the Foxe fares best when hee is cursed. Say I well, Mother mine? Very well (quoth she) and my good Sancho foretold mee of all these blessings and many more; and thou shalt see, daughter, Ile neuer rest till I am a Countesse; for all is but to begin well, and (as I haue often heard thy good father say, who is likewise the father of Prouerbs,) Look not a giuen horse in the mouth: when a Gouernment is giuen thee, take it; when an Earledome, gripe it; and when they His, his, as if it were the calling a dog, to giue him meat. hist, hist, to thee with a reward, take it vp. No, no, be carelesse, and answer not good fortune when shee knocks at your dores. And what care I (quoth Sanchica) what hee say that sees mee stately and Maiesticall? there's a dogge in a doublet, and such like.

When the Vicar heard all this, he said, I cannot beleeue but all the stocke of the Pansa's were borne with a bushell of Prouerbs in their bellies, I neuer saw any of them that did not scatter vm at all times, and vpon all occasions. You say true (quoth the Page) for Signior Sancho the Gouernour speakes them euery [Page 339] foot: and though many of them be nothing to the purpose, yet they delight, and my Lady the Duchesse, and the Duke do much celebrate them. That still you should affirme, Sir, that this of Sancho's Gouernment is true, & that there can be any Duchesse in the world that sends him Presents, and writes to him; for we, although we see them, and haue read the Letters, yet wee cannot beleeue it; and wee thinke that this is one of Don Quixote our Countriman his inuentions, who thinkes that all are by way of Enchantment: So that I am about to desire to feele and touch you, to see whether you bee an ayrie Ambassador, or a man of flesh and bloud.

Sir, (quoth the Page) all I know of my selfe, is, that I am a reall Ambassador, and that Signior Sancho Pansa is an effectiue Gouernour, and that my Lords the Duke and Duchesse may giue, and haue giuen the said Gouernment; and I haue heard say, that the said Sancho Pansa demeanes himselfe most robusti­ously in it. If in this there be any Enchantment, you may dispute it amongst your selues, for I know no more, by an oath I shall sweare, which is, By the life of my Parents, who are aliue, and I loue them very well.

It may very well be, quoth the Bachelor, but dubitat Augu­stinus. Doubt it whose will (quoth the Page) I haue told you the truth, which shall alwaies preuaile aboue lyes, as the oyle a­boue the water: and if not operibus credite & non verbis, one of you goe with mee, and you shall see with your eyes what you will not beleeue with your eares. That iourney will I go, quoth Sanchica: you shall carry me, Sir, at your horses crupper, and Ile goe with a very good will to see my Father. Gouernours Daughters (quoth he) must not trauell alone, but accompanied with Carroches and horse-Litters, and good store of seruants. Marry (quoth Sancha) I can goe as well vpon a young Asse-Colt, as vpon a Coach; you haue a daintie piece of mee no doubt.

Peace wench, said Teresa, thou knowest not what thou saiest; and this Gentleman is in the right; the times are altered: When thy Father was Sancho, then mightst thou be Sancha; but now he is Gouernour, Madam; and I know not whether I haue [Page 340] said ought. Mistresse Teresa sayes more then shee is aware of, (quoth the Page) and now pray let me dine, and be quickly dis­patcht, for I must returne this afternoone. Then, quoth the Vi­car, you shall doe penance with me to day, for Mistresse Teresa hath more good will then good cheere to welcome so good a ghest. The Page refused, but for his better fare; he was forced to accept of the kindnesse; and the Vicar carried him the more willingly, that hee might haue time to aske at leysure after Don Quixote's exploits. The Bachelor offered Teresa to write the answers of her Letters, but shee would not that hee should deale in her affaires; for she held him to be a scoffer: and so she gaue a little rowle of bread, and a couple of egges to a little Monke that could write, who wrote her two Letters, one for her Husband, and the other for the Duchesse, framed by her owne pate, and are not the worst in all this grand History, as you may see hereafter.

CHAP. LI.

THe day appeared after the Gouernors Rounding night, in which the Caruer slept not a whit, being busied in thinking vpon the face, feature, and beauty of the dis­guised Damozell: and the Steward spent the remainder of it, in writing to his Lords, Sancho Pansa's words and actions, both which he equally admired; for both were mixt with certaine appearances of Discreet and Foole.

The Gouernour in fine was gotten vp, and by Doctor Pedro Rezio's appointment, hee broke his fast with a little Conserue, and some two or three spoonfulls of cold water, which Sancho would willingly haue changed for a piece of bread, and a bunch of grapes; but seeing there was no remedy, hee passed it ouer, though with much griefe of mind, & wearines of stomack: for Pedro Rezio made him belieue, that few dishes, and those deli­cate, [Page 341] did quicken the wit, which was the onely thing for per­sons that bore Rule, and weighty Offices; where they must be­nefit themselues, not onely with corporall force, but strength of vnderstanding too.

With this Sophistry Sancho was almost starued, so that in se­cret he cursed the Gouernment, and also him that gaue it him; but yet, with his hunger and his Conserue, he sate in iudgement that day, and the first thing that came before him, was a doubt that a stranger proposed vnto him, the Steward and the rest of the fraternity being present, and it was this:

Sir, a maine Riuer diuided two parts of one Lordship (I pray marke, for it is a case of great importance, and somewhat diffi­cult) I say then, that vpon this Riuer there was a Bridge, and at the end of it a Gallowes, and a kinde of Iudgement Hall, in which there were ordinarily foure Iudges, that iudged accor­ding to the Law that the owner of the Riuer, Bridge, & Lord­ship had established, which was this: If any one be to passe from one side of this Bridge to the other, hee must first sweare whither he goes, and what his businesse is: if he sweare true, let him passe; if hee lye, let him be hanged vpon the gallowes that shewes there without remission. This Law being divulged, and the rigorous condition of it, many passed by, and presently by their oathes it was seene whether they said true, and the Iudges let them passe freely. It fell out that they tooke one mans oath, who swore and said, that he went to be hanged vpon that gal­lowes, and for nothing else.

The Iudges were at a stand, and said, If we let this man passe, he lyed in his oath, and according to the Law hee ought to die; and if we hang him, he swore he went to die vpon the gallows, and hauing sworne truly, by the same Law he ought to be free. It is now, Sir Gouernor, demanded of you, what should be done with this man, for the Iudges are doubtfull and in suspence; and hauing had notice of your quicke and eleuated vnderstanding, they sent me to you, to desire you on their behalfs to giue your opinion in this intricate and doubtfull case.

To which (quoth Sancho:) Truely these Iudges that send you to me might haue saued a labour; for I am one that haue as [Page 342] much wit as a Setting-dog: but howsoeuer, repeat me you the businesse once againe, that I may vnderstand it, and perhaps I may hit the marke.

The Demandant repeated againe, and againe, what hee had said before; and Sancho said, In my opinion it is instantly re­solued, as thus:

The man sweares, that he goes to dye vpon the gallowes: and if he die so, he swore true; and so by the Law deserues to passe free: and yet if he be not hanged, he swore false; and by the same Law he ought to be hanged Tis iust as Master Gouernor hath said, quoth the Messenger; and concerning the vnderstanding the case, there is no more to be required or doubted. I say then (quoth Sancho) that they let that part of the man passe that spoke truth, and that which told a lye, let them hang it, and so the condition of the Law shall be litterally accomplished.

Why, Sir, said the Demandant, then the man must be diui­ded into two parts, lying and true; and if he be diuided, he must needs die, and so there is nothing of the Law fulfilled, and it is expresly needfull that the Law be kept.

Come hither, honest fellow (quoth Sancho) either I am a ve­ry Leeke, or this Passenger you speake of, hath the same reason to die, as to liue and passe the bridge; for if the truth saue him, the lye condemnes him equally: which being so as it is, I am of opinion, that you tell the Iudges that sent you to me, That since the reasons to saue or condemne him, be in one ranke, that they let him passe freely; for it is euer more praise-worthy to doe good, then to doe ill; and this would I giue vnder my hand, if I could write: and in this case I haue not spoken from my selfe, but I remember one precept amongst many others, that my Master Don Quixote gaue me the night before I came to be Gouernour, which was; That when Iustice might be any thing doubtfull, I should leaue, and apply my selfe to pitty: and it hath pleased God I should remember it in this case, which hath falne out pat.

Tis right, quoth the Steward: and sure, Licurgus Law-giuer to the Lacedemonians, could not haue giuen a better sentence then that which the Grand Sancho Pansa hath giuen. And now this Mornings audience may end, and I will giue order that the [Page 343] Gouernour may dine plentifully. That I desire (quoth Sancho) and let's haue faire play: Let mee dine, and then let Cases and Doubts raine vpon me, and Ile snuffe them apace.

The Steward was as good as his word, holding it to be a mat­ter of Conscience, to starue so discreet a Gouernour: Besides, his purpose was to make an end with him that night, perfor­ming the last iest, which he had in Commission, towards him. It hapned then, that hauing eaten contrary to the prescriptions and orders of the Doctor Tirtefuera, when the cloth was taken away, there came in a Poste with a Letter of Don Quixotes, to the Go­uernour. Sancho commanded the Secretary to read it to him­selfe, and that if there came no secret in it, hee should read it a­loud. The Secretary did so, and sodainely running of it ouer, said, It may well be read out, for this that Don Quixote writes to you, deserues to be stamped and written in golden letters, and thus it is.

Sancho heard the Letter very attentiuely, and those that heard it, applauded it for a very discreet one: and presently Sancho rose from the Table, and calling the Secretarie, lockt him to him in his lodging Chamber, and without more delay, meant to answere his Master Don Quixote: and therefore he bade the Se­cretarie, without adding or diminishing ought, to write what he would haue him; which he did: and the Letter in answere was of this ensuing tenour.

The Secretarie made vp the Letter, and presently dis­patcht the Post; and so Sancho's Tormentors ioyning together, gaue order how they might dispatch him from the Gouern­ment. And that afternoone Sancho passed, in setting downe or­ders for the well-gouerning the Iland he imagined to be so: and he ordained there should bee no Hucksters for the Common­wealths prouisions; and likewise that they might haue Wines brought in from whencesoeuer they would; onely with this Prouiso, to tell the place from whence they came, to put prices to them according to their value, and goodnes: and whosoeuer put water to any wine, or chang'd the name of it, should die for it: he moderated the prices of all kinde of cloathing, especially of shooes, as thinking Leather was sold vvith much exorbi­tancie.

He made a taxation for seruants wages, who went on vn­brideled for their profit.

He set grieuous penalties vpon such as should sing bawdie or ribaldry songs, either by night or day.

He ordained likewise, that no blind-man should sing miracles in Verse, except they brought Authenticall testimonies of the truth of them: for he thought, that the most they sung, vvere false, and preiudiciall to the true.

He created also a Constable for the poore, not that should persecute, but examine them, to know if they were so: for vn­der colour of fained maimenesse, and false sores, the hands are Theeues, and health is a Drunkard.

In conclusion, he ordered things so well, that to this day they are fam'd and kept in that place, and are called, The Ordi­nances of the Grand Gouernour, Sancho Pansa.

CHAP. LII.

CID Hamete tels vs, that Don Quixote being recouered of his scratches, he thought the life he led in that Castle, was much against the order of Knighthood he profest: so he determined to craue leaue of the Dukes to part towards Saragoza, whose Iusts drew neere, where hee thought to gaine the Armour that vseth to bee obtained in them. And being one day at the Table with the Dukes, and beginning to put his intention in execution, and to aske leaue: Behold, vnlookt for, two women came in at the great Hall doore, clad (as it af­ter appeared) in mourning from head to foot: and one of them comming to Don Quixote, she fell downe all along at his feet with her mouth sowed to them; and she groaned so sorrowful­fully, and so profoundly, that she put all that beheld her into a great confusion: and though the Dukes thought it was some tricke their seruants would put vpon Don Quixote; notwith­standing, seeing with what earnestnesse the woman sighed, groa­ned and wept, they were a little doubtfull and in suspence, till Don Quixote in great compassion raised her from the ground, and made her discouer her selfe, and take her Mantle from her blubber'd face. She did so, and appeared to be (what could not be imagined) Donna Rodriguez the Waiting-woman of the house: and the other in mourning was her wronged Daugh­ter, abused by a rich Farmers sonne. All were in admiration that knew her, especially the Dukes: for though they knew her to be foolish, and of a good mould that way; yet not to bee so neere mad.

Finally, Donna Rodriguez turning to the Lords, she said, May it please your Excellencies, to giue mee leaue to impart a thing to this Knight: for it behooues me to come out of a busi­nesse, into which the boldnesse of a wicked Raskall hath thrust me.

The Duke said, he gaue her leaue, and that she should impart what she would to Signior Don Quixote. She directing her voice and her gesture to Don Quixote, said, Some dayes since, valorous Knight, I related to you the wrong and treche­rie that a wicked Farmer hath done to my beloued Daughter, the vnfortunate one heere now present; and you promised me to vndertake for her to right this wrong that hath beene done her: and now it hath come to my notice, that you meane to part from this Castle, in quest of your Aduentures (God send them) and therefore my request is, that before you scowre the wayes, you would defie this vntamed Rusticke, and make him marry my Daughter, according to the promise he gaue her be­fore he coupled with her: For to thinke that my Lord the Duke will doe me iustice, is to seeke Peares from the Elme, for the rea­son that I haue plainely told you; and so God giue you much health, and forsake not vs.

To these reasons, Don Quixote answered with great grauity and Prosopopeia:

Good Matron, temper your teares, and saue your sighs, and I will engage my selfe to right your Daughter; for whom it had beene much better, not to haue beene so easie of beleeuing her Louers promises, which for the most part are light in ma­king, but heauy in accomplishing: and therefore with my Lord the Dukes leaue, I will presently part in search of this vngodly yong man, and finde and challenge him, and kill him, if he deny to accomplish his promise. For the chiefe ayme of my profes­sion is, to pardon the humble, and to chastize the proud; I meane, to succour the wretched, and to destroy the cruell.

You need not (quoth the Duke) be at the paines of seeking the Clowne, of whom the good Matron complaines; neither need you aske me leaue to defie him, 'tis enough, that I know you haue done it; and let it be my charge to giue him notice that he accept the challenge, and come to my Castle to answere for himselfe, where safe lists shall be set vp for you both, obseruing the conditions that in such Acts ought to bee obserued; and both your Iustices equally, according as Princes are obliged to doe, that grant single combate to those that fight within [Page 351] their Dominions. Why, with this securitie and your Great­nesses licence (quoth Don Quixote) here I say that for this once I renounce my Gentry, and doe equalize my selfe to the meanenesse of the Offender: and so qualifie him to combate with me: and so though he be absent, I challenge and defie him, for that hee did ill to defraude this poore creature that vvas a Maid, and now by his villany is none, and that hee shall either fulfill his word he gaue her to marry her, or die in the demand.

And straight plucking off his Gloue, he cast it into the midst of the Hall, and the Duke tooke it vp, saying, That hee (as had beene said) in his Vassals name accepted the challenge, and ap­pointed the prefixt time sixe dayes after, and the Lists to be in the Court of that Castle, and the vsuall Armes of Knights, as Lance and Shield, and laced Armour, with all other pieces, without deceit, aduantage, or superstition, seene and allowed by the Iudges of the Lists: but first of all 'tis requisite, that this ho­nest Matron, and this ill Maid commit the right of their cause into Signior Don Quixote de la Mancha's hands: for other­wise there will be nothing done; neither will the said challenge be put in execution.

I doe (quoth the Matron) and I too (said the Daughter, all blubber'd and shamefac'd) and in ill taking.

This agreement being made, and the Dukes imagining what was to be done in the businesse, the mourners went their wayes, and the Duchesse commanded they should be vsed not as their seruants, but like Lady-Aduenturers, that came to their house to aske iustice, and serued as strangers, to the wonderment of other seruants that knew not, what would become of the madnesse and leuity of Donna Rodriguez, and her Errant Daughter.

Whilst they were in this businesse, to adde more mirth to the Feast, and to end the Comedy: behold where the Page comes in, that carried the Letter and tokens to Teresa Pansa; whose arriuall much pleased the Dukes, desirous to know what befell him in his voyage, and asking him, The Page answered, that he could not tell them in publike, nor in few words; but that their Excellencies would bee pleased to reserue it for a priuate time, and that in the meane time, they would entertaine them­selues [Page 352] with those Letters; and taking them out, he gaue two to the Duchesse, the superscription of the one was, to my Lady Duchesse, I know not whence: and the other, To my Hus­band Sancho Panso, Gouernour of the Iland Barataria, whom God prosper longer then me.

The Duchesse could not be quiet, till she had read her Letter; so opening it, and reading it to her selfe, & seeing that she might reade it aloud, shee did so, that the Duke and the by-standers might heare it, as followeth.

Great was the content that all receiued to heare Teresa Pansa's Letter, principally of the Dukes; and the Duchesse asked Don Quixote's aduice, if it were fit to open the Letter that came for the Gouernour, which shee imagined was most exquisite. Don Quixote said, that to pleasure them, he would open it: which he did, and saw the Contents, which were these.

These Letters were extolled, laughed at, esteemed and ad­mired: and to mend the matter, the Post came that brought one from Sancho to Don Quixote, which was likewise read aloud; which brought the Gouernours madnesse in question. The Du­chesse retired with the Page, to know what had befalne him in Sancho's towne, who told her at large, without omitting cir­cumstance: he gaue her the Acornes, and a Cheese too vvhich Teresa gaue him for a very good one, much better then those of Tronion; the Duchesse receiued it with great content, in which we will leaue her, to tell the end that the Gouernment of the Grand Sancho Pansa had, the flower and Mirror of all Ilandish Gouernours.

CHAP. LIII.

TO thinke that the affaires of this life should last euer in one being, is needlesse; for it rather seemes otherwise: the Summer followes the Spring, after the Summer, the Fall, and the Fall, the Winter, and so Time goes on in a continu­ated wheele. Onely mans life runnes to a speedy end, swifter then Time, without hope of being renued, except it be in ano­ther life, which hath no bounds to limit it.

This said Cid Hamete, a Mahometicall Philosopher; for many without the light of Faith, onely with a naturall instinct haue vnderstood the swiftnesse and vncertainty of this life pre­sent, and the lasting of the eternall life which is expected. But heere the Author speakes it, for the speedinesse with which Sancho's Gouernment was ended, consumed and vndone, and vanished into a shade and smoake, who being a-bed the seuenth night after so many daies of his Gouernment, not cloyed with bread or wine, but with iudging and giuing sentences, making Proclamations and Statutes, when sleepe, maugre and in despite of hunger, shut his eye-lids, hee heard such a noyse of bells and out-cryes, as if the whole Iland had beene sunke: he sate vp in his bed, and was very attentiue, hearkening if he could ghesse at the cause of so great an vprore, but he was so farre from know­ing it, that a noyse of a world of Drums and Trumpets added to that of the bells and cries, made him more confused, & more full of feare and horror; and rising vp, he put on a paire of slip­pers for the moystnesse of the ground, and without any night­gowne vpon him, or any thing like it, he went out at his cham­ber doore, at such time as hee saw at least twenty persons come running thorow the entries, with Torches in their hands ligh­ted, and swords vnsheathed, crying all out aloud; Arme, Arme, Sir Gouernour, Arme; for a world of enemies are entred the Iland, and we are vndone, if your skill and valour helpe vs not.

With this fury, noyse and vp-rore, they came where Sancho was, astonisht & embeseld with what he heard & saw: and when they came to him, one of them sayd, Arme your selfe strait, Sir, if you meane not to be destroyd, and that all the Iland be lost.

I arme my selfe (quoth Sancho?) Know I any thing vvhat belongs to Armes or Succours? twere better leaue these things to my Master Don Quixote de la Mancha, hee will dispatch and put them in safety in an instant; for I (sinner that I am) vnder­stand nothing of this quicke seruice. Ha, Sir Gouernour, said another, what faint-heartednesse is this? Arme your selfe, for here wee bring you Armes offensiue and defensiue. March to the Market-place, and be our Guide and Captaine, since you ought (being our Gouernour) to be so. Arme mee on Gods Name (quoth Sancho.) And strait they brought him two shields, of which they had good store, and they clapt them vpon his shirt, without letting him take any other clothes; one they put before, and the other behinde, and they drew out his armes at certaine holes they had made, and bound him very well vvith cords, so that he was walled and boorded vp straight like a spin­dle, not able to bend his knees, or to moue a step. In his hands they put a Lance, on which hee leant to keepe himselfe vp. When they had him thus, they bad him march, and guide them, and cheere them all; for that hee being their Lanthorne, North, and Morning starre, their matters would be well ended. How should I (wretch that I am) march, quoth Sancho? for my knee-bones will notmooue, since these boords that are so sowed to my flesh, doe hinder me: your onely way is to carry me in your armes, and to lay me a-thwart, or let me stand vp at some Po­sterne, which I will make good, eyther with my Lance or my body. Fie, Sir, said another, 'tis more your feare then the boords that hinder your pace; make an end for shame, and be­stir your selfe; for it is late, and the enemies increase, the cries are augmented, and the danger waxeth more and more. At whose perswasions & vitupery, the poore Gouernour tried if he could mooue himselfe: so he fell to the ground, and had such a fall, that he thought he had broken himselfe to pieces; and now hee lay like a Tortoise, shut in, and couered with his shell, or like a [Page 358] Flitch of Bacon clapped betweene two boords, or like a Boate ouerturned vpon a flatte; and for all his fall, those scoffers had no compassion at all on him, but rather putting out their Tor­ches, they began to re-enforce their cryes, and to reiterate their Arme, Arme, so fast running ouer poore Sancho, giuing him an infinite company of slashes vpon his Shields, that if he had not withdrawne himselfe, and shrunke his head vp into them, the poore Gouernour had beene in wofull plight; who being thus shrugged vp in this strait, he was in a terrible sweat and be­raied, and recommended himselfe heartily to God Almighty to deliuer him from that danger. Some stumbled vpon him, others fell, and another would get vpon him for a good while, and from thence, as from a watch tower, gouerned the Army, and cried aloud, Heere on our side, heere the enemies are thickest: make this breach good, keepe that gate shut, downe with those ladders, wilde-fire balls, pitch and Rosin, and kettles of scalding Oyle: Trench the streets with beds; In fine, he named all man­ner of ware, instruments, and furniture of warre for the defence of a City assaulted: and the bruised Sancho, that heard and suf­fered all, said to himselfe; Oh that it would please the Lord that this Iland were once lost, or that I were dead or deliuered from this strait! Heauen heard his petition, and when he least expe­cted, he heard this cry, Victory, Victory, the foes are vanqui­shed. Ho, Sir Gouernour, rise, rise, enioy the conquest, and diuide the spoyles that are taken from the enemies, by the valour of your inuincible arme.

Raise me, quoth the grieued Sancho, with a pittifull voyce. They helpt to raise him, and being vp, hee said; Euery enemy that I haue vanquished, naile him in my forehead: Ile diuide no spoyles of enemies, but desire some friend, if I haue any, to giue me a draught of wine, that may dry vp this sweat, for I am all water. They wiped him, brought him wine, and vnbound the Shields from him: he sate vpon his bedde, and vvith the very anguish of the sodaine fright, and his toyle, hee fell into a swound; and they that playd that tricke with him, were sorry it fell out so heauily: but Sancho's comming straight to himselfe, tempered their sorrow.

He asked them what a clocke it was? They answered him, it grew to be day.

Hee held his peace, and without more words, began to cloath himselfe, all buried in silence, and all beheld him, ex­pecting what would bee the issue of his hasty dressing him­selfe.

Thus by little and little, he made himselfe ready, for by rea­son of his wearinesse he could not doe it very fast, and so went toward the stable (all they that were there following him) and comming to Dapple, hee embraced and gaue him a louing kisse on the forehead, and not without teares in his eyes, sayd:

Come thou hither, companion mine and friend, fellow-part­ner of my labours and miseries; when I consorted with you, no other cares troubled me, then to mend thy furniture, and to su­staine thy little corps: happy then were my houres, dayes, and yeeres: but since I left thee, and mounted on the towers of am­bition and pride, a thousand miseries, a thousand toyles, foure thousand vnquietnesses haue entred my soule. And as hee vvas thus discoursing, he fitted on the pack-saddle, no body saying ought vnto him. Dapple being thus pack-saddled, with much adoe he got vpon him, and directing his speeches and reasons to the Steward, the Doctor and many others there present, he said,

Giue me roome, sirs, & leaue to return to my former liberty; let mee seeke my ancient life, to rise from this present death: I was not borne to be a Gouernour, nor to defend Ilands nor Cities from enemies that would assault them: I can tell better how to plow, to digge, to prune, and plant Vineyards, then to giue Lawes, or defend Prouinces & Kingdomes; tis good slee­ping in a whole skinne: I meane, tis fit that euery man should ex­ercise the Calling to which he was born: a Sickle is better in my hand, then a Gouernours Scepter. I had rather fill my selfe with a good dish of Gaspachos, then be subiect to the misery of an im­pertinent Physician, that would kill me with hunger: I had ra­ther solace my selfe vnder the shade of an Oake in Summer, and couer my selfe with a double sheepe-skinne in Winter quietly, then lay me downe to the subiection of a Gouernment [Page 360] in fine Holland sheets, and be clothed in Sables: fare you vvell Sir, and tel my Lord the Duke, Naked was I borne, naked I am, I neyther winne nor lose: I meane, I came without crosse to this Gouernment, and I goe from it without a crosse, contrary to what Gouernours of other Ilands are vsed to doe. Stand out of the way, and let me go, for I must seare-cloth my selfe; for I be­leeue all my ribs are bruised, I thanke the enemy that trampled ouer me all this night.

You shall not doe so, Sir Gouernour, quoth Doctor Rezio, for I will giue you a drinke good against falls and bruises, that shall straight recouer you: and touching your diet, I promise you to make amends, and you shall eat plentifully of what you list. Tis too late (quoth Sancho) Ile as soon tarry as turne Turke: these iests are not good the second time: you shall as soone get me to stay heere, or admit of any other Gouernment, (though it were presented in two platters to me) as make me flye to hea­uen without wings. I am of the linage of the Pansa's, and vve are all head-strong, and if once wee cry odde, odde it must be (though it be euen) in spight of all the world. Heere in this sta­ble let my Ants wings remaine that lifted me vp in the ayre, to be deuoured by Martlets and other birds, and now let's goe a plaine pace on the ground: and though wee weare no pinked Spanish-leather shoos, yet we shall not want course pack-thread Sandals. Like to like, quoth the Deuill to the Collier, and let e­uery man cut his measure according to his cloth, and so let mee goe, for it is late.

To which qd. the Steward, With a very good wil you should goe, though we shall be very sorry to lose you: for your iudge­ment and Christian proceeding oblige vs to desire your compa­ny: but you know, that all Gouernours are obliged, before they depart from the place which they haue gouerned, to render first an account of their place, which you ought to doe for the tenne daies you haue gouerned; and so Gods peace be with you.

No man can aske any account of me, said he, but hee whom my Lord the Duke will appoint; to him I goe, and to him Ile giue a fitting account: besides, I going from hence so bare as I doe, there can be no greater signe that I haue gouerned like an Angell.

I protest (quoth Doctor Rezio) the Grand Sancho hath a great deale of reason, and I am of opinion that we let him goe; for the Duke will be infinitely glad to see him. So all agreed, and let him goe, offering first to accompany him, and whatsoeuer he had need of for himselfe, or for the commodiousnesse of his Voyage.

Sancho told them, hee desired nothing but a little barley for Dapple, and halfe a Cheese and a loafe for himselfe; for that by reason of the shortnesse of the way, hee needed no other proui­sion. All of them embraced him, and he with teares embraced them, and left them astonished, as well at his discourse, as his most resolute and discreet determination.

CHAP. LIV.

THe Duke & Duchesse were resolued that Don Quixote's Challenge that hee made against their Vassall for the a­foresaid cause, should go forward; & though the yong man were in Flanders, whither hee fled because hee would not haue Donna Rodriguez to his Mother in Law, yet they purpo­sed to put a Gascoigne Lackey in his stead, which was called Tosilos, instructing him first very well in all that he had to doe.

Some two daies after, the Duke said to Don Quixote, that within foure daies his contrary would be present, and present himselfe in the field like an armed Knight, and maintaine that the Damozell lied in her throat, if she affirmed that he had pro­mised her marriage. Don Quixote was much pleased with this newes, and promised to himselfe to worke miracles in this busi­nesse, and he held it to be a speciall happinesse to him, that occa­sion was offered, wherein those Nobles might see how far the valor of his powerfull arme extended: and so with great iocund­nesse and content, he expected the foure daies, which in the reckoning of his desire, seemed to him to bee foure hundred [Page 362] Ages. Let we them passe (as we let passe diuers other matters) and come to the Grand Sancho, to accompany him, who be­twixt mirth and mourning, vpon Dapple went to seeke out his Master, whose company pleased him more then to be Gouer­nour of all the Ilands in the world.

It fell out so, that he hauing not gone very farre from the I­land of his Gouernment (for he neuer stood to auerre vvhether it were Iland, City, Village, or Towne which he gouerned) he saw that by the way he went, there came sixe Pilgrimes vvith their walking staues, your strangers that vse to beg almes sin­ging, who when they came neere, beset him round, and raising their voyces all together, began to sing in their language, what Sancho could not vnderstand, except it were one word, which plainely signified Almes, which hee perceiued they begged in their song. And hee (as saith Cid Hamete) being very charita­ble, tooke halfe a Loafe, and halfe a Cheese out of his wallet, of which he was prouided, & gaue it them, telling them by signes he had nothing else to giue them: they receiued it very willing­ly, and said, Guelte, Guelte. I vnderstand you not what you would haue (good people) quoth Sancho. Then one of them took a purse out of his bosome, and shewed it to Sancho, where­by he vnderstood they asked him for money; but hee putting his thumbe to his throat, and his hand vpward, gaue them to vnderstand he had not a Denier; and spurring Dapple, he broke thorow them: and passing by, one of them looking wishly vp­on him, layd hold on him, and casting his armes about his mid­dle, with a loud voyce, and very good Spanish, sayd, God de­fend me, and what doe I see? is it possible I haue my deare friend in my armes, my honest neighbour Sancho Pansa? Yes sure I haue, for I neyther sleepe, nor am drunke.

Sancho wondred to heare himselfe so called by his name, and to see himselfe embraced by a Pilgrime-stranger: and after hee had beheld him a good while, without speaking a word, and with much attention, yet he could neuer call him to minde: but the Pilgrime seeing his suspension, said,

How now, is it possible, Brother Sancho Pansa, thou know­est not thy neighbour Ricote the Morisco Grocer of thy towne? [Page 363] Then Sancho beheld him more earnestly, and began to remem­ber his fauour, and finally knew him perfectly: and so without alighting from his Asse, hee cast his armes about his neck, and said, Who the Diuell, Ricote, could know thee, in this vizardly disguize? What's the matter? who hath made such a A word of disgrace the Spaniard v­seth to all strangers, but chiefely to the French. Franchote of thee? and how darest thou returne back againe into Spaine? where, if thou bee'st catcht or knowne, woe bee to thee? If thou reueale me not, Sancho, I am safe, quoth the Pilgrim: for in this disguise no body will know me: Come let's goe out of the high-way, into yonder Elme Groue, for there my compa­nions meane to dine, and repose themselues, and thou shalt eate with them, for they are very good people, and there I shall haue leisure to tell thee what hath befalne me, since I departed from our Towne, to obey his Maiesties Edict, which so rigorously threatened those vnfortunate ones of our Nation, as thou heard'st.

Sancho consented, and Ricote speaking to the rest of the Pil­grims, they went to the Elme Groue that appear'd: a pretty way distant from the High-way, they flung downe their Staues, and cast off their Pilgrims weeds, and so remained in Hose and Doublet: and all of them were yong, and handsome fellowes, except Ricote, who was well entred in yeeres: all of them had Wallets, which were (all to see to) well prouided at least vvith incitatiues that prouoked to drinke two miles off.

They sate vpon the ground, and making Table-clothes of the Grasse; they set vpon it, Bread, Salt, Kniues, Wal-nuts, sli­ces of Cheese, and cleane Gammon of Bacon-bones: vvhich though they would not let themselues be gnawed, yet they for­bade not to be sucked.

They set downe likewise a kinde of blacke meat, called Ca­uiary, made of Fishes Egges; a great Alarum to the bottle, there wanted no Oliues, though they were dry without any Pickle; yet sauoury, and made vp a dish: but that which most flourisht in the field of that banquet was; sixe bottles of Wine, which each of them drew out of his Wallets; euen honest Ri­cote too, who had transformed himselfe from a Morisco into a Germane, or Dutch-man; hee drew out his, that for quan­titie [Page 364] might compare with the whole fiue.

Thus they beganne to eate with great content; and very lei­surely, rellishing euery bit which they tooke vpon a kniues point, and very little of euery thing: and straight all of them together would lift their armes and bottles vp into the ayre, putting their own mouthes to the Bottles mouthes, their eyes nailed in heauen, as if they had shot at it: and in this fashion mo­uing their heads from one side to the other, signes of their good liking of the Wine, they remained a good while, straining the entrailes of the Vessels in their stomacks.

Sancho marked all, and was grieued at nothing; rather to ful­fill the Prouerbe, that he very well knew, Cum fueris Romae, & e. When thou goest to Rome, &c. hee desired the Bottle of Ricote, and so tooke his ayme as well as the rest, and with no lesse delight then they: thus the Bottles suffered themselues to be hoisted on end foure times: but it was not possible the fift; for they were now as soakt and dry as a Matteresse, which made their ioy hitherto shewne, now very muddy: now and then one of them would take Sancho by the right hand, and say, Spaniard & Dutchman all one, bon com­paguo. And Sancho answered: Bon compagno, Sweares in a broken lan­guage. iuro a di: and with that dischargeth such a laughter as lasted a long houre; not re­membring as then ought that had befalne him in his Go­uernment; for cares are wont to haue little Iurisdiction vpon leisure and idlenesse, whilest men are eating and drinking.

Finally, the ending of their Wine, was the beginning of a drowsinesse that seyzed vpon them all, so they euen fell to sleepe where they set; only Ricote and Sancho watched it out, for they had eaten more, and drunke lesse: So Ricote taking Sancho apart, they sate at the foote of a Beech, leauing the Pilgrims buried in sweet sleepe, and Ricote without stumbling a iot into his Mo­riso tongue, in pure Castillian language, vttered to him this en­suing Discourse.

Thou well knowest, O Sancho Pansa, friend and neighbour mine, how the Proclamation and Edict that his Maiesty com­manded to be published against those of my Nation, put vs all into a feare and fright, at least me it did: and mee thought, that before the time that was limited vs for our departure from [Page 365] Spaine; the very rigour of the penalty was executed vpon me, and my children.

I prouided therefore (in my iudgement wisely) as he which knowes that by such a time the house he liues in shall bee taken from him, and so prouides himselfe another against hee is to change: I prouided, I say, to leaue our towne, all alone without my Family, and to seeke some place whither I might commodi­ously carry them, and not in such a hurry as the rest that went. For I well saw, and so did all our grauer sort, that those Procla­mations were not onely threats, as some said: but true lawes to be put in execution at their due time: and I was enforced to be leeue this truth; because I knew the villanous, but foolish at­tempts of our Nation: such, as me thought, it was a diuine in­spiration that moued his Maiestie, to put so braue a resolution in effect: not because wee were all faulty; for some there were firme and true Christians: but they were so few, they could not be opposed to those that were otherwise: and it was not fit to nourish a Serpent in his bosome, and to haue enemies within doores.

Finally, we were iustly punished with the penalty of Banish­ment, which seemed to some soft and sweet; but to vs the terri­blest that could be inflicted: wheresoeuer wee are, we weepe to thinke on Spaine: for indeed heere we were borne, and it is our naturall Countrey; wee no where finde the entertainment that our misfortune desires, and in Barbary, and all parts of Africa, where we thought to haue been receiued, entertained, and che­rished; there it is where wee are most offended, and misused: we knew not our happinesse till we lost it, and the desire we all haue to returne to Spaine is so great, that the most part of such (which are many) who speake the language, as I doe, returne hither againe, and leaue their Wiues and Children there forsa­ken: so great is the loue they beare their Countrey, and now I know and finde by experience that the saying is true, Sweet is the loue of ones Countrey.

I went (as I say) out of our towne, and came into France, and though there we were well entertained, yet I would see it all; and so passed into Italy, and arriued in Germany; and there I [Page 366] found we might liue with more freedome; for the inhabitants doe not looke much into niceties, euery one liues as he pleaseth: for in the greatest part of it, there is libertie of conscience.

There I tooke a house in a Towne neere Augusta, and so ioyned with these Pilgrims, that vsually come for Spaine; ma­ny of them euery yeere to visit the Deuotions heere, which are their Indies, and certaine gaine, they trauell all the Kingdome ouer; and there is no towne from whence they goe not away with meat and drinke (as you would say) at least & sixe pence in money: and when they haue ended their Voyage, they goe away with a hundreth Crownes ouer-plus, which changed into Gold; eyther in the hollowes of their Staues, or the patches of their Weeds, or by some other slight they can, they carry out of the Kingdome, and passe into other Countreys, in spight of the Searchers of the dry Ports, where the money ought to be regi­stred. And now, Sancho, my purpose is to carry away the Trea­sure that I left buried; for because it is without the Town, I may doe it without danger, and write from Valencia, to my Wife and Daughter that I know are in Argiers, and contriue how I may bring them to some Port of France, and from thence carry them into Germany, where we will expect how God will please to dispose of vs: for indeed, Sancho, I know certainely, that Ri­cota my Daughter, and Francisca Ricota my Wife are Catholike Christians: and though I bee not altogether so, yet I am more Christian then Moore; and my desire to God alwaies is, to open the eyes of my vnderstanding, and to let me know how I may serue him.

And all I admire, is, that my Wife and Daughter should rather go into Barbarie, then into France, where they might haue liued as Christians.

To which Sancho said, Look you, Ricote, perhaps they could not doe withall: for Iohn Tyopeio your wiues Brother carried them: and he (belike) as he was a ranke Moore, would go where he thought best, and I can tell you more, I thinke tis in vaine for you to seeke what you left hidden: for we had newes that your Brother in law & your Wife had many Pearls taken from them, and a great deale of gold which was not registred.

That may very well be, Sancho, quoth Ricote: but I know they touched not my treasure. For I would not tell them where it was hidden, as fearing some mis-hap; and therefore if thou wilt come vvith me, Sancho, and help me to take it out and con­ceale it, Ile giue thee two hundreth Crownes to the reliefe of thy necessities, for thou knowest, I know thou hast many.

Were I couetous (quoth Sancho) I would yeeld to this; and were I so, this morning I left an Office, which had I kept, I might haue made my house walles of gold, and within one sixe moneths haue eaten in siluer dishes: so that partly for this, and partly not to bee a Traitour to my King, in fauouring his ene­mies, I will not goe vvith thee, though thou wouldst giue mee foure hundreth Crownes

And vvhat Office vvas that thou leftest Sancho, quoth Ricote?

I left to be Gouernour of an Iland (quoth Sancho) and such a one, that yfaith in three Bow-shootes againe you shall scarce meet vvith such another.

And where is this Iland, said he? Where, quoth Sancho? Why, two Leagues off, and it is called the Iland Barataria.

Peace, Sancho, quoth Ricote: for your Ilands are out in the Sea, you haue no Ilands in the Terra Firma.

No, quoth Sancho? I tell you, friend, Ricote, this morning I left it; and yesterday I gouerned in it at my pleasure like a Sa­gittarius: but yet I left it, as thinking the Gouernours Office to be dangerous.

And what haue you gotten by it, quoth Ricote? I haue gotten (said he) this experience, that I am not fit to gouerne ought but a Herd of Cattel, and that in those kinde of Gouernments there is no wealth gotten, but with labour, toyle, losse of sleepe and sustenance: for in your Ilands your Gouernours fare very ill; especially if they haue Phisicions that looke to their health.

I vnderstand thee not, Sancho, quoth Ricote: but me thinkes thou talkest withou sense: for who would giue thee Ilands to gouerne? want there in the vvorld more able men then thou to be Gouernours? Peace, Sancho, and returne to thy vvits, and see if thou wilt goe with me, as I haue said, and help me take out the Treasure that I haue hidden, for it may very vvell bee [Page 368] called a Treasure; and I will giue thee sufficient to maintaine thee.

I haue told thee, Ricote, quoth Sancho, that I will not: let it suffice, I will not discouer thee, and goe on thy way, on Gods name, and leaue me to mine: for I know that vvhat is vvell got­ten, is lost; but what is ill gotten, it and the Owner too.

I vvill not be too earnest with thee, said hee: but tell mee, wast thou in our towne, vvhen my Wife, my Daughter, and my Brother in law departed? Marry was I (quoth Sancho) and I can tell you, your Daughter shewed so beautifull, that all the Towne went out to see her: and euery one said shee vvas the fairest creature in the world: shee went weeping, and em­braced all her friends and acquaintances, and as many as came to see her, and intreated all to recommend her to God, and this so feelingly, that shee made mee weepe, that am no Bel-weather: and yfaith many had a good minde to haue concealed her, and to take her away vpon the way: but feare of resisting the Kings commandement, made them abstaine: he that shewed himselfe most enamoured, was Don Pedro Grego­rio, that Youth, the rich heyre that you know very well; he, they say, loued her very much, and since she went, vvas neuer seene more in our Towne, and we all thought, hee followed to steale her away: but hitherto there is nothing knowne.

I alwayes suspected (quoth Ricote) that this Gentleman loued my Daughter: but being confident in Ricota's worth, it neuer troubled me, to know that he loued her well: for I am sure, San­cho, thou hast heard say, that Morisca women seldome or neuer for loue married with old Christians: and so my Daughter, who, as I beleeue, rather tended her soules health then to bee enamoured, cared little for this rich heires solliciting.

God grant it, quoth Sancho: for it would be very ill for them both: and now, Ricote, let me goe from hence, for I meane this night to see my Master Don Quixote.

God be with thee, Brother Sancho: for now my companions are stirring and it is time to be on our way: and straight both of them tooke leaue; and Sancho gate vpon Dapple, and Ricote leant on his Pilgrims Staffe; and so both departed.

CHAP. LV.

SAncho's long stay with Ricote was the cause that he reach­ed not that day to the Dukes Castle, though hee came within halfe a League of it, where the night tooke him, somewhat darke and close: but being Summer time, it troubled him not much, and therefore hee went out of the vvay, pur­posing to rest till the morning: but as ill lucke would haue it, seeking a place, where he might best accommodate himselfe, hee and Dapple fell into a most darke and deepe pit, which was amongst certain ruinous buildings; and as he was falling, he re­cōmended himselfe with al his heart to God, thinking he should not stop till hee came to Hell, but it fell out otherwise: for vvithin a little more then three fathoms length, Dapple felt ground, and he sate still vpon him without any hurt or dam­mage receiued.

He felt all his body ouer, and held in his breath, to see if hee were sound, or pierced any where: but seeing himselfe vvell and whole, and in Catholike health, he thought hee could neuer praise God sufficiently for the fauour hee had done him: for he thought verily he had bin beaten into a thousand pieces he went likewise, groping with his hands about the walls of the pit to see if it were possible to get out without help, but he found them all smooth, without any place to lay hold on, which grieued him very much, especially when hee heard Dapple cry out ten­derly and dolefully, and no maruell: for it was not for vvan­tonnes, he saw himselfe in a pitifull taking.

Alas, quoth Sancho then, and what sodaine and vnthought of accidents befall men that liue in this miserable world? vvho would haue supposed, that he, who yesterday saw himselfe in­thronized Gouernour of an Iland, commanding seruants and Vassals, should to day bee buried in a Pit, without any bodies help, without Seruant or Vassall comming to succour him?

Heere I and my Asse are like to perish with hunger, if so bee that first wee die not; he with his bruise, and I vvith griefe and anguish: at least I shall not bee so happy, as my Master Don Quixote was, when hee descended and went downe into that enchanted Caue of Montesino's, where hee found better wel­come then if he had beene at his owne house; and it seemed hee found the cloth ready layd, and his bed made: there saw hee goodly and pleasant Visions; and heere (I beleeue) I shall see nothing but Toads and Snakes: vnfortunate that I am, what is my madnesse and folly come too? My bones will bee fetcht out from hence (when it shall please heauen that I am found) white and smooth, the flesh pickt off, and my trustie Dapples with them: wherevpon peraduenture it shall bee knowne who we are, at least by those that shall take notice, that Sancho and the Asse neuer parted, nor the Asse from Sancho. Againe, I say, Vnhappy wee! our ill fortune would not, that wee should dye in our Countrey, and amongst our friends, where though our mis-fortune had found no redresse; yet we should not haue wanted pitie, and at last gaspe we should haue had our eyes clo­sed. Oh Companion mine and friend, how ill haue I rewar­ded thy honest seruice? Pardon me: and desire Fortune in the best manner thou canst, to deliuer vs from this miserable toyle in which we are both put: and I heere promise to set a Crowne of Lawrell on thy head, that thou shalt looke like a Poet Lawreat, and I will double thy Prouender-allowance.

Thus Sancho lamented, and his Asse hearkened to him, with­out answering a word; such was the strait and anguish in which the poore Scab found himselfe.

Finally, hauing passed ouer the whole night in complaints and lamentations, the day came on, with whose cleerenesse and splēdor, Sancho saw that there was no maner of possibility to get out of that Well, without help, and he began to lament & make a noise to see if any body heard him: but all his crying out was as in a Desart: for in all the Countrey round about, there vvas none to hearken to him; and then Dapple lay with his mouth open, and Sancho thought he had been dead: yet hee so handled the matter, that he set him vpon his legges, and taking a piece of [Page 371] bread out of his Wallets (which had runne the same fortune with them) he gaue it his Asse, which came not amisse to him; and Sancho said to him, as if hee had vnderstood it, Sorrowes great are lessened with meate.

By this he discouered on the one side of the Pit a great hole, whereat a man might passe thorow, crooking and stooping a little. Sancho drew to it, and squatting down, entred in, and saw that within it, was large and spacious, and he might well discerne it: for by a place that you might call the roofe, the Sun-beame entered in, that discouered it all: he saw likewise that it was en­larged by another spacious concauitie: which when he saw, he turned backe againe to his Asse, and with a stone began to pull downe the earth of the Hole, and in a little while made way for his Asse to goe out, which he did, and Sancho leading him by the Halter, went forward along the Caue, to see if hee could finde any egresse on the other side; sometimes he went darke-long and without light: but neuer without feare. Lord God, said he, this, that to me is a misfortune, were to my Master Don Quixote a famous Aduenture: he would think these profundi­ties and Dungeons, were flowry Gardens, and Galiana's Pala­ces, and hee would hope to get out of this straightnesse and darknesse into some flowry field: but I vnfortunate, ill-aduised, and faint-hearted, thinke that euery moment I shall fall into a deeper profunditie then this former, that will swallow mee downe-right: Tis a good ill that comes alone. In this manner, and in this imagination he thought he had gone somwhat more then halfe a League; and at last he discouered a kinde of Twy­light, as if it had been day, & came in at some open place, which, seemed to open an entrance to another world.

Heere Cid Hamete Benengeli leaues him, and turnes againe to treat of Don Quixote, who, iocund and contented, expected the prefixed time, for the Combate hee was to performe with the dishonourer of Donna Rodriguez Daughter, and thought to rectifie the wrong and vncouth turne shee had done her.

It fell out then, that going out one morning to exercise and practise against the traunce in which ere long hee was to see [Page 372] himselfe; fetching vp Rosinante with a full Carrere, hee came close to a Caues mouth; that had he not reined him in hard, it had been impossible but he must haue falne into it.

Well, he stopt him, and fell not in: and comming somewhat neerer, without alighting, lookt into that depth, and beholding of it, heard a great noise within, and hearkening attentiuely, he might perceiue and vnderstand, that he that made it, cryed out, Ho, aboue there, is there any Christian that heares me? or any charitable Gentleman that will take pitie of a sinner buried a­liue? of an vnhappy vngouern'd Gouernour?

Don Quixote thought hee heard Sancho Pansa's voice, at which he was in suspence & affrighted: but raising his voice as high as he could, he said, Who is below there? who is that cryes out? Who should be here? or who should cry out, they answe­red, but the weather-beaten Sancho Pansa Gouernour with a Pox to him, for his ill errantrie of the Iland Barataria, Squire sometime to the famous Knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha?

When Don Quixote heard this, his admiration was doubled, and his astonishment increased, as thinking Sancho Pansa might be dead, and that his soule was there doing penance: and car­ried with this imagination, he said, I coniure thee by all I may, as I am a Catholike Christian, that thou tell mee who thou art: and if thou beest a soule in penalty, tell mee what thou wilt haue mee doe for thee: for since my profession is to succour and help the needy of this world, it shall alwayes bee so to help and ayde the needie in another world, that cannot help them­selues.

Then said they below, Belike, you that speake to me are my Master Don Quixote de la Mancha, and by the Organ of your voice can be no other.

Don Quixote I am, quoth he, that both ayde the liuing and dead in their necessities. Therefore tell mee who thou art; for thou amazest me: for if thou be Sancho Pansa my Squire, and that being dead, the Diuel haue not seyzed on thee, and by Gods mercie thou be in Purgatory, our holy Mother the Catholike Romane Church hath sufficient suffrages, to deliuer thee from the paine thou endurest, and I with my wealth will sollicite [Page 373] all that I can: and therefore make an end, and tell mee who thou art.

Gods me, by whose birth so euer you will, Signior Don Quix­ote: I sweare I am your Squire Sancho Pansa, and I neuer dyed in all my life; but that hauing left my Gouernment for mat­ters and causes that must be told more at leisure; ouer-night I fell into this Pit, where I lye and Dapple too, who will proue me to be no lyar: for he is heere with me: Will you any more? And it seemed, the Asse vnderstood what Sancho said: for at the instant, hee began to bray so lowd, that all the Caue re­sounded.

A famous witnesse, quoth Don Quixote, I know this Bray, as if I had brought it forth, and I heare thy voice, my Sancho: Stay, and Ile goe to the Dukes Castle that is heere hard by: and I will get some to help thee out of this Pit, into which thy sins haue cast thee.

Goe, Sir (quoth Sancho) for Gods loue, and returne quickly: for I can no longer endure to be buried heere aliue, and I dye for feare. Don Quixote left him, and went to the Castle to let the Dukes know Sancho's mis-hap: at which they maruelled not a little, though they knew well enough how hee might fall in for the knowledge they had, time out of minde of that Vault: but they could not imagine how he had left his Gouernment, they knowing nothing of his comming. Finally, they caused Ropes and Cables to be sent, & with much cost and labour of people, Sancho and Dapple were drawne out of that dismalnesse to the sunnes light. A Scholler saw him, and said, Thus should all bad Gouernors come out of their Gouernments, as this sinner doth out of this profound Abisme, pale dead for hunger, and (as I beleeue) without a crosse to blesse him with.

Sancho heard him, and said, 'Tis eight or ten dayes, Good­man Murmurer, since I began to gouerne the Iland; in all which I neuer eat bread that kept me from hunger one houre; in al that time Physicians haue persecuted mee, and enemies haue bruised my bones: neither haue I had leisure to take bribes, or to recouer my due; which being so, I deserued not (in my opinion) to come out in this manner: but man purposeth, and God disposeth: and [Page 374] God best knowes what each man needeth: and let euery man fit himselfe to the times, and no man say, Ile drink no more of such a drinke: for where we thinke to fare well, there is oft ill vsage. God Almighty knowes my minde, 'tis enough, and I say no more, though I could. Be not angry, Sancho, nor vext with what thou hearest, for so thou shalt neuer be in quiet: come with a good conscience, let vm say what they will; for to bridle ma­licious tongues, is as much as to set gates in the High-way.

If a Gouernour come rich from his Gouernment, they say he hath played the Thiefe: and if poore, that he hath been a weake vnable Coxcombe.

I warrant you (quoth Sancho) this bout, they shall rather hold me to be a Cox-combe then a Thiefe. With this discourse they went toward the Castle hemmed in with many boyes, and other people; where the Duke and Duchesse were in certaine running Galleries, expecting Don Quixote and Sancho: who, before he would goe vp to see the Duke, would first accommo­date Dapple in the Stable: for he said he had had a maruellous ill night on't at their lodging; and so straight he went vp to see his Lords, before whom vpon his knees, he said; I, my Lords, be­cause your Greatnesses would needs haue it so, without any de­sert of mine, went to gouern your Iland Barataria; into which, naked I entred, and naked come I out, I neither win nor lose, whether I gouerned well or ill, heere be witnesses present to say what they please: I haue resolued Doubts; sentenced Causes, and haue been ready to be starued; because Master Doctor Pe­dro Rezio, borne at Tirtea fuera, would haue it so, that Iland and Gouernourish Physician; enemies set vpon vs by night: and hauing put vs in great danger, they of the Iland say that they were freed, and got the victory, by the valour of my arme; such health God send them, as they tell truth herein.

In fine, I haue summed vp all the burdens and the cares that this gouerning brings with it, and finde by my account, that my shoulders cannot beare them; neither are they a weight for my ribbes, nor Arrowes for my quiuer: and therefore, lest I should be cast away in my Gouernment, I haue cast it away, and since yesterday morning I left the Iland as I found it, with the [Page 375] same streets, houses, and roofes that it had when I came into it.

I haue borrowed nothing of no body, nor hoorded vp any thing: and though I thought to haue made some profitable Or­dinances, yet I did not, as fearing they would not be kept, which is as much as if they had neuer been made.

I left the Iland (as I say) without any bodies accompanying me, but Dapple: I fell into a Pit, went forward in it, vntill this morning by the Sunnes light I got out: but not so easily; for if heauen had not prouided mee my Master Don Quixote, there I had stucke till the end of the world.

So that my Lords, Duke and Duchesse, here is Sancho Pansa your Gouernour, that hath onely learnt to know in these ten daies that he hath gouern'd, that he cares not for gouerning, not an Iland, nay were it the whole world: this presupposed, kissing your Honours hands, imitating Like our Trusse or faile. boyes play, that cry, Leape thou, and then let me leape: So I leape from the Gouernment, and passe againe to my Master Don Quixotes seruice: for in fine, though with him I eate my victuals sometimes in feare, yet I haue my belly full; and so that be, all's one to me, that it be with Carrets, or with Partridge. With this, Sancho ended his tedious discourse: Don Quixote fearing alwayes that he would blunder out a thousand fopperies: but seeing him end with so few, he thanked Heauen in his heart: and the Duke embraced Sancho, and said, He was sorry in his soule that he left the Gouernment so quickly: but that he would cause some Office of lesse trou­ble, and more profit in his estate to be giuen him: the Duchesse likewise embraced him, and commanded hee should bee made much of, for he seemed to be much wearied, and to be worse entreated.

CHAP. LVI.

THe Dukes repented them not of the iest that was put vpon Sancho in the Gouernment which they gaue him; especially, because that very day their Steward came, and told them very punctually all the words and actions, that Sancho both did and said in that time: and finally, so describ'd the assault of the Iland, and so set out Sancho's feare, and his sal­lie, that they receiued no small delight.

After this, the History tels vs, that the day of the prefixed battaile came, and the Duke hauing oft instructed his Lackey Tosilos how he should behaue himselfe with Don Quixote to o­uercome him, without killing or wounding him: hee gaue or­der that their Pikes should bee taken from their Lances, telling Don Quixote, that Christianitie (which he preferred) permitted not, that that battel should be with so much hazzard and danger of their liues: and that it was enough that he granted him free Lists in his Countrey, though it were against the Decree of the holy Councell, that prohibites such challenges; yet hee would not put that matter so strictly in execution.

Don Quixote bade his Excellency dispose of that businesse as he pleased, and that he would obey him in all.

The fearefull day being come, the Duke commanded that there should be a spacious Scaffold set vp in the place where the Iudges of the Lists might stand; and the Matron & her daugh­ter the Plaintiffes.

There repaired a world of people, from all the townes, and neighbouring Villages, to see the noueltie of that battaile, who neuer saw, nor euer heard tell of the like in that Countrey; nei­ther the liuing, nor those that were dead. The first that entred the field and Lists, was, the Master of the Ceremonies, vvho measured out the ground, and passed all ouer it, that there [Page 377] might be no deceit, nor any hidden thing to make them stumble or fall: by and by the women entred, and sate downe in their seates, with their mantles ouer their eyes and brests, with shews of no small resenting, Don Quixote present in the Lists.

A while after, the Grand Lackey Tosilos, appear'd on one side of the large place, accompanied with many Trumpets, and vpon a lusty Courser, sinking the very ground vnder him: his Visor was drawn, and he was all arraied in strong and shining Armor, his horse was Frizeland, well spred, of colour flea-bitten, each fet-locke hauing nine and twenty pound of wooll vpon it. The valiant Combatant came, well instructed by his Master, how he should demeane himselfe with the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, aduertized that he should by no meanes kill him, but that he should striue to shunne the first encounter, to excuse the danger of his death which was certaine, if he met him full butte. He paced ouer the place, and comming where the Matron was, he stayed a while to behold her that demanded him for her hus­band. The Master of the Lists called Don Quixote, that had now presented himselfe in the place, & together with Tosilos: he spoke to the women, asking them, if they agreed that Don Quixote de la Mancha should vndertake their cause. They said, I, and that they allowed of all he should in that case performe, for firm and auaileable.

By this the Duke and Duchesse were set in a Gallery, vvhich looked iust to the Lists, all which was couered with aboun­dance of people, that expected to see the rigorous trance neuer seene.

The conditions of the Combatant was, That if Don Quixote ouercame his Contrary, he should marry with Donna Rodriguez daughter; and that if he were ouercome, his Contendor was freed from his promise giuen, and not tyed to any satisfaction. The Master of the Ceremonies diuided the Sunne betweene them, and set each of them in their places. The Drums strooke vp, and the sound of Trumpets filled the ayre, the earth shooke vnder them, and the hearts of the spectator troope, were in suspence, some fearing, others expecting the good or ill suc­cesse of this matter.

Finally, Don Quixote recommending himselfe heartily to God and his Mistresse Dulcinea del Toboso, stood looking when the precise signe of the encoūter shuld be giuen: but our Lackey was in another mind, he thought vpon what now I will tell you. It seemes, that as he stood looking vpon his enemy, she seemed to him to be the fairest woman in the world, and the little blind boy, whom vp and down the streets folke call Loue, would not lose the occasion offered, to triumph vpon a Lackey an soule, and to put it in the list of his Trophies: and so comming to him, faire and softly, without any body perceiuing him, he clapped a flight two yards long into his left side, and strooke his heart thorow and thorow, and he might safely doe it; for loue is inui­sible, and goes in and out where he list, no body asking him any account of his actions. Let me tell you then, that when the signe of the on-set was giuen, our Lackey was transported, thinking on the beauty of her that hee had made mistresse of his liberty, and so he tooke no notice of the Trumpets sound, as did Don Quixote, who scarce heard it, when he set spurres, and with as full speed as Rosinante would permit, went against his enemy, & his good Squire Sancho Pansa, seeing him depart, cryed out a­loud, God guide thee, Creame and Flower of Knights Errant, God giue thee the victory, seeing thou hast right on thy side: and though Tosilos saw Don Quixote come toward him, yet hee moued not a whit from his place, but rather aloud called the Ma­ster of the Lists, who comming to see what he would haue, To­silos said,

Sir, doth not this battell consist in my marrying, or not mar­rying with that Gentlewoman? Yes, it was answered him. Well then (quoth the Lackey) I am scrupulous of Conscience, which would much be burthened, if this battell should proceed: And therefore I say, I yeeld my selfe vanquished, and will marry this Gentlewoman presently.

The Master of the Lists wondred at Tosilos reasons; and as he was one of those that knew of the contriuing that businesse, could not answer him a word.

Don Quixote stopped in the middest of his Careere, seeing his enemy met not.

The Duke knew nothing why the Combat should not goe forward; but the Master of the Lists went to tel him what Tosilos said, at which he was in suspence, and extreamly cholericke.

Whilest this happened, Tosilos came where Donna Rodriguez was, and cried aloud, Mistresse, Ile marry your daughter, and therefore will neuer striue for that vvith suites and contentions, which I may haue peaceably, and without danger of death.

The valorous Don Quixote heard this, and sayd; Seeing 'tis so, and that I am loosed & free from my promise, let them marry on Gods name, and since God hath giuen her him, S. Peter blesse her.

The Duke now came down into the Place, and comming to Tosilos, said; Is it true, Knight, that you yeeld your selfe vanqui­shed, and that instigated by your timorous Conscience, you will marry that maid? I, Sir, quoth Tosilos.

He doth very well, quoth Sancho then, for that thou wouldst giue the Mouse, giue the Cat, and he will free thee from trouble.

Tosilos began now to vnlace his Helmet, and desired them to help him apace, for his spirits & his breath failed him, & he could not endure to see himselfe so long shut vp in that narrow cham­ber. They vndid it apace, and now the Lackeyes face was plaine­ly discouered. Which when Donna Rodriguez and her daughter saw, they cried out, saying, This is coozenage, this is coozenage: they haue put Tosilos my Lord the Dukes Lackey in stead of our true husband: Iustice from God and the King, for such malice, not to say, villany.

Grieue not your selues, Ladies, quoth Don Quixote; for this is neyther malice nor villany, and if it be, the Duke is not in fault, but vilde Enchanters that persecute me: who enuying that I should get the glory of this conquest, haue conuerted the face of your Husband into this, which you say is the Dukes Lackey: take my counsell, & in spight of the malice of my enemies, marry him, for doubtlesse 'tis he that you desire to haue to husband.

The Duke that heard this, was ready to burst all his choller into laughter, and said; The things that happen to Signior Don Quixote are so extraordinary, that it makes me belieue this is not my Lackey: but let vs vse this slight and deuice, let vs defer the [Page 380] marriage onely one fifteene daies, and keepe this personage that holds vs in doubt, locked vp, in which perhaps he will returne to his pristine shape; for the rancor that Enchanters beare Sig­nior Don Quixote, will not last so long, they gaining so little by these coozenages and transformations they vse.

O sir, quoth Sancho, these wicked Elues doe vsually change one thing into another in my Masters affaires: not long since they changed a Knight he conquer'd, called The Knight of the Looking glasses, into the shape of the Bachelor Samson Carrasco, borne in our towne, and our speciall friend, and they turned my Mistresse Dulcinea del Toboso into a rusticke clowne: and so I imagine this Lackey will liue and die so, all daies of his life.

To which (quoth Rodriguez daughter) Let him be who hee will that demands mee to wife (I thanke him) I had ra­ther be lawfull wife to a Lackey, then a Paramour to be mocked by a Gentleman, though besides he that abused me is none.

The vpshot of all was, that Tosilos should be kept vp, till they saw what became of his transformation. All cried, Don Quixote's was the victory, and the most were sad and melancho­ly, to see that the expected Combatants had not beaten one ano­ther to pieces; as boyes are sad, when the party they looke for, comes not out to be hanged, when eyther the contrary, or the Iustice pardons him.

The people departed, and the Duke and the Duchesse retur­ned, and Don Quixote with them to the Castle, Tosilos was shut vp, Donna Rodriguez and her daughter were most happy, to see that one way or other, that businesse should end in marriage, and Tosilos hoped no lesse.

CHAP. LVII.

NOW it seemed good to Don Quixote, to leaue the idle life hee had in the Castle, thinking it a great wrong to his person, to be shut vp, and lazy amongst so many delights and dainties as were offered to him as a Knight Errant by those Nobles, and he thought hee was to giue a strict account to Heauen for that idlenesse & retirement, and so asked licence one day of the Dukes to depart: which they gaue him, but seemed to be very sorrowfull that hee would leaue them. The Duchesse gaue Sancho Pansa his wiues Letters, who wept in them, and said, Who would haue thought that such great hopes as the newes of my Gouernment, engendred in my Wife Teresa Pansa's brest, should stop in this, that I must return to my Master Don Quixote's dragged Aduētures? For al that, I am glad to see that my Teresa was like her selfe, by sending the Acorns to the Duchesse, which if she had not sent, I being sorry she had shewed her selfe vngratefull: my comfort is, that this kinde of Present could not be called a bribe; for I had my Gouernment before she sent it, and tis very fit that they who receiue a bene­fit, though it be but in trifles, shew themselues thankefull. In effect, naked I came into the Gouernment, & naked I goe out of it, and therefore I may say (which is no small matter) with a safe Conscience, Naked was I born, naked I am, I neyther win nor lose. This Sancho discoursed with himselfe at the time when he was to depart, & Don Quixote going out, (hauing taken his leaue the night before of the Dukes) one morning he presented him­selfe all armed in the Castle Court, all the people of the house be­held him from the Galleries, and the Dukes too went out to see him. Sancho was vpon his Dapple, with his Wallets, his Cloak­bagge, and his Sumpter-prouision most frollike; for the Dukes Steward, he that had beene Trifaldis, gaue him a purse with two [Page 382] hundred crownes in gold, to supply his wants by the way, and yet Don Quixote knew nothing of this.

Whilest all were thus beholding him, vnlookt for, amongst other Matrons and Damozells of the Duchesses, the witty and wanton Altisidora beheld him, and vvith a vvofull voyce said;

Whil'st the grieued Altisidora thus lamented, Don Quixote beheld her, and without answering a word, turning to Sancho, he said; By thy fore-fathers liues, I coniure thee, my Sancho, that thou tell me one truth: tell me happily, hast thou the three Night-caps, and the Garters that this enamoured Damozell speakes of? To which, quoth Sancho, the three Caps I haue: but for your Garters, as sure as the Sea burnes.

The Duchesse wondred at Altisidora's loosenesse: for though shee held her to bee bold, witty, and wanton; yet shee neuer thought she would haue proceeded so farre: and knowing no­thing of this iest, her admiration was the greater.

The Duke meant to second the sport, and therfore said, I doe not like it well, Sir Knight; that hauing receiued this good en­tertainment that hath been made you in my Castle, you should presume to carry away three Night-caps at least; if it were but only my Damozels Garters, 'tis a signe of a false heart, not sute­able to your Honour, and therefore restore her Garters: if not, I challenge you to a mortall combate, and Ile not feare that your Eluish Enchanters will trucke or change my face as they haue done my Lackey Tosilos, that was to haue fought with you.

God forbid (quoth Don Quixote) that I should vnsheath my sword against your most Illustrious Person, from whom I haue receiued so many fauours. The Night-caps I will restore: for Sancho sayes he hath them; the Garters 'tis impossible, for neither he nor I receiued them: and if this your Damozell will looke into her corners, I warrant her she finds them. I, my Lord, was neuer Thiefe, nor neuer thinke I shall as long as I liue, if God forsake me not. This Damozell speakes (as shee pleaseth) as being enamoured on what I am not faulty of: and therefore I haue no reason to aske forgiuenesse, neither of her, nor your Excellency, whom I beseech to haue a better opinion of me: and againe, I desire your Licence to bee vpon my way.

God send you, Signior Don Quixote, quoth the Duchesse, so good a iourney, that wee may alwayes heare happy newes of your braue exploits, and so God be with you: for the longer you stay, the more you increase the flames in the Damozels [Page 385] hearts that behold you: and for mine, Ile punish her so, that hence forward she shall neither mis-behaue her selfe in looke or action. Heare me then but a word, oh valorous Don Quixote, (quoth Altisidora) which is, that I cry thee mercy for the theft of my garters; for in my soule and conscience I haue them on, and I haue falne into the same carelesnesse of his, that looked for his Asse vvhen herode vpon him.

Did not I tell you, quoth Sancho, I am a fit Youth to con­ceale thefts? for had I beene so, I had in two bouts fit occasions in my Gouernment.

Don Quixote inclined his head, and made an obeysance to the Dukes and by-standers, and turning Rosinantes reines, Sancho following him on Dapple, he went out of the Castle, taking his way towards Saragosa.

CHAP. LVIII.

WHen Don Quixote saw himselfe in open field, free and vn-cumbred from Altisidora's wooing, hee thought himselfe in his Center, and that his spirits were renued, to prosecute his new proiect of Chiualrie; and turning to Sancho, said;

Liberty, Sancho, is one of the preciousest gifts that heauen hath giuen men, the treasure that the earth encloseth, and the Sea hides, cannot be equalized to it. Life ought to be hazarded, as well for liberty, as for a mans honor; and by the contrary, Cap­tiuity is the greatest euil that [...] b [...]all men. This I tell thee, San­cho, because thou hast well obserued the cheere and plenty vvee haue had in the Castle we left. Well, in the middest of those sa­noury banquets, and those drinkes cooled with snow, me thought I was straitned with hunger; for I enioyed nothing with the liberty I should haue done, had it beene mine owne; for the obligations of recompencing benefits and fauours recei­ued, [Page 386] are tyes that curbe a free minde. Happy that man, to whom heauen hath giuen a piece of bread, without obligation to thank any else, but heauen alone.

For all that (quoth Sancho) tis not fit for vs to be vnthankfull for two hundred Crowns that we haue receiued in gold, which the Dukes Steward gaue me in a purse, which I carry as a com­forting Cordiall next my heart for what may fall out; for wee shall not alwaies finde Castles where we shall be much made on; sometimes wee shall meete with Inns, where wee shall bee cud­gelled.

In these and such like discourses went the Errants on, Knight and Squire, when they saw (hauing gone about halfe a league) vpon the grasse of a greene medow, some dozen men, with their cloakes spred at dinner, clad like husbandmen; somwhat neere them, they had, as it were, white sheetes, with which they co­uered something vnderneath: they were set vp-right, & stretcht at length, and put a pretty distance one from another.

Don Quixote came to those that were eating, and saluting them first courteously, he asked them what was vnder that lin­nen? One of them answered him, Sir, vnder this linnen there be certaine Images of Embossed worke in wood, which must serue in a shew we make in our village: we carry them couered, that they may not be sullied, and on our shoulders, that they be not broken. If you please (quoth Don Quixote) I should be glad to see them; for Images carried so charily, doubtlesse are good ones. Good (quoth one) if they be not, let their price speake, for there is none of them but cost fifty Ducats; and that you may see tis true, pray stay, and you shall see it with your eyes: and rising, hee left his dinner, and went to vncouer the first I­mage, which shewed to be Saint George on horsebacke, vvith a winding Serpent at his feet, [...]nd his Lance runne thorow the throat of it, with the fiercenesse he vseth to be painted with: all the Images seemed to be of pure gold. And Don Quixote seeing it, said, This Knight was one of the best Errants that the diuine Warre-fare had, his name was Saint George, and he was a vvon­derfull defender of Damozels. Let's see this next. The man dis­couered it, and it seemed to be Saint Martin on Horse-backe, [Page 387] that diuided his cloake with the poore man, and Don Quixote no sooner saw it, but he said, This Knight also was one of our Christian Aduenturers, and I belieue he was more liberall then valiant, as thou maist see, Sancho, by his diuiding his cloake, and giuing the poore man halfe, and doubtlesse it was then Winter; for had it beene Summer, he would haue giuen him all, hee was so charitable.

Not so, quoth Sancho, but he stucke to the Prouerb, To giue and to haue, doth a braine craue.

Don Quixote laughed, and desired them to take away another piece of linnen, vnder which was the Image of the Patrone of Spaine on Horse-backe, his sword bloudied, trampling on Moores, and treading on heads: and Don Quixote seeing it, said, I marry, Sir, heere's a Knight indeed, one of Christs Squadrons, this is called Don Saint Diego, Moore-killer, one of the valian­test Saints and Knights in the world, then, or in heauen now. Then they discouered another piece, which shewed Saint Paul his falling from his horse, with al the circumstances vsually pain­ted in the Table of his Conuersion: when he saw him so liuely, as if you would say, Christ were then speaking to him, & Paul answering, he said, This was the greatest enemy that the Church of God had in a long time, and the greatest Defender that euer it shall haue, a Knight Errant in his life-time, and a quiet Saint in his death, a restlesse labourer in the Vineyard of the Lord, a Do­ctor of Nations, whose schoole was Heauen, and Christ him­selfe his Reader and Instructer. Now there were no more Ima­ges: and so Don Quixote commanded them to couer them again, and said to those that carried them, I hold it for a propitious signe, Brethren, to haue seene what I haue seene: for those Saints & Knights were of my profession, which is, to exercise Armes; onely the difference betweene them and me is, that they vvere Saints, and fought Diuinely; I am a sinner, and fight humanely. They conquer'd heauen by force of their Armes (for heauen suf­fers force) and hitherto I know not what I conquer by the force of my sufferings: but if my Dulcinea del Toboso be once free from hers, my Fortune bettering it selfe, and my iudgement re­paired, perhaps I might take a better course then I doe.

God grant, and Sinne be deafe, quoth Sancho, strait.

The men wondred as well at Don Quixotes shape, as his dis­course, and vnderstood not one halfe, what it meant. They en­ded their dinner, and got vp their Images, and taking leaue of Don Quixote, they went on their way. Sancho admired afresh, as if he had neuer knowne his Master, at his knowledge, think­ing there was no History in the world, or Accident, that he had not ciphered vpon his nayle, and nailed in his memory, & said, Truely (Master mine) if this that hath befalne vs to day may be called an Aduenture, it hath beene one of the most delicious sweetest, that in all our peregrination hath befalne vs; for wee are come out of it, without blowes or affrightment, or laying hands to our swords, or without beating the earth with our bo­dies, or being hungry: God be thanked that he hath let me see this vvith these eyes of mine.

Thou sayest well, Sancho, (quoth Don Quizote) but thou must know, the times are not alwaies alike, nor run on in one fa­shion, and that which the vulgar commonly calls Bodings, which are not grounded vpon any naturall reason, ought to bee held, and reputed, and iudged by a wise man for good lucke. One of your Wizards riseth in a morning, goes out of his house, meetes with a Frier of the blessed Order of S. Francis, and as if he had met with a Griffin, turnes his backe, and runs home a­gaine. Tother Mendoza, hee spils the salt on the Table, and strait hath a melancholy sprinkled all ouer his heart, as if Nature were bound to shew signes of ensuing mis-chances, with things of so small moment as the aforesaid: The discreet Christians ought not to stand vpon points, or to looke into the doings of heauen. Scipio comes into Africa, and leaping on shore, he stum­bles; his Souldiers hold it for an ill signe: but he embracing the ground, said, Thou canst not flye from me, Africa, for I haue fast hold on thee in mine Armes. So that Sancho, the meeting with these Images hath beene a most happy successe to me.

I belieue you (quoth Sancho) and pray tell me the cause why we Spaniards cry, Saint Iaques, and shut Spaine? is Spaine o­pen troe, so that it needed be shut? or what ceremony is this?

Thou art most simple, Sancho, quoth Don Quixote, & looke; [Page 389] This Grand Knight with the red Crosse, God hath giuen him to Spaine for a Patron and Protector, especially in the hard con­flicts that the Moores and we had together; and therefore they inuoke and call on him as their Protector in all their battels they giue, and many times they haue visibly seene him in them, ouer­throwing, trampling, destroying & killing Agaren Squadrons. Many examples could I produce to confirme this, out of the true Spanish Histories.

Sancho changed his discourse, and said to his Master, Sir, I do wonder at the loosenesse of Altisidora, the Duchesses Damo­zell; that same fellow called Loue, hath brauely wounded and runne her thorow; they say he is a little blinde boy, that though he be bleare-eyed, or to say truer, blinde; takes the least heart for his mark, & hits it, and pierceth it with his Flight from one side to the other. I haue also heard say, that in the modesty & wari­nesse of Damozels, his amorous arrows are headlesse & dull: but in this Altisidora, it seemes they are rather whetted, then dull. Looke you, Sancho, quoth Don Quixote, Loue hath no respect or limit in his dealing, and hath the same condition vvith Death, that as well sets vpon the high Palaces of Kings, as the low Cot­tages of Shepheards, and when hee takes entire possession of a soule, the first thing he does, is to banish shame, without which, Altisidora declared her desires, that rather engendred in my brest confusion then pitty.

Notable cruelty, (quoth Sancho) vnheard-of thanklesnesse! I know for my part, that the least amorous reason of hers, would haue humbled and made me her vassall; ah whoore-son, what a heart of marble, entrailes of brasse, and soule of rough-cast had you? but I cannot imagine what this Damozell saw in you, that should so vanquish her? what Gallantry? what courage? what conceit? what countenance? which of these alone, or all together enamoured her? for truly, truly, I behold you many times from head to foot, and I see more in you to affright, then to enamour: and hauing also heard say, that beauty is the first and principall part that doth enamour, you hauing none, I know not on what the poore soule was enamoured.

Marke, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote) there be two kindes [Page 390] of beauty, one of the minde, the other of the body; that of the minde doth march, and is seene in the vnderstanding, in hone­sty, in good proceeding, in liberality, in being well-bredde: and all these qualities are vntamed, and may be in an ill-fauoured man; and when the choyce is set vpon this beauty, and not vpon that of the body, it causeth loue with more force and aduantage. I see, Sancho, that I am not louely, and yet I know too I am not deformed, and it is enough for an honest man, if he be not a monster, to be beloued, so I haue the portions of the minde I haue told thee of.

In these reasons and discourses they went, entring in at a wood that was out of the way, and sodainely, before they were aware, Don Quixote found himselfe entangled in nets of greene thread, that were set from one tree to another; and not imagi­ning what it might be, he said to Sancho, Mee thinkes, Sancho, this Aduenture of these Nets is one of the strangest that may be imagined; hang me, if the Enchanters that persecute me, meane not to intangle me in them, and to stop my way, in reuenge of the rigour I haue vsed toward Altisidora. Well, let them know that these Nets, were they of hardest Diamonds, as they are of green thred; or stronger then that the iealous god of the Black-Smiths entangled Venus and Mars with, I would breake it, as if it were bull-rushes or yarne: and striuing to get forward, sud­denly two most beautifull Shepheardesses comming from out the Thicket, appear'd before him, two, at least, attired like Shep­heardesses, onely their loose Iackets & Coats were of fine cloth of gold, I say, their Kirtles were of Tissue; their haires hung loose ouer their shoulders, that for golden, might compare with the Sunne-beames: they were crowned with two Garlands wo­uen with greene Bayes, and red-Flower gentle: their ages see­med to be not vnder fifteene, nor past eighteene.

This was a sight that astonisht Sancho, suspended Don Quixote, made the Sunne stop in his Careere to behold them, and held all the foure in maruellous silence. In fine, the first that spake, was one of the Shepheardesses, that said to Don Quixote, Hold, Gentlemen, and breake not our Nets, that are spred there not to your hurt, but for our recreation; and be­cause [Page 391] I know you will aske vs why they are so put, and who we are, I will tell you briefly.

In a village some two leagues hence, where there are many Gentlemen of quality, and rich; amongst many acquaintances and kindred it was agreed, that the wiues, sonnes and daughters, neighbours, friends and kinsfolke, should ioyne to make merry in this place, which is one of the pleasantest heere round about, forming as it were amongst vs, a new and Pastorall Arcadia, clo­thing the maides like Shepheardesses, and the young men like Shepheards: two Eglogues we haue studied, one of the famous Poet Garsilasso, and the other of that most excellent Poet Ca­moes in his own Mother Portugall Tongue, which hitherto we haue not repeated. Yesterday was the first day we came hither, wee haue our Tents, called Field-Tents, pitched amongst these trees, close by the brinke of a goodly running brooke, which fructifies all these medowes: last night wee did spread our nets on these trees, to catch the poore birds, that being allured with our call, should fall into them. If you please, Sir, to be our ghest, you shall be entertained liberally and courteously; for now into this place comes neyther sorrow nor melancholy. With this she was silent and said no more.

To which Don Quixote answered; Truly, (fairest Lady) Actaeon was not more astonisht or in suspence, when on the so­daine hee saw Diana bathing her selfe in the fountaine, then I haue beene in beholding your beauty: I commend the manner of your pastime, and thanke you for your kinde offers, and if I may serue you, so I may be sure you will be obeyed, you may command me; for my profession is this, to shew my self thank­full, and a doer of good to all sorts of people, especially of the ranke that your person shewes you to be; and if those Nets, as they take vp but a little piece of ground, should take vp the whole world, I would seeke out new worlds to passe thorow, rather then breake them: and that you may giue credit to this my exaggeration, behold, at least he that promiseth you this, is Don Quixote de la Mancha, if haply this name hath come to your hearing.

Ah sweet friend (quoth the other Shepheardesse) what good [Page 392] lucke is this? See'st thou this Gentleman before vs? Well, let me tell thee, he is the valiantest, the most enamoured, and the most courteous in the world, if the History lye not and deceiue vs, which is in print, of his famous exploits which I haue read: I hold a wager this honest fellow heere with him is, what-call ye him? Sancho Pansa his Squire, that hath no fellow for his mirth.

'Tis true (quoth Sancho) I am that merry fellow, and that Squire you speake of, and this Gentleman is my Master, the very selfe-same Don Quixote aforesaid and Historified.

Ah, quoth the other, let vs intreat him, friend, to stay vvith vs, for our friends and kindred will be infinitely glad of it, and I haue heard tell as well as thou, of his worth and wit; and a­boue all, they say of him, that he is the firmest and loyallest A­mourist that is knowne, and that his Mistresse is one Dulcinea del Toboso, that beares the prize from all the beauties in Spaine.

With iust reason she doth, quoth Don Quixote, if so be your matchlesse beauties put it not in controuersie: Weary not your selues, Ladies, in detaining me; for the precise tyes of my profes­sion will let me rest no where.

By this there came a brother of one of the Shepheardesses, where the foure were as braue & gallant as they: they told him, that he which was with them, was the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, and the other Sancho his Squire, of whom he had notice, as hauing read his History.

The gallant Shepheard saluted him, desiring him to come with him to their Tents. Don Quixote was forced to consent, which he did. And now the Nets were drawne, and filled with diuers little birds, who deceiued with the color of them, fell into the danger they shun'd: there met in that place aboue thirty per­sons, all gallantly clad like Shepheards & Shepheardesses; and in­stantly they were made to know who Don Quixote was, and his Squire; at which they were not a little contented; for they had notice of him by his history: they came to the Tents, and found the Tables couered, rich, aboundant, and neate: they honour'd Don Quixote with the chiefe seate; all of them beheld him, and admir'd to see him.

Finally, the cloth beeing taken away, Don Quixote very grauely lifted vp his voice, and said, Amongst the greatest sins there are committed (though some say Pride) yet I say, ingra­titude is one, holding my selfe to the vsuall saying, That Hell is full of the vngratefull. This sinne, as much as possible I could, I haue sought to auoid euer since I had reason: and if I cannot repay one good turne with another, in stead of that, my desires are not wanting, and when they suffice not, I publish them: for hee that acknowledgeth and publisheth good turnes receiued, would also recompence them with others, if he could: for, for the most part, they that receiue, are inferiour to those that giue, and so God is aboue all; because hee is giuer aboue all, and the gifts of men cannot be equall to Gods for the infinite difference betwixt them: and this straightnesse & barenes doth in some measure supply a thankefulnesse; I therefore beeing thankefull for the kindnesse I haue heere receiued, and not able to correspond in the same proportion, containing my selfe in the narrow limits of my ability, offer what I may, and what I haue from my Haruest: and therefore I say, that I will for two long dayes maintaine in midst of the Kings high-way toward Saragosa, that these Ladyes, counterfet Shepheardesses heere present, are the fairest and most courteous Damozels in the world, excepting onely the peerelesse Dulcinea del Toboso sole Mistris of my thoughts, with peace be it spoken to as many both hees and shees as heare me.

Which when Sancho heard, that had attentiuely listned, cry­ing out, he said, Is it possible there can bee any body in the world, that dares say or sweare that this Master of mine is mad? Pray speake: You Gentlemen Shepheards, is there any Coun­trey Vicar, be he neuer so wise, or neuer so good a Scholler, that can say what my Master hath said? or is there any Knight Er­rant, let him be neuer so much fam'd for his valour, that can of­fer what my Master hath heere offered?

Don Quixote turned to Sancho, and all enflamed and chole­ricke, said, Is it possible, O Sancho, that there is any body in the world that will say, Thou art not a Coxcombe, lined with the same, and hemmed with I know not what malice or knauery? [Page 394] Who bids thee meddle with my matters, in sifting out, whether I be wise or a iolt-head? Peace and not a word, but saddle Rosinante, if he be vnsaddled, and let's put my offer in execution: for with the iustice that I haue on my side, thou maist presume, as many as I meet withall, are vanquished: and so with great fury, and in a terrible huffe hee rose from his Chayre, leauing all the by-standers in admiration, and in doubt whether they should hold him madde, or wise. Finally, they perswaded him, he should not thrust himselfe into such an engagement: for they acknowledged his thankfull good will, and that there nee­ded no new demonstrations to know his valourous minde: for his exploits mentioned in his History were sufficient.

For all that, Don Quixote proceeded in his purpose, and mounted on Rosinante, buckling his shield to him, and taking his Launce, he got to the high-way, not farre from the greene Meddow. Sancho followed him vpon Dapple, with all the Pastorall flocke, desirous to see what might be the issue of that arrogant, and neuer seene offer.

Don Quixote being (as I haue said) vpon the way, he woun­ded the ayre with these words: Oh you Passengers, and way-fa­ring Knights, Squires on foot, or on horseback, that either now passe this way, or are to passe in these two ensuing dayes, know, that Don Quixote de la Mancha, Knight Errant, is here ready to maintaine, that setting the beauty of the Mistris of my soule aside, Dulcinea del Toboso, the Nymphs that inhabit these Med­dowes and Groues, are the fairest that may be: and he that is of a contrarie opinion, let him come; for heere I expect him.

Twice he repeated these selfe-same words, and twice they were not heard by any Aduenturer: but his good lucke that di­rected his affaires better and better, so ordained, that a pretty while after, they might see a troope of horse-men vpon the way, and many of them with Lances in their hands, all of them going in a heape together, and apace: they that were with Don Quix­ote, as soone as euer they saw them, turn'd their backs, and got farre enough out of the way: for they knew if they stayed, they might be in some danger, onely Don Quixote with an vndaun­ted heart stood still; and Sancho Pansa warded himselfe vvith Rosinante's buttocks.

The troope of the Lances came on, and one that was formost cryed out alowd to Don Quixote, saying, Out of the way, mad­man: for these Buls will beate thee to pieces.

Goe to, ye skoundrels, quoth Don Quixote, your Buls shall not preuaile with me, though they were the fiercest that Xarama hath feeding on his Bankes: Confesse, ye Elues, all in one, that what I haue proclaimed heere, is a truth, or else come and com­bate with me.

The Heards-man had no leisure to answere, nor Don Quix­ote to get out of the way, though he would: and so the troope of wilde Buls, together with the tame Kine, and the multitude of Heards-men, and others, that carried them to bee kept vp in a towne, where they were the next day to bee baited, trampled ouer Don Quixote, Sancho, Rosinante and Dapple, tumbling them all downe vpon the ground.

Sancho was bruised, Don Quixote astonisht, Dapple banged, and Rosinante not very Catholike: but in fine all of them gate vp, and Don Quixote in all haste, sometimes stumbling, other­whiles falling, began to runne after the whole Herd, crying a­lowd, Hold, Stay, ye Eluish crue; for one onely Knight expects you, who is not of that minde or opinion of those that say, To a flying enemy a siluer bridge. But the hasty runners stayed neuer a whit the more for this; nor made any reckoning of his threats more then of last yeeres clouds.

Don Quixote being weary stayed him. So, fuller of anger then reuenge, he sate in the way, expecting when Sancho, Rosinante, and Dapple should arriue. At length they came, and Master and man gat vp; and without leaue taking of the fained or coun­terfet Arcadia, with more shame then delight, they went on­ward their way.

CHAP. LIX.

THe dust and wearinesse that Don Quixote and Sancho receiued from the vnmannerly Buls, was recompen­ced with a cleere and running Fountaine, which they found in a coole Groue, on whose Margen leauing Rosinante and Dapple loose without a bridle or Halter, the two way-beaten, Master and Man sate downe. Sancho repaired to the Cup-boord of his Wallets, and tooke out of them that which he called his sawce, and rensed his mouth: Don Quixote washt his face, with which refreshing his faint spirits, recouered breath.

Don Quixote ate nothing for pure griefe, neither durst San­cho touch any meate before him for pure mannerlinesse, and ex­pected his Master should first bee his Taster: but seeing him carried on with his imaginations, not remembring to put a bit in his mouth, he neuer asked him: and ouer-running all kinde of manners, hee began to barrell vp all the Bread and Cheese that was before him in his stomacke.

Eate, friend Sancho, quoth Don Quixote, hold life together; for thou hast more need then I, and leaue mee to dye by the hands of my sorrowes, and the force of my mis-fortunes. I was borne, Sancho, to liue dying, and thou, to dye eating: and that thou maist see I tell thee true; consider me printed in Histories, famous in Armes, well nurtured in mine Actions, respected by Princes, courted by Damozels: now at the end of all, when I ho­ped for Bayes, Triumphs and Crownes layd vp and merited by my famous exploits: this morning I haue seene my selfe trampled on and kicked, and bruised with the feet of base vn­cleane Beasts: the consideration of this duls my teeth, makes slow my grinders, and benummes my hands, and altogether bereaues me of my appetite; so that I thinke I shall dye vvith hunger, the cruellest of all deaths.

So that, quoth Sancho (not leauing his fast chewing) you will not allow of that Prouerbe that sayes, Let Martha dye, so shee dye not empty: at least, I will not be cause of my death. I meane rather to doe as the Shoomaker doth, that stretcheth the Leather with his teeth, till he makes it reach as he list; Ile draw out my life by eating, till it come to the end that Heauen hath allotted it: and know, Sir, there is no greater madnesse in the world, then to despaire as you doe: and beleeue me, and after you haue eaten, rest your selfe a little vpon the Downe-beds of this greene grasse, and you shall see, that when you wake, you shall finde your selfe somewhat lightned.

Don Quixote tooke his counsell, taking his reasons to be ra­ther Philosophicall, then senselesse, and said, If thou, O Sancho, wouldest doe, what I shall now tell thee for me, my lightsome­nesse would be certaine, and my sorrowes not so great; which is, that whil'st I (obeying thy counsell) sleepe, thou goe out of the way a little, and with Rosinantes reines, turning thy flesh to the ayre, giue thy selfe three or foure hundred lashes vpon account of the three thousand, and so many that thou art to giue for the dis-enchanting Dulcinea, which is no small pitie, that that poore Lady should be enchanted by thy carelesnesse and negligence.

There is much to be said in this businesse (quoth Sancho) let's both sleepe now, and God will prouide afterward: Know, Sir, that this whipping in cold bloud, is a cruell thing, especially, if it light vpon a weake body and worse fed; let my Lady Dul­emea haue patience, for when she least thinkes of it, shee shall see me a very sieue with lashes, and till death all is life, I meane, I liue with a desire to fulfill my promise.

Don Quixote giuing him thankes, ate something, and Sancho a great deale, leauing the two continuall friends and compani­ons, Rosinante and Dapple to their liberum arbitrium, disor­derly feeding vpon the pasture that was plentifull in that Meddow.

They awaked somewhat late, and vp they got againe, and went on their way, making haste to come to an Inne, vvhich seemed to be about a League off: I say an Inne: for Don Quixote [Page 398] called it so, contrary to his ordinary custom of calling all Innes Castles. Well, to it they come, they asked mine Oast, if there were any lodging. Hee answered, Yes, with all the commodi­ousnesse and prouision that they might haue in the Towne of Saragosa.

They alighted, and Sancho retired with his Sumptry into a Chamber of which the Oast gaue him the Key: the Beasts hee carried to the Stable, and gaue them their stint, and so went to see what Don Quixote (who sate by vpon a Bench) would cōmand him, giuing God particular thankes, that that Inne had not ap­peared to him a Castle.

Supper time came on: so to their resting place they got.

Sancho asked mine Oast what he had for Supper? To which quoth he, Your mouth shall haue measure, aske what you will? A good Character, of a lying beg­garly vaine­glorious Spa­nish Oast in generall. for from the Birds of the ayre, to the Poultry of the earth, and the fishes of the Sea, that Inne was prouided.

Not so much, quoth Sancho, for so we may haue a couple of rosted Chickens, 'twill be enough: for my Master is weake sto­mackt, and eates little, and I am no very greedy-gut.

Mine Oast answered him, he had no Chickens, for the Kites had deuoured them. Why then let's haue a tender Pullet rosted, quoth he. A Pullet? My father as soone: trust me, trust mee, I sent aboue fiftie yesterday to the Citie to sell: sauing Pullets aske what you will.

Why then, quoth Sancho, you want no Veale, or Kid? We haue none in the house now, said my Oast, for it is all spent: but by next weeke we shall haue to spare.

The matter is mended (quoth Sancho.) I hold a wager all these wants are supplide with Egges and Bacon.

Assuredly (quoth mine Oast) here's fine doings with my ghest; I haue told him, we haue neither Pullet nor Hens, and yet he would haue Egges. Run, if you will, to other dainties, and leaue these gluttonnies.

Resolue vs (Body of me, quoth Sancho) and tell me what we shall haue, and leaue you your running, mine Oast. The Oast said, The very truth is. I haue two Neats-feet, like Calues feet; or two Calues-feet, like Neats-feet, they are sod with their Pease, [Page 399] Bacon, and Onyons: and iust at this instant cry, Come eate me, Come eate me.

For mine I marke them henceforward, quoth Sancho, and let no man touch them; for Ile pay more for them then any body else, and there could haue beene no better meat for mee in the world.

No man shall touch them, said mine Oast: for other ghests I haue out of pure Gentilitie, bring their Cooke, Cater, and Butler with them. If it goe by gentle (quoth Sancho) none more gentle then my Master: but his Calling permits no Lar­ders or Butteries: we clap vs down in the midst of a field, and fil our selues with Acorns and Medlars.

This dicourse passed betweene Sancho and the Oast, with­out Sancho's answering him, who asked what Calling his Ma­sters was of Supper was ready, Don Quixote went to his Chamber, mine Oast brought the pot of meat iust as it was, and sate him faire & well down to supper: it seemed that in another Chamber next Don Quixotes, diuided only by a thin Lath-wall, hee might heare one say, By your life, Signior Don Ieronimo, whilst supper is to come in, let vs reade another Chapter in the second part of Don Quixote.

Don Quixote scarce heard himselfe named, when vp he stood, & watchfully gaue eare to their discourse concerning him; & he heard that the aforesaid Don Ieronimo answered, Signior Don Iohn, why should we reade these fopperies? he that hath read the first part of Don Quixote, it is impossible he should take any pleasure in reading the second.

For all that, quoth Don Iohn, 'twere good reading it: for there is no booke so ill, that hath not some good thing in it.

That which most displeaseth me in this is, that he makes Don Quixote dis-enamoured of Dulcinea del Toboso.

Which when Don Quixote heard, full of wrath and despight he lifted vp his voice, saying, Whosoeuer saith Don Quixote de la Mancha hath forgotten, or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will make him know with equall Armes, that hee is farre from the truth: for the peerelesse Dulcinea del Toboso cannot be for­gotten; neither can forgetfulnes be contained in Don Quixote, [Page 400] his Scutchion is Loyaltie, his profession sweetly to keepe it, without doing it any violence.

Who is that answeres vs, said they in the next roome? Who should it be (quoth Sancho) but Don Quixote himselfe, that will make good all he hath said, or as much as he shall say? for a good Pay-master cares not for his pawnes.

Scarce had Sancho said this, whē the two Gentlemen came in at the Chamber doore: for they seemed no lesse to them: & one of them casting his Armes about Don Quixotes neck, said, neither can your presence belye your name, or your name credit your presence. Doubtlesse you, Sir, are the right Don Quixote de la Mancha, North-starre, and Morning-starre of Knight-erran­trie, in spight of him that hath vsurped your name, and annihila­ted your exploits, as the Author of this Booke, I heere deliuer, hath done: and giuing him the booke that his companion had, Don Quixote took it, and without answering a word, began to turne the leaues, and a while after returned it, saying, In this lit­tle that I haue seene, I haue found three things in this This the Au­thor of this Booke brings in by way of inuectiue a­gainst an Ara­gonian Schol­ler, that wrote a second part of Don Quix­ote, before this was publish­ed. Author worthy of reprehension.

The first is, some words I haue read in his Prologue.

The second, that his language is Arragonian: for sometimes he writes without Articles: and the third which doth most con­firme his ignorance, is, That he erres and strayes from the truth in the chiefest of the History: for here he sayes that Sancho Pansa my Squires wifes name was Mary Gutierrez, which is not so: but she is called Teresa Pansa: and therfore he that erres in so maine a matter, it may well be feared, he will erre in all the rest of the History.

To this Sancho said, Prettily done indeed of the Historian; he knowes very well sure what belongs to our affaires, since he cals my wife Teresa Pansa, Mary Gutierrez. Pray take the book againe, Sir, and see whether I be there, and whether hee haue chang'd my name. By your speech, friend, quoth Don Ieroni­mo, you should be Sancho Pansa Signior Don Quixotes Squire I am (quoth Sancho) and I am proud of it.

Well, in faith (said the Gentleman) this modern Author doth not treat of you so neatly, as your Person makes shew for: he [Page 401] paints you out for a Glutton, an Ideot, and nothing witty, and farre different from the Sancho that is described in the first part of your Masters History.

God forgiue him (said Sancho:) he should haue left me in my corner, and not remembred me; for, Euery man in his ability, and Tis good sleeping in a whole skinne.

The two Gentlemen entreated Don Quixote to goe to their chamber, and Sup with them; for they knew well, that in that Inne he found not things fitting to his person.

Don Quixote, who was euer courteous, condiscended to their requests, and supped with them: Sancho remained with his flesh-pot sole Lord and Gouernour. Sancho sate at the vpper end of the Table, and with him the Inn-keeper, that vvas no lesse affe­ctioned to his Neates-feete, then Sancho.

In the midst of supper, Don Iohn asked Don Quixote, vvhat newes he had of his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, whether she were married, or brought a-bed, or great with childe, or being entire, vvhether (respecting her honesty and good decorum) she were mindefull of Signior Don Quixote's amorous desires? To which he answered,

Dulcinea is as entire, and my desires as firme as euer, our cor­respondency in the ancient barrennesse, her beauty transformed into the complexion of a base milke-wench: and straight he re­counted vnto them euery tittle of her Enchantment, and vvhat had befalne him in Montesinos Caue, with the order that the sage Merlin had giuen for her dis-enchanting, which was by San­cho's stripes.

Great was the delight the two Gentlemen receiued to heare Don Quixote tell the strange passages of his History, and so they wondred at his fopperies, as also his elegant manner of deliue­ring them; here they held him to be wise, there he slipped from them by the foole: so they knew not vvhat medium to giue him, betwixt vvisedome and folly.

Sancho ended his Supper: and leauing the In keeper, passed to the chamber vvhere his Master was, and entring, said, Hang me, Sirs, if the Author of this booke that your Worships haue, vvould that we should eat a good meale together; pray God, as [Page 402] he calls mee Glutton, he say not that I am a Drunkard too.

Yes marry doth he, said Don Ieronimo; but I know not how directly, though I know his reasons doe not hang together, and are very erroneous, as I see by Sancho's Phisiognomy here pre­sent. Belieue me (quoth Sancho) Sancho and Don Quixote are differing in this History, from vvhat they are in that Cid Ha­mete Benengeli composed; for wee are, my Master valiant, dis­creet, and amorous: I simple and conceited; but neyther Glut­ton nor Drunkard.

I belieue it (said Don Iohn) and were it possible, it should be commanded, that none should dare to treat of the Graund Don Quixote's affaires, but Cid Hamete, his first Author: as Alex­ander commanded that none but Apelles should dare to draw him.

Let whose will draw me (quoth Don Quixote:) but let him not abuse me; for oft times patience falls, when iniuries ouer­load. None, quoth Don Iohn, can be done Signior Don Quixote, that he will not be reuenged of, if he ward it not with the shield of his patience, which in my opinion is strong and great.

In these and other discourses, they passed a great part of the night, and though Don Iohn would, that Don Quixote should haue read more in the booke, to see what it did descant on, yet he could not preuaile with him, saying, He made account he had read it, and concluded it to be but an idle Pamphlet, & that he would not (if it should come to the Authors knowledge that he had meddled with it) he should make himselfe merry to think he had read it; for our thoughts must not be busied in filthy and obscene things, much lesse our eyes.

They asked him, whither he purposed his voyage? Hee an­swered, to Saragosa, to be at the Iusts in Harnesse, that vse to be there yeerely.

Don Iohn told him, that there was one thing in that new Hi­story, which was, that he should be at a Running at the Ring in that City, as short of Inuention, as poore in Mottos, but most poore in Liueries, and rich in nothing but simplicities.

For this matter onely, quoth Don Quixote, I will not set foot in Saragosa: and therefore the world shall see what a lyar this [Page 403] moderne Historiographer is, and people shall perceiue, I am not the Don Quixote he speakes of.

You shall doe very well, quoth Don Ieronimo; for there bee other Iusts in Barselona, where Signior Don Quixote may shew his valour. So I meane to doe (quoth Don Quixote) and therefore let me take leaue of you (for it is time) to goe to bed, and so hold mee in the ranke of your greatest friends and Seruitors. And me too, quoth Sancho, for it may be I shall be good for somewhat.

With this they tooke leaue, and Don Quixote and Sancho reti­red to their chamber, leauing Don Iohn and Don Ieronimo in ad­miration, to see what a medley he had made with his discretion and madnesse; and they verily belieued, that these were the right Don Quixote and Sancho, and not they whom the Aragonian Author described.

Don Quixote rose earely, and knocking vpon the thinne wall of the other chamber, hee tooke leaue of those guests: Sancho payed the Oast royally, but aduised him, hee should eyther lesse praise the prouision of his Inne, or haue it better pro­uided.

CHAP. LX.

THe morning was coole, and the day promised no lesse, when Don Quixote left the Inne, informing himselfe first, which was the ready way to Barselona, vvithout comming to Saragosa: such was the desire he had to proue the new Historian a lyar, who they said, dispraised him so much. It fell out so, that in sixe daies there fell out nothing worth wri­ting to him; at the end of which, he was be-nighted, going out of his way, in a Thicket of Oakes or Corke trees; for in this Cid Hamete is not so punctuall, as in other matters he vseth to be.

The Master and man alighted from their beasts, and setting [Page 404] themselues at the trees rootes: Sancho that had had his beauer that day, entred roundly the gates of sleepe; but Don Quixote, whom imaginations kept awake much more then hunger, could not ioyn his eyes, but rather was busying his thoughts in a thou­sand seuerall places: Sometimes hee thought he found himselfe in Montesino's Caue, and that he saw Dulcinea, conuerted into a Country wench, leape vpon her Asse-Colt: Now the sage Mer­lins words rang in his eares, repeating vnto him the conditions that were to be obserued for her dis-enchanting: hee was starke madde to see Sancho's lazinesse, and want of Charity; for, as he thought, he had onely giuen himselfe fiue stripes, a poore and vnequall number to those behinde, and he was so grieu'd and enraged with this, that he framed this discourse to himselfe:

If Alexander the Great did cut the Gordian knot, saying; Cutting and vndoing is all one, and yet for all that, was Lord of all Asia; no otherwise may it happen in the dis-enchanting of Dulcinea, if I should whip Sancho, volens nolens; for if the con­dition of this remedy be, that Sancho receiue three thousand and so many ierkes, what care I whether he giue them, or that ano­ther doe, since the substance is in him that giues them, come they by what meanes they will?

With this imagination he came to Sancho, hauing first taken Rosinante's reines, and so fitted them, that he might lash him with them, he began to vntrusse his points: The opinion is, that hee had but one before, which held vp his Gally-Gascoynes. But he was no sooner approched, when Sancho awaked and came to himselfe, and said, Who is that? Who is it toucheth and vntrus­seth me? Tis I, quoth Don Quixote, that come to supply thy de­fects, and to remedy my troubles; I come to whip thee, Sancho, and to discharge the debt in part thou standest obliged in. Dul­cinea perisheth, thou liuest carelesly, I dye desiring; and there­fore vntrusse thy selfe willingly, for I haue a minde in these De­sarts to giue thee at least two thousand lashes.

Not so, quoth Sancho, pray be quiet: and if not, I protest, deafe men shall heare vs: the stripes in which I engaged my selfe must be voluntary, and not enforc'd, and at this time I haue no minde to whip my selfe; tis enough that I giue you my word [Page 405] to beat my selfe, and fly-flappe mee when I haue a disposition to it.

There's no leauing of it to thy courtesie, Sancho, (quoth Don Quixote) for thou art hard-hearted, and though a Clowne, yet tender of flesh; and so he contended and stroue to vnlace him: which when Sancho Pansa saw, he stood to it, and setting vpon his Master, closed with him, and tripping vp his heeles, cast him vpon his backe on the ground, hee put his right knee vpon his brest, and with his hands held his, so that hee neyther let him stirre nor breathe.

Don Quixote cryed out, How now, Traitor, rebellest thou a­gainst thy naturall Lord & Master? presumest thou against him that feedes thee? I neyther make King, nor depose King (quoth Sancho) I onely helpe my selfe that am mine owne Lord: pro­mise me you, Sir, that you will be quiet, and not meddle vvith whipping of me now, and Ile set you loose and free; and if not, here thou diest, Traitor, enemy to Donna Sancha. Don Quix­ote promised him, and swore by the life of his thoughts, hee would not touch so much as a haire of his head, and that hee would leaue his whipping himselfe, to his owne free-will and choise when he would.

Sancho gate vp, and went a pretty way from him, and going to leane to another tree, he perceiued something touch him vp­on the head, and lifting vp his hands, hee lighted on two feet of a man, with hose and shooes on; he quak'd for feare, and went to another tree, and the like befell him: so he cried out, calling to Don Quixote to helpe him. Don Quixote did so, and asking him what had befalne him? and why he was afraid? Sancho an­swered, That all those Trees were full of mens feet and legges. Don Quixote felt them, and fell strait into the account of what they might be, and said to Sancho, Thou needest not feare; for these feet and legges thou feelest and seest not, doubtlesse are of some free-booters and robbers in troopes, that are hanged in these trees; for here the Iustice hangs them by twenty & thirty at a clap, by which I vnderstand that I am neere Barcelona: and true it was as he supposed They lifted vp their eyes, and to see to, the free-booters bodies hung as if they had beene clusters [Page 406] vpon those trees: and by this it waxed day; and if the dead men feared them, no lesse were they in tribulation vvith the sight of at least forty liue Sbanditi, who hemmed them in vpon a sodain, bidding them in the Catalan tongue, they should be quiet, and stand till their Captaine came.

Don Quixote was on foot, his horse vnbridled, his Lance set vp against a tree, finally, voyd of all defence, and therefore he deemed it best to crosse his hands, and hold downe his head, re­seruing himselfe for a better occasion and coniuncture.

The theeues came to flea Dapple, and began to leaue him no­thing he had, eyther in his Wallets or Cloke-bag: and it fell out wel for Sancho, for the Dukes Crownes were in a hollow girdle girt to him, and those likewise that he brought from home vvith him, and for all that, those good fellowes would haue vveeded and searched him to the very entrailes, if their Captaine had not come in the Interim, who seemed to bee about thirty yeeres of age, strongly made, and somewhat of a tall stature; his looke was solemne, and his complexion swarthy: he vvas mounted vpon a powerfull Horse, with his steele coat on, and foure Petronels (called in that Country Pedrenales) which hee wore two at each side: and now his Squires (for so they call those that are in that vocation) came to make spoyle of Sancho: he commanded them they should not, and he was strait obeyed, and so the girdle escaped: he wondred to see a Launce reared vpon a tree, a shield on the ground, and Don Quixote ar­med and pensatiue, with the saddest melancholiest visage, that sadnesse it selfe could frame. He came to him, saying, Be not sad, honest man; for you haue not falne into the hands of any cruell Osiris, but into Roque Guinarts, that haue more compassion then cruelty in them.

My sadnesse is not, quoth Don Quixote, to haue falne into thy power, oh valorous Roque (whose Fame is boundlesse) but that my carelesnesse was such, that thy Souldiers haue caught me without bridle, I being obliged (according to the order of Knight Errantry, which I professe, to keepe watch and ward, and at all houres to be my owne Centinell; for let me tell thee, Grand Roque, if they had taken mee on Horse-backe with my [Page 407] Lance and Shield, they should not easily haue made me yeeld; for I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, he, of whose exploits all the world is full. Strait Roque Guinart perceiued, that Don Quixote's infirmity proceeded rather of madnesse then Valour, and though hee had sometimes heard tell of him, yet hee neuer could beleeue his deedes to be true, neither could he be perswa­ded that such a humour should reigne in any mans heart, and hee was wonderfully glad to haue met with him, to see by experi­ence, what he had heard say of him, and therefore he said, Va­lorous Knight, vexe not your selfe, neyther take this fortune of yours to be sinister; for it may be, that in these stumbling blocks your crooked lot may be straightned, for heauen doth vsually raise vp those that fall, and enrich the poore by strange and vn­seene waies (by men not imagined.)

Don Quixote was about to haue rendred him thankes, when as they perceiued a noyse behind them, as if there had beene some troope of horse, but there was but one onely, vpon which there came with full speed, a Youth to see to, about some twen­ty yeeres of age, clad in greene Damaske; his Hose and loose Ierkin were layd on with gold lace, with a Hat turned vp from his band, with close fit boots, sword & dagger gilt, and a little birding-Peece in his hand, & two Pistols at his sides. Roque tur­ned his head to the noyse, and saw this beautifull shape, who comming neere him, said, In quaest of thee I came, oh valorous Roque, to finde in thee, if not redresse, at least some lightsome­nesse in this my misfortune: And to hold thee no longer in sus­pence, because I know thou knowest mee not, I will tell thee who I am; that is, Claudia Ieronima, daughter to Simon Forte thy singular friend, & onely enemy to Clanquel Torellas, who is also thine, as being one of thy contrary faction; and thou knowest that this Torellas hath a sonne, called Don Ʋincente Torellas, or at least was so called, not two houres since. Hee then, to shorten my vnfortunate tale, I will tell thee in few words what hath be­falne me: He saw me, courted me, I gaue care to him, & my Fa­ther vnwitting of it, I affectionated my selfe to him; for there is no woman, be she neuer so retired or looked to, but she hath time enough to put in execution and effect her hasty longing.

Finally, he promised me marriage, and I gaue him my word to be his, so no more passed really: Yesterday I came to know, that, forgetfull of his obligation, he contracted to another, and that this morning he went to be married; a newes that troubled my braine, and made an end of my patience: and by reason my Father was not at home, I had opportunity to put my selfe in this apparell thou seest, and making speed with this horse, I o­uertooke Don Ʋincente about a league from hence, and without making any complaint, or hearing his discharge, I discharged this Peece, and to boot, these Pistols, and I beleeue I sent two bullets into his body, making way, thorow which, my honor enwrapped in his bloud, might sally out: therefore I left him to his seruants, who nor durst, nor could put themselues in his de­fence. I came to seeke thee, that thou mightest help to passe me into France, where I haue kindred, with whom I may liue; and withall, to desire thee to defend my Father, that the number of Don Vincentes friends take not a cruell reuenge vpon him.

Roque wondring at the gallantry, brauery, handsomenesse & successe of the faire Claudia, said, Come, Gentlewoman, and let vs goe see if your enemy be dead, and afterward what shall bee most fitting to be done.

Don Quixote, that hearkened attentiuely to all that Claudia said, and Roque Guinart answered, said, No man need take pains to defend this Lady; let it be my charge: Giue me my horse and my Armes, and expect me here, and I will goe seek this Knight, and aliue or dead, will make him accomplish his promise to so great a beauty.

No man doubt it, quoth Sancho; for my Master hath a very good hand to be a marriage-maker: and not long since he forced another to marry, that denied his promise to a maid; and had it not beene that Enchanters persecuted him, and changed the true shape into the shape of a Lackey, by this time the said maid had beene none.

Roque, that attended more to Claudia's successe, then the rea­sons of Master or man, vnderstood them not; and so comman­ding his Squires, they should restore to Sancho all they had taken from Dapple, and commanding them likewise to retire [Page 409] where he lodged the night before, hee went straight with all speed with Claudia, to find the wounded or dead Don Vincente.

To the place they came, where Claudia met him, where they found nothing but late shed bloud: but looking round about them, they discouered some people vpon the side of a Hill: and they thought, as true it was, that that was Don Vincente, whom his seruants carried aliue, or dead; to cure, or giue him buriall: they hasted to ouertake them, which they easily might doe, the others going but softly. They found Don Vincente in his ser­uants Armes, whom hee entreated with a weake and weary voice to let him dye there: for the griefe of his wounds would not suffer him to goe any further.

Claudia and Roque flung themselues from their Horses, to him they came, the seruants feared Roques presence; and Claudia was troubled to see Don Vincente: and so betwixt milde and mercilesse, she came to him, and laying hold of his hands, shee said, If thou hadst giuen me these according to our agreement, thou hadst neuer comne to this extremitie: The wounded Gen­tleman opened his halfe-shut eyes, and knowing Claudia, said, I well perceiue, faire and deceiued Mistris, that thou art shee that hast slaine me: a punishment not deserued, nor due to my de­sires, in which, nor in any action of mine, I neuer knew how to offend thee.

Then belike, 'tis false, that thou went'st this morning to bee married to Leonora, the rich Baluasho's daughter.

No verily, said Don Ʋincente, my ill fortune brought thee that newes, that being iealous thou shouldest bereaue me of my life: which since I leaue it in thy hands, and embrace thee, I thinke my selfe most happy: and to assure thee that this is true, take my hand, and if thou wilt receiue me for thy Husband; for I haue no other satisfaction to giue thee for the wrong thou thinkest I haue done thee.

Claudia wrung his hand, and her selfe was wrung to the very heart; so that vpon Don Vincente's bloud and brest, she fell into a swound, and he into a mortall Paroxisme. Roque was in a maze, and knew not what to do. The seruants went to fetch water to fling in their faces, & brought it, with which they bathed them.

Claudia reuiued againe: but Don Ʋincente neuer from his Paroxisme, with which he ended his life.

Which when Claudia saw, out of doubt, that her Husband was dead, shee burst the Ayre with her sighs, and wounded Heauen with her complaints: she tore her hayre, and gaue it to the winde: with her owne hands she dis-figured her face, with all the shewes of dolour and feeling, that might bee imagined from a grieued heart.

Oh cruell and inconsiderate Woman (said shee) how easily wast thou moued to put so cruell a designe in execution? Oh rauing force of Iealousie, to what desperate ends dost thou bring those that harbour thee in their brests? Oh my Spouse, whose vnhappy fortune, for being my Pledge, hath brought from bed to buriall.

Such and so sad were the complaints of Claudia, that euen from Roques eyes drew teares, not vsed to shed them vpon any occasion: the seruants howled, and Claudia euery stitch-while swouned, and the whole circuit lookt like a field of sorrow, and a place of mis-fortune.

Finally, Roque Guinart gaue order to Don Vincentes seruants, to carry his body to his Fathers towne, that was neere there, to giue him Buriall. Claudia told Roque, she would goe to a Mo­nastery, where an Aunt of hers was Abbesse, where she meant to end her dayes, accompanied with a better and an eternall Spouse.

Rogue commended her good intention, and offered to ac­company her whither she would, and to defend her Father, from her kindred, and from all the world that would hurt him.

Claudia would by no meanes accept of his company, and thanking him the best she could for his offer, she tooke leaue of him weeping. Don Vincentes seruants bore away his body, and Roque returned to his people: and this was the end of Claudia Ieronima's loue: but no maruell if iealousie contriued the plot of her lamentable Story.

Roque Guinarte found his Squires where he had willed them to be; and Don Quixote amongst them vpon Rosinante, making a large discourse to them, in which he perswaded them to leaue [Page 411] that kinde of life, dangerous as well for their soules, as bodies: but the most of them being Gascoignes, a wilde and vnruly peo­ple, Don Quixotes discourse preuailed nothing with them.

When Roque was come, he asked Sancho, if they had restored his implements to him, and the Prize which his Souldiers had taken from Dapple. Sancho answered, Yes, onely that he wan­ted three Night-caps, that were worth three Cities. What say you fellow? Quoth one of them: I haue them, and they were not worth eighteene pence.

Tis true (said Don Quixote) but my Squire esteemes them in what he hath said, for the parties sake that gaue them me.

Roque Guinart straight commanded they should be restored, and commanding his people to stand round, he willed them to set before them, all the apparell, Iewels, and money, and all that since their last sharing they had robbed: and casting vp the ac­count briefely, returning that that was not to be re-parted; redu­cing it into mony, he diuided it amongst al his cōpany, so legally, and wisely, that he neither added nor diminished, from an equal distributiue iustice.

This done, and all contented, satisfied, and payd, Roque said to Don Quixote, If I should not bee thus punctuall with these fellowes, there were no liuing with them: To which said San­cho, By what I haue heere seene, Iustice is so good, that it is fit and necessary, euen amongst theeues themselues.

One of the Squires heard him, and lifted vp the snap-haunce of his Peece, with which he had opened his Mazer, if Roque Gui­nart had not cryed out to bid him hold.

Sancho was amazed, and purposed not to vnsow his lips, as long as he was in that company.

Now there came one or more of the Squires, that were put in Centinell, vpon the wayes, to see who passed by, and to giue notice to their Chiefe, what passed; who said, Sir, not far hence, by the way that goes to Barcelona: there comes a great Troope of people. To which quoth Rogue, Hast thou markt whether they bee of those that seeke vs, or those wee seeke? Of the latter, said the Squire.

VVell, get you out all quoth Roque, and bring vm me hither [Page 412] straight, and let not a man scape. They did so, and Don Quixote and Roque, and Sancho stay'd, and expected to see what the Squires brought: and in the Interim, Roque said to Don Quix­ote, Our life will seeme to be a strange kinde of one to Signior Don Quixotes strange Aduentures, strange successes, and dange­rous all; and I should not wonder that it appeare so. For I con­fesse truely to you, there is no kinde of life more vnquiet, nor more full of feares then ours. I haue falne into it by I know not what desires of reuenge, that haue power to trouble the most quiet hearts.

I am naturally compassionate, and well-minded: but as I haue said, the desire of reuenging a wrong done me, doth so dash this good inclination in me, that I perseuere in this estate, maugre my best iudgement: and as one horrour brings on another, and one sinne: so my reuenges haue beene so linked together, that I not onely vndergoe mine owne, but also other mens: but God is pleased, that though I see my selfe in the midst of this Laby­rinth of Confusions, I despayre not to come to a safe harbour.

Don Quixote admired to heare from Roque such good & sound reasons: for he thought, that amongst those of this profession of robbing, killing, and high-way-laying, there could bee none so well spoken, and answered him:

Signior Roque, the beginning of health consists, in knowing the infirmity & that the sick mā be willing to take the medicines that the Physician ordaines. You are sicke: you know your griefe and heauen; or (to say truer) God who is our Physician, will apply medicines that may cure you, which doe heale by de­grees, but not suddenly, and by miracle: besides, sinners that haue knowledge, are neerer amendment then those that are without it: and since you, by your discourse haue shew'd your discretion, there is no more to be done: but bee of good cou­rage, and despayre not of the recouering your sick conscience; and if you will saue a labour, and facilitate the way of your sal­uation; come with me, and I will teach you to be a Knight Er­rant, and how you shall vndergoe so many labours, and mis-ad­uentures, that taking them by way of penance, you shall climbe Heauen in an instant.

Roque laughed at Don Quixotes counsaile, to whom (chan­ging their discourse) hee recounted the Tragicall successe of Claudia Ieronimo: at which Sancho wept exceedingly; for the beauty, spirit, and buck-somenesse of the Wench mis-liked him not.

By this the Squires returned with their prize, bringing with them, two Gentlemen on horseback, and two Pilgrims on foot, and a Coach full of women, and some halfe doozen of seruants, that on horseback and on foote, waited on them, with two Mule-men that belonged to the two Gentlemen. The Squires brought them in triumph, the conquerours and conquered, be­ing all silent, and expecting what the Grand Roque should deter­mine: who asked the Gentlemen, who they were, whither they would, and what money they carried: One of them answered him, Sir, Wee two are Captaines of Spanish foot, and haue Companies in Naples, and are going to imbarke our selues in foure Gallies, that we heare are bound for Silicia: wee carry with vs two or three hundreth crownes, which we think is suf­ficient, as being the largest treasure incident to the ordinary pe­nury of souldiours.

Roque asked the Pilgrims the same questions, who answered him likewise, that they were to bee imbarked towards Rome, and that they carried a matter of thirty shillings betweene them both: The same he likewise desired to know of those that went in the Coach, and one of them on horseback, answered,

My Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinnones, wife to a Iudge of Naples, with a little Girle and her Maids, are they that goe in the Coach; and some six seruants of vs wait on her: and vvee carry sixe hundreth Pistolets in gold. So that (said Roque Gui­narte) we haue heere in all, nine hundreth crownes, and sixty Ryals: my souldiours are about a sixtie; let vs see what comes to each mans share: for I am a bad Arithmetician.

When the Theeues heard this, they cryed alowd, Long liue Roque Guinarte, in spight of the Cullions that seeke to destroy him.

The Captaines were afflicted, the Lady was sorrowfull, and the Pilgrims were neuer a whit glad, to see their goods thus [Page 414] confiscated. Roque awhile held them in this suspence: but hee would no longer detaine them in this sadnesse, which he might see a gun-shoote off in their faces: and turning to the Captaines, said, Captaines, you shall doe me the kindnesse as to lend mee threescore ducats: and you, Madam, fourescore, to content my squadron that followes me: for herein consists my reuenue: and so you may passe on freely, onely with a safe-conduct that I shall giue you: that if you meet with any other squadrons of mine, which are diuided vpon these Downes, they doe you no hurt: for my intent is not to wrong Souldiours, or any woman, espe­cially Noble.

The Captaines infinitely extolled Roques courteous liberality for leauing them their money. The Lady would haue cast her selfe out of the Coach, to kisse the Grand Roques feet & hands: but he would by no meanes yeeld to it, rather asked pardon that he had presumed so farre, which was only to comply with the obligation of his ill employment.

The Lady commanded a seruant of hers, to giue him straight fourescore ducats, which were allotted him: the Captaines too disbursed their sixty, and the Pilgrims tendered their pouertie: but Roque bade them be still: and turning to his people, said, Out of these Crownes, there are to each man two due; and there remaine twenty: let the poore Pilgrims haue ten of them, and the other ten this honest Squire, that he may speake well of this Aduenture: and so bringing him necessaries to write, of which he euer went prouided, hee gaue them a safe-conduct to the heads of his squadrons; and taking leaue of them, let them passe free: and wondring at the noblenesse of his braue and strange condition, holding him rather for a great Alexander, then an open robber: one of the Theeues said in his Catalan language, This Captaine of ours were fitter to be a Frier, then a Robber: and if he meane henceforward to bee so liberall, let it be with his owne goods, and not with ours.

This, the wretch spoke not so softly, but Roque might ouer­heare him; who catching his sword in hand, almost cloue his pate in two, saying, This is the punishment I vse to saw­cy knaues: all the rest were amazed, and durst not reply a word: [Page 415] such was the awe in which they stood of him Roque then re­tired aside, and wrote a Letter to a friend of his to Barselona, aduising him how the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha was with him, that Knight Errant so notorious: and he gaue him to vnderstand, that he was the most conceited vnderstanding fel­low in the world: and that about some foure dayes after, which was Mid-summer day, hee should haue him vpon the Citie Wharfe, armed at all points vpon his Horse Rosinante, and his Squire likewise vpon his Asse: & that he should let the Niarros his friends know so much, that they might solace themselues with him: but hee could wish the Cadels his Aduersaries might want the pastime, that the madnes of Don Quixote, & his concei­ted Squire would make. Hee deliuered the Letter to one of his Squires, who changing his Theeues habit, for a Countreymans, went to the Citie, and deliuered it to whom it was directed.

CHAP. LXI.

THree daies & three nights was Don Quixote with Roque, & had he bin so 300. yeeres, he should not haue wāted matter to make him see & admire his kind of life: one while heere they lye; another, there they dine: somtimes they fly from they know not whom; otherwhile, they wait for they know not whom.

They sleepe standing, a broken sleepe, changing from place to place: all was setting of Spies, listening of Sentinels, blowing Musket-matches, though of such shot they had but few: most of them carrying Petronels. Roque himselfe slept apart from the rest, not letting them know where he lodged; because the ma­ny Proclamations which the Vice-Roy of Barselona had caused to be made to take him, made him vnquiet and fearfull, and so he durst trust no body, fearing his own people would either kill or deliuer him to the Iustice: a life indeed wretched, & irkesome, at length by by-waies & crosse pathes Roque and Don Quixote got to the Wharfe of Barselona, where Roque gaue Sancho the ten crownes he promised him, & so they parted with many comple­ments on both parts.

Roque returned, and Don Quixote stayed there, expecting the day iust as he was on horseback: and awhile after, the face of the white Aurora, beganne to peepe thorow the Bay-win­dowes of the East, cheering the Hearbs and Flowers, in stead of delighting the eare, and yet at the same instant a noise of Ho­boyes and Drums delighted their eares, and a noise of Morris-bells, with the Pat a pat of Horsemen running to see to out of the Citie.

Aurora now gaue the Sunne leaue to rise out of the lowest part of the East, with his face as bigge as a Buckler.

Don Quixote and Sancho spred their eyes round about, and they might see the Sea, which till that time they had neuer seen: it seemed vnto them most large and spacious, more by farre then the Lake of Ruydera, which they saw in the Mancha: they be­held the Gallies in the Wharfe, who clapping down their tilts, discouered themselues full of Flagges & Streamers, that waued in the winde, and kissed and swept the water: within, the Cla­rines, Trumpets and Hoboyes sounded, that farre and neere filled the Ayre with sweet and warlike accents: they began to mooue, and to make shew of skirmish vpon the gentle water; a world of Gallants answering them on Land, which came out of the Citie vpon goodly Horses, and braue in their Liueries.

The Souldiours of the Gallies discharged an infinitie of shot, which were answered from the walles and Forts of the Ci­tie, and the great shot with fearefull noise cut the Ayre, which were answered with the Gallies fore-Castle Canons: the Sea was cheerefull, the Land iocund, the sky cleere, onely som­what dimmed with the smoke of the Artillery, it seemed to in­fuse and ingender a sodaine delight in all men. Sancho could not imagine how those Bulks that mooued vpon the Sea could haue so many feete By this, they a-shore in the rich Liueries be­gan to runne on with their Moorish out-cryes, euen to the very place vvhere Don Quixote was wondring and amazed: and one of them, he who had the Letter from Roque, said to Don Quix­ote thus alowd, Welcome to our Citie is the Looking-glasse, the Lant-horne, and North-starre of all Knight Errantry, where it is most in practice. Welcome, I say, is the Valorous Don [Page 417] Quixote de la Mancha: not the false, fictitious, or Apocryphal, that hath beene demonstrated to vs of late in false Histories; but the true, legall, and faithfull Hee, which Cid Hamete the flower of Historians describes vnto vs. Don Quixote answered not a word, neyther did the Gentlemen expect hee should; but turning in and out with the rest, they wheeled about Don Quix­ote: who turning to Sancho, said, These men know vs well: I lay a wager they haue read our History, and that too of the Arago­nians lately printed. The Gentleman that spoke to Don Quix­ote, came backe againe, and said to him, Signior Don Quixote, come with vs, I beseech you; for we are all your seruants, and Roque Guinarte's deare friends. To which Don Quixote replied, If courtesies engender courtesies, then yours, Sir Knight, is daughter, or neere kindred to Roques: carry mee whither you will, for I am wholly yours, and at your seruice, if you please to command me. In the like Courtly straine, the Gentleman an­swered him, & so locking him in the midst of them, with sound of Drums and Hoboyes, they carried him towards the City, where at his entrance, as ill lucke would haue it, and the boyes that are the worst of all ill, two of them, bold Cracke-ropes, came among the thrust, & one of them lifting vp Dapples taile, & the other Rosinantes, they fastned each their handfull of Nettles. The poore beasts felt the new spurs, and clapping their tailes close, augmented their paines; so that after a thousand winces, they cast downe their Masters.

Don Quizote all abashed and disgraced, went to take this Plu­mage from his Coursers taile, and Sancho from Dapples. Those that guided Don Quixote, would haue punished the boyes for their sawcinesse, but it was not possible; for they got themselues into the thickest of a thousand others that followed. Don Quix­ote and Sancho returned to their seates, and with the same ap­plause and Musike, they came to their Guides house, which was faire & large, indeed as was fit for a Gentleman of meanes; where wee will leaue him for the present, because Cid Hamete will haue it so.

CHAP. LXII.

DOn Quixote's Oasts name was Don Antonio Morino, a rich Gentleman and a discreet, and one that loued to be honestly and affably merry; who hauing Don Quixote now at home, began to inuent, how, without preiudice to him, he might divulge his madnesse; for iests ought not to be too bitter, nor pastimes in detriment of a third person.

The first thing he did then, was to cause Don Quixote to be vnarmed, and to make him appeare in that straight Chamois ap­parell of his (as heretofore we haue painted and described him:) so he brought him to a Bay window which looked toward one of the chiefest streetes in the City, to be publikely seene by all commers, and the boyes that beheld him as if hee had beene a Monkey. They in the Liueries began a-fresh to fetch Careeres before him, as if for him onely, (and not to solemnize that festi­uall day) their Liueries had beene put on: and Sancho was most iocund, as thinking he had found out, he knew not how, nor which way, a new Camacho's marriage, or another house like Don Diego and Miranda's, or the Dukes Castle.

That day some of Don Antonio's friends dined vvith him, all honouring Don Quixote, and obseruing him as a Knight Errant: with which, being most vaine-glorious, hee could scarce con­taine himselfe in his happinesse. Sancho's conceits were such & so many, that all the seruants of the house hung vpon his lippes, and as many also as heard him.

Being at Table, Don Antonio said to Sancho, We haue heard heere, honest Sancho, that thou louest Leech and roasted Oliues so well, that when thou canst eat no more, thou keepest the rest in thy bosome till another time. No, Sir, tis not so, said Sancho, for I am more cleanly then so, and my Master Don Quixote here present knowes well, that we are wont both of vs to liue eight daies with a handfull of Acornes or Walnuts: true it is, that [Page 419] now and then I looke not a giuen horse in the mouth (I meane) I eate what is giuen me, and make vse of the time present, and whosoeuer hath said that I am an extraordinary eater, and not cleanely, let him know he doth me wrong; and I should pro­ceed farther, were it not for the company heere at Table.

Truely, said Don Quixote, the parsimony and cleanlinesse with which Sancho feedes, may be written and graued in sheetes of brasse, that it may be eternally remembred by ensuing Ages: True it is, that when he is hungry, he is somewhat rauenous, eates apace, and chawes on both sides; but for cleanlinesse, that he hath punctually obserued: and when he was a Gouernour, learnt to eat most neatly; for hee would eat you Grapes, nay, Pomegranat seedes with his forke. How, quoth Don Antonio, hath Sancho beene a Gouernour? I, said Sancho, and of an Iland called Barataria: tenne daies I gouerned to my will, in them I lost my rest, and learnt to contemne all the Gouernments in the world. From thence I came flying, and fell into a pit, where I thought I should haue died, from whence I escaped miracu­lously.

Don Quixote recounted all the particulars of Sancho's Go­uernment, with which the hearers were much delighted. The cloth now taken away, and Don Antonio taking Don Quixote by the hand, carried him into a priuate chamber, in which there was no other kinde of furniture, but a Table that seemed to bee of Iasper, borne vp with feete of the same, vpon which there was set a Head, as if it beene of brasse, iust as your Romane Em­perors are vsed to be, from the brest vpward. Don Antonio wal­ked with Don Quixote vp and downe the chamber, and hauing gone a good many turnes about the Table, at last he said, Signi­or Don Quixote, now that I am fully perswaded no-body heares vs, and that the doore is fast, I will tell you one of the rarest Ad­uentures, or rather Nouelties, that can be imagined; prouided, that what I tell you, shall be deposited in the vttermost priuy Chambers of secresie.

That I vow, said Don Quixote: and for more safety, I vvill clap a Tombe-stone ouer it; for let me tell you, Signior Don An­tonio (for now he knew his name) you conuerse with one, that [Page 420] though he haue eares to heare, yet he hath no tongue to tell: so that what is in your brest, you may freely translate it into mine, and rest assured, that you haue flung it into the Abissus of silence.

In confidence of this promise (answered Don Antonio) I wil make you admire at what you shall heare and see, and so you shall somewhat ease me of the trouble I am in, in not finding one that I may communicate my secrets with; with which, euery one is not to be trusted.

Don Quixote was in great suspence, expecting what vvould be the issue of all these circumstances; so Don Antonio taking him by the hand, he made him feele all ouer the brazen head & the Table, and Iasper feet, and then said, This head, Signior, was made by one of the greatest Enchanters or Magicians that hath beene in the world, and I beleeue, by Nation he was a Po­lander, and one of that famous Scotus his disciples, of whom so many wonders are related, who was heere in my house, and for a thousand Crownes I gaue him, framed me this head, that hath the property and quality to answer to any thing that it is asked in your eare: he had his trickes & deuices, his painting of Cha­racters, his obseruing of Starres, lookt to euery tittle, and final­ly, brought this head to the perfection that to morrow you shall see, for on the Fridayes still it is mute, which being this day, we must expect till to morrow; and so in the meane time you may bethink you what you will demand; for I know by experience, this head answers truly to all that is asked.

Don Quixote admired at the vertue and property of the head, and could scarce beleeue Don Antonio, but seeing how short a time there was to the triall, he would not gain-say him, but than­ked him for discouering so great a secret: So out of the roome they went: Don Antonio locked the doore after him, and they came into a Hall where the rest of the Gentlemen were: in this interim, Sancho had related to them many of the Aduentures & successes that befell his Master. That after-noone they carried Don Quixote abroad, not armed, but clad in the City garbe, with a loose coat of tawny cloth, that in that season might haue made frost it selfe sweat: they gaue order to their seruants to entertain [Page 421] Sancho, and not to let him stirre out of dores. Don Quixote rode not vpon Rosinante, but on a goodly trotting Mule, with good furniture, they put his coat vpon him, and at his backe (hee not perceiuing it) they sowed a piece of Parchment, wherein vvas written in Text letters, This is Don Quixote de la Mancha: as they began their walke, the scrowle drew all mens eyes to looke on it, and as they read, This is Don Quixote de la Mancha, hee admired to see what a number beheld & named him, and knew him; and turning to Don Antonio that went by him, said, Great is the Prerogatiue due to Knight Errantry, since ouer all the world, it makes its Professors knowne and renowned; for looke you, Signior Don Antonio, euen the very boyes of this Ci­ty hauing neuer seene mee before, know me. Tis true, Signior, quoth Don Antonio: for as fire cannot be hidden nor bounded, no more can vertue but it must be knowne; and that vvhich is gotten by the profession of Armes, doth most flourish and tri­umph aboue the rest.

It hapned, that Don Quixote riding with this applause, a Ca­stilian that read the scrowle at his backe, raised his voyce, saying, The Deuill take thee for Don Quixote de la Mancha: and art thou gotten hither without being killed with those infinite ba­stings thou hast borne vpon thy shoulders? Thou art a madde man, and wert thou so in priuate, and within thy house, twere lesse euill; but thy property is, to make all that conuerse or treat with thee, mad-men and Coxe-combes, as may appeare by these that accompany thee: get thee home, Ideot, and looke to thy Estate, Wife, and Children, and leaue these vanities that worm-eate thy braines, and defile thy intellect. Brother, said Don An­tonio, follow your way, and giue no counsaile to those that need it not: Signior Don Quixote is wise, and we that do accompany him, are no fooles, vertue is worthy to be honoured wheresoe­uer she is, and so be gone with a poxe to you, and meddle not where you haue nothing to doe. I vow (quoth the Castilian) you haue reason; for to giue counsaile to this man, is to striue a­gainst the streame: but for all that, it pitties me very much, that the good vnderstanding they say this blocke-head hath in all things else, should be let out at the pipe of his Knight Errantry, [Page 422] and a pox light on me (as you wish, Sir) and all my posterity, if from hence forward, though I should liue to the yeeres of Me­thusalem, I giue counsaile to any, though it be desired.

Thus the Counseller went by, and the shew went on: but the boyes, and all manner of people pressed so thicke to reade the scrowle, that Don Antonio was forced to take it off from him, as if he had done something else.

The night came on, and they returned home, where was a Reuels of women: for Don Antonio's wife, that was well bred, mirthfull, faire, and discreet, inuited other shee-friends of hers, to come to welcome her new ghest, and to make merry vvith his strange madnesse. Some of them came, and they had a roy­all Supper, and the Reuels began about ten a clocke at night. A­mong these Dames, there were two of anotable waggish dispo­sition, and great scoffers; and though honest, yet they strained their carriage, that their trickes might the better delight without yrksomnes; these were so eager to take Don Quixote out to dāce, that they wearied not onely his body, but his minde likewise: twas a goodly sight to see his shape, long, lanke, leane, his visage pale, the whole man shut vp in his apparell, vngracefull, and vnweildy. The Damozels wooed him as it were by stealth, and he by stealth disdained them as fast; but seeing himselfe much pressed by their courtings, he lifted vp his voyce, and said, Fu­gite partes aduersae, and leaue me, oh vnwelcome imaginations, to my quiet: Get you further off with your wishes, Ladies; for she that is the Lady of mine, the peerelesse Dulcinea del Toboso, will haue none but hers subiect and conquer me: and so saying, he sate him downe in the middest of the Hall vpon the ground, bruised and broken with his dancing exercise. Don Antonio made him be taken vp in mens armes, & carried to bed; the first that layd hold on him was Sancho, saying, In the name of God, what meant you, Master mine, to dance? Thinke you that all that are valiant, must be dancers? and all Knights Errant, skip­iacks? I say, if you thinke so, you are deceiued; you haue some that would rather kill Gyants then fetch a caper: if you were to friske, I would saue you that labour, for I can doe it like a Ier-Falcon: but in your dancing, I cannot worke a stitch.

With this and such like discourse, Sancho made the Reuellers laugh, and laid his Master to bed, laying cloaths enough on him, that hee might sweat out the cold he had taken by dancing.

The next day, Don Antonio thought fit to try the Enchanted head, and so, with Don Quixote, Sancho, and others his friends, and the two Gentlewomen that had so laboured Don Quixote in the dance, that stayd all night with Don Antonio's wife, hee locked himselfe in the roome where the head was; he told them it's property, enioyning them to silence: and hee said to them, That this was the first time in which hee meant to make proofe of the vertue of the Enchanted head, and except his two friends, no liuing creature else knew the tricke of that Enchantment; and if Don Antonio had not discouered it to them, they also would haue falne into the same admiration that the rest did; for it was not otherwise possible, the fabricke of it being so curious and cunning.

The first that came to the Heads hearing, was Don Antonio himselfe, who spoke softly, but so, that he might be heard by all: Tell me, Head, by the vertue that is contained in thee, What thinke I of now? And the head answered (not moouing the lips, with a loud and distinct voyce, that all the by-standers might heare this reason,) I iudge not of thoughts. Which when they all heard, they were astonisht, and the more, seeing neyther in all the roome, nor any where about the table, there was not any humane creature to answere. How many heere be there of vs (quoth Don Antonio againe?) And answere was made him in the same tenor voyce: There are thou and thy wife, with two of thy hee-friends, and two of her shee-friends, and a famous Knight called Don Quixote de la Mancha, and a Squire of his that hight Sancho Pansa. I marry, sir, heere was the wondring a-fresh, heere was euery ones haire standing on end with pure horror. And Don Antonio getting him aside from the head, said, Tis enough now for mee to know that I was not deceiued by him that sold thee mee, Sage Head, Talking Head, Answering Head, Admired Head! Come another now, & ask what he wil: & as your women for the most part are hastiest, & most inqui­sitiue, the first that came, was one of Don Antonio's wiues friends, [Page 424] and her demand was this, Tell me, Head, What shall I doe to make my selfe faire? The answer was, Be honest. I haue done, said she. Strait came her other companion, and said, I would faine know, Head, whether my Husband loue mee or no: and the answer was, Thou shalt know by his vsage. The married woman stood by, saying; The question might haue been spared: for good vsage is the best signe of affection. Then came one of Don Antonio's friends, and asked, Who am I? The answer was, Thou knowest. I aske thee not that said the Gentleman, but whether thou know me? I doe, it was answered; Thou art Don Pedro Noris. No more, O Head, let this suffice, to make mee know thou knowest all. And so stepping aside, the other friend came and asked, Tell me, Head, What desires hath my eldest sonne? I haue told you (it was answered) that I iudge not of thoughts; yet let mee tell you, your sonne desires to bury you; That (quoth the Gentleman) I know well, and daily perceiue, but I haue done. Don Antonio's wife came next, and said, Head, I know not what to aske thee, I would onely faine know of thee, if I shall long enioy my deare Husband: and the answere was, Thou shalt, for his health and spare diet promise him many yeeres, which many shorten by distempers.

Now came Don Quixote, and said, Tell me, thou that answe­rest, Was it true, or a dreame, that (as I recount) befell mee in Montesino's Caue? shall Sancho my Squires whipping be accom­plisht? shall Dulcinea be dis-enchanted? For that of the Caue, (quoth the Answerer) there is much to be said, it partakes of all: Sancho's whipping shall be prolonged: but Dulcinea's dis-en­chanting shall come to a reall end. I desire no more, said Don Quixote; for so Dulcinea be dis-enchanted, I make account, all my good fortunes come vpon me at a clap.

Sancho was the last Demander, and his question vvas this; Head, shall I haply haue another Gouernment? shall I be free from this penurious Squires life? shall I see my Wife and Chil­dren againe? To which it vvas answered him: In thy house shalt thou gouerne; whither if thou returne, thou shalt see thy Wife and children, and leauing thy seruice, thou shalt leaue be­ing a Squire. Very good (quoth Sancho) this I could haue told [Page 425] before my selfe, and my fathers horse could haue said no more. Beast, quoth Don Quixote, what answere wouldst thou haue? Is it not enough, that the answeres this head giues thee, are cor­respondent to thy questions? Tis true, said Sancho: but I would haue knowne more.

And now the questions and answeres were ended: but not the admiration, in which all remained, but Don Antonio's friends that knew the conceit. Which Cid Hamete Benengeli vvould forthwith declare, not to hold the world in suspence, to thinke that some VVitch, or extraordinary mysterie was inclosed in the said head: and thus saith he, that Don Antonio Moreno, in imitati­on of another head, which he saw in Madrid, framed by a Car­uer, caused this to be made in his house, to entertaine the sim­ple, and make them wonder at it, and the Fabricke was in this manner:

The table it selfe vvas of wood, painted and varnished ouer like Iasper, and the foot on vvhich it stood was of the same, with foure Eagles clawes standing out to vphold it the better.

The head that shewed like the Medall, or picture of a Ro­mane Emperour, and of brasse colour, was all hollow, and so was the Table too; to which, it was so cunningly ioyned, that there was no appearance of it: the foot of the Table was like­wise hollow, that answered to the brest, and neck of the head: and all this answered to another Chamber, that was vnder the roome where the head was: and thorow all this hollownesse of the foote, the table, brest and neck of the Medall, there vvent a Tinne pipe, made fit to them, that could not be perceiued.

He that was to answere, set his mouth to the Pipe in the Chamber vnderneath, answering to this vpper roome; so that the voice ascended, and descended, as thorow a Trunk, cleerely and distinctly, and it was not possible to find the Iuggling out.

A Nephew of Don Antonio's; a Scholler, a good witty and discreet Youth, was the answerer: who hauing notice from his Vncle, of those that were to enter the Roome, it was easie for him to answere suddenly, and punctually, to their first questi­ons, and to the rest he answered by discreet coniectures.

Moreouer, Cid Hamete sayes, that this maruellous Engine [Page 426] lasted for some ten or twelue dayes: but when it was divulged vp and downe the Citie, that Don Antonio had an Enchanted head in his house, that answered to all questions; fearing lest it should come to the notice of the waking Centinels of our Faith: hauing acquainted those Inquisitors with the businesse, they commanded him to make away with it, lest it should scan­dalize the ignorant Vulgar: but yet in Don Quixote and Sancho's opinion the head was still enchanted, and answering: but indeed not altogether so much to Sancho's satisfaction.

The Gallants of the Citie, to please Don Antonio, and for Don Quixote's better hospitalitie, and on purpose that his mad­nesse might make the more generall sport, appointed a running at the Ring, about a six dayes after, which was broken off vpon an occasion that after hapned.

Don Quixote had a minde to walke round about the Citie on foot; fearing, that if he went on horsebacke, the Boyes would persecute him: so he & Sancho, with two seruants of Don An­tonio's, went a walking. It hapned, that as they passed throow one street, Don Quixote looked vp, and saw written vpon a doore in great Letters, Heere are Bookes printed, which pleased him wonderously; for till then he had neuer seene any Presse; and he desired to know the manner of it.

In he vvent, with all his retinue, vvhere hee saw in one place drawing of sheetes, in another Correcting, in this Composing, in that mending: Finally, all the Machine that is vsuall in great Presses.

Don Quixote came to one of the Boxes, and asked vvhat they had in hand there? The Workmen told him: he wondred and passed further. To another he came, and asked one that was in it, what he vvas doing? The vvorkman answered, Sir, This Gentleman you see; (and he shewed him a good comely proper man, and somewhat ancient) hath translated an Italian Booke in­to Spanish; and I am composing of it heere to be printed.

What is the name of it (quoth Don Quixote?) To which (said the Author) Sir, it is called Le Bagatele, to wit, in Spanish, The Trifle: and though it beare but a meane name, yet it containes in it many great and substantiall matters.

I vnderstand a little Italian, said Don Quixote, and dare ven­ter vpon a Stanzo of Ariosto's: but tell me, Signior mine (not that I would examine your skill, but onely for curiositie:) haue you euer found set downe in all your writing, the vvord Pinna­ta? Yes, often quoth the Author: and how translate you it, said Don Quixote?

How should I translate it, said the Author, but in saying, Po­tage-Pot? Body of me (said Don Quixote) and how forward are you in the Italian Idiome? Ile lay a good wager that vvhere the Italian sayes, Piaccie, you translate it, Please; and vvhere Piu, you say, more, and Su, is aboue; and Giu, beneath.

Yes indeed doe, I said the Author: for these be their proper significations.

I dare sweare (quoth Don Quixote) you are not knowne to the world, which is alwayes backward in rewarding flourishing wits, and laudable industry: Oh what a company of rare abili­ties are lost in the vvorld! What wits cubbed vp, what vertues contemned: but for all that, mee thinkes this translating from one language into another (except it be out of the Queenes of Tongues, Greeke and Latine) is iust like looking vpon the wrong side of Arras-Hangings: that although the Pictures be seene, yet they are full of threed ends, that darken them, and they are not seene with the plainenesse & smoothnesse, as on the other side; and 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 far worse employed, and in things lesse profitable.

I except amongst Translators our two famous ones: the one, Doctor Christoual de Figneroa in his Pastor fido, and the other, Don Iohn de Xaurigni, in his Amyntas, vvhere they haply leaue it doubtfull, which is the Translation or Originall. But tell me, Sir, Print you this Booke vpon your owne charge, or sell you your licence to some Booke-binder? Vpon mine owne, said the Author, and I thinke to get a thousand crownes by it at least, vvith this first impression: for there will be two thou­sand Copies, and they will vent at three shillings apiece roundly.

You vnderstand the matter well, said Don Quixote: it seemes you know not the passages of Printers, and the corresponden­cies they haue betwixt one and the other: I promise you, that when you haue two thousand Copies lying by you, you'le be so troubled, as passeth; and the rather, if the booke be but a lit­tle dull, and not conceited all thorow.

Why, would you haue me (quoth the Author) let a Booke­seller haue my Licence, that would giue me but a halfe-penny a sheete, and that thinkes he doth me a kindnes in it too? I print not my workes to get fame in the world: for I am by them vvell knowne in it, I must haue profit; for without that, fame is not worth a rush.

God send you good lucke, said Don Quixote; so he passed to another Box, where he saw some correcting a sheete of a Book, Intituled, The Light of the Soule: and in seeing it, he said, Such bookes as these (though there be many of them) ought to bee imprinted: for there be many sinners, and many lights are need­full, for so many be darkned.

Hee went on, and saw them correcting another Booke; and enquiring the Title, they answered him, that it was cal­led, The second part of the Ingenious Knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha, made by such a one, an Inhabitant of Torde­sillas.

I haue notice of this Book, said Don Quixote, and in my con­science, I thought before now, it had beene burnt and turned to ashes for an idle Pamphlet: but it will not, like Hogs, Against that Saints day is Hogs fearing. want it's Saint Martin: for your fained Histories are so much the more good and delightfull, by how much they come neere the truth, or the likenesse of it: and the true ones are so much the better, by how much the truer; and saying thus, with some shewes of distaste, he left the Presse: and that very day Don Antonio pur­posed to carry him to the Gallies, that vvere in the Wharfe: at which Sancho much reioyced; for hee had neuer in his life seene any.

Don Antonio gaue notice to the Generall of the Gallies, that in the afternoone he would bring his ghest, the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, to see them: of whom all the Citie by [Page 429] this time had notice. And in the next Chapter, what hapned to him, shall be declared.