Know'st thou, O love, the pangs that I sustain,
Or, cruel, dost thou view those pangs unmov'd?
Or has some hidden cause its influence proved,
By all this sad variety of pain?
Love is a god, then surely he must know,
And knowing, pity wretchedness like mine;
From other hands proceeds the fatal blow--
Is then the deed, unpitying Chloe, thine?
Ah, no! a form so exquisitely fair
A soul so merciless can ne'er enclose.
From Heaven's high will my fate resistless flows,
And I, submissive, must its vengeance bear.
Nought but a miracle my life can save,
And snatch its destined victim from the grave.
The devil is subtle, and lays stumbling-blocks in our way,
over which we fall without knowing how.
In all misfortunes the greatest consolation is a
sympathizing friend.
Riches are but of little avail against the ills inflicted by
the hand of Heaven.
He that buys and denies, his own purse belies.
Till you hedge in the sky, the starlings will fly.
If a painter would be famous in his art, he must endeavor to
copy after the originals of the most excellent masters; the
same rule is also applicable to all the other arts and
sciences which adorn the commonwealth; thus, whoever aspires
to a reputation for prudence and patience, must imitate
Ulysses, in whose person and toils Homer draws a lively
picture of those qualities; so also Virgil, in the
character of AEneas, delineates filial piety, courage, and
martial skill, being representations of not what they really
were, but of what they ought to be, in order to serve as
models of virtue to succeeding generations.
The absent feel and fear every ill.
"I have heard say," quoth Sancho, "'from hell there is no retention.'"
"I know not," said Don Quixote, "what retention means."
"Retention," answered Sancho, "means that he who is once in hell never
does, nor ever can, get out again. I must strip off all my armor, and
remain as naked as I was born, if I should determine upon imitating
Orlando, in my penance, instead of Amadis."
While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the foot of a high
mountain, which stood separated from several others that surrounded it,
as if it had been hewn out from them. Near its base ran a gentle stream,
that watered a verdant and luxuriant vale, adorned with many
wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers of various hues. This was
the spot in which the knight of the sorrowful figure chose to perform
his penance; and, while contemplating the scene, he thus broke forth in
a loud voice:--
"This is the place, O ye heavens! which I select and appoint for
bewailing the misfortune in which ye have involved me. This is the spot
where my flowing tears shall increase the waters of this crystal stream,
and my sighs, continual and deep, shall incessantly move the foliage of
these lofty trees, in testimony and token of the pain my persecuted
heart endures. O ye rural deities, whoever ye be, that inhabit these
remote deserts, give ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover, whom
long absence and some pangs of jealousy have driven to bewail himself
among these rugged heights, and to complain of the cruelty of that
ungrateful fair, the utmost extent and ultimate perfection of all human
beauty! O ye wood-nymphs and dryads, who are accustomed to inhabit the
dark recesses of the mountain groves (so may the nimble and lascivious
satyrs, by whom ye are wooed in vain, never disturb your sweet repose),
assist me to lament my hard fate, or at least be not weary of hearing my
groans! O my Dulcinea del Toboso, light of my darkness, glory of my
pain, the north-star of my travels, and overruling planet of my fortune
(so may Heaven listen to all thy petitions), consider, I beseech thee,
to what a condition thy absence hath reduced me, and reward me as my
fidelity deserves! O ye solitary trees, who henceforth are to be the
companions of my retirement, wave gently your branches, to indicate that
my presence does not offend you! And, O thou my squire, agreeable
companion in my prosperous and adverse fortunes, carefully imprint on
thy memory what thou shalt see me here perform, that thou mayest recount
and recite it to her who is the sole cause of all!"
"There is no reason why you should threaten me," quoth Sancho, "for I am
not a man to rob or murder anybody. Let every man's fate kill him, or
God who made him. My master is doing a certain penance much to his
liking in the midst of yon mountains."
Don Quixote took out the pocket-book, and, stepping aside, began with
much composure to write the letter; and having finished, he called
Sancho and said he would read it to him that he might have it by heart,
lest he might perchance lose it by the way, for everything was to be
feared from his evil destiny. To which Sancho answered: "Write it, sir,
two or three times in the book, and give it me, and I will take good
care of it; but to suppose that I can carry it in my memory is a folly,
for mine is so bad that I often forget my own name. Your worship,
however, may read it to me. I shall be glad to hear it, for it must
needs be very much to the purpose."
"Listen, then," said Don Quixote, "this is what I have written ":--