SOME COMMENDATORY VERSES
| URGANDA THE UNKNOWN |
| To the book of Don Quixote of la Mancha |
 If to be welcomed by the good, |
| O Book! thou make thy steady aim, |
| No empty chatterer will dare |
| To question or dispute thy claim. |
| But if perchance thou hast a mind |
| To win of idiots approbation, |
| Lost labour will be thy reward, |
| Though they'll pretend appreciation. |
| They say a goodly shade he finds |
| Who shelters 'neath a goodly tree; |
| And such a one thy kindly star |
| In Bejar bath provided thee: |
| A royal tree whose spreading boughs |
| A show of princely fruit display; |
| A tree that bears a noble Duke, |
| The Alexander of his day. |
| Of a Manchegan gentleman |
| Thy purpose is to tell the story, |
| Relating how he lost his wits |
| O'er idle tales of love and glory, |
| Of "ladies, arms, and cavaliers:" |
| A new Orlando Furioso- |
| Innamorato, rather- who |
| Won Dulcinea del Toboso. |
| Put no vain emblems on thy shield; |
| All figures- that is bragging play. |
| A modest dedication make, |
| And give no scoffer room to say, |
| "What! Alvaro de Luna here? |
| Or is it Hannibal again? |
| Or does King Francis at Madrid |
| Once more of destiny complain?" |
| Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee |
| Deep erudition to bestow, |
| Or black Latino's gift of tongues, |
| No Latin let thy pages show. |
| Ape not philosophy or wit, |
| Lest one who cannot comprehend, |
| Make a wry face at thee and ask, |
| "Why offer flowers to me, my friend?" |
| Be not a meddler; no affair |
| Of thine the life thy neighbours lead: |
| Be prudent; oft the random jest |
| Recoils upon the jester's head. |
| Thy constant labour let it be |
| To earn thyself an honest name, |
| For fooleries preserved in print |
| Are perpetuity of shame. |
| A further counsel bear in mind: |
| If that thy roof be made of glass, |
| It shows small wit to pick up stones |
| To pelt the people as they pass. |
| Win the attention of the wise, |
| And give the thinker food for thought; |
| Whoso indites frivolities, |
| Will but by simpletons be sought. |
| AMADIS OF GAUL |
| To Don Quixote of la Mancha |
| SONNET |
| Thou that didst imitate that life of mine |
| When I in lonely sadness on the great |
| Rock Pena Pobre sat disconsolate, |
| In self-imposed penance there to pine; |
| Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine |
| Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate |
| Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state |
| Off the bare earth and on earth's fruits didst dine; |
| Live thou, of thine eternal glory sure. |
| So long as on the round of the fourth sphere |
| The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer, |
| In thy renown thou shalt remain secure, |
| Thy country's name in story shall endure, |
| And thy sage author stand without a peer. |
| DON BELIANIS OF GREECE |
| To Don Quixote of la Mancha |
| SONNET |
| In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed, |
| I was the foremost knight of chivalry, |
| Stout, bold, expert, as e'er the world did see; |
| Thousands from the oppressor's wrong I freed; |
| Great were my feats, eternal fame their meed; |
| In love I proved my truth and loyalty; |
| The hugest giant was a dwarf for me; |
| Ever to knighthood's laws gave I good heed. |
| My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned, |
| And even Chance, submitting to control, |
| Grasped by the forelock, yielded to my will. |
| Yet- though above yon horned moon enthroned |
| My fortune seems to sit- great Quixote, still |
| Envy of thy achievements fills my soul. |
| THE LADY OF ORIANA |
| To Dulcinea del Toboso |
| SONNET |
| Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be! |
| It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so- |
| Could Miraflores change to El Toboso, |
| And London's town to that which shelters thee! |
| Oh, could mine but acquire that livery |
| Of countless charms thy mind and body show so! |
| Or him, now famous grown- thou mad'st him grow so- |
| Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see! |
| Oh, could I be released from Amadis |
| By exercise of such coy chastity |
| As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss! |
| Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy; |
| None would I envy, all would envy me, |
| And happiness be mine without alloy. |
| GANDALIN, SQUIRE OF AMADIS OF GAUL, |
| To Sancho Panza, squire of Don Quixote |
| SONNET |
| All hail, illustrious man! Fortune, when she |
| Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade, |
| Her care and tenderness of thee displayed, |
| Shaping thy course from misadventure free. |
| No longer now doth proud knight-errantry |
| Regard with scorn the sickle and the spade; |
| Of towering arrogance less count is made |
| Than of plain esquire-like simplicity. |
| I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name, |
| And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff |
| With comforts that thy providence proclaim. |
| Excellent Sancho! hail to thee again! |
| To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain |
| Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff. |
| FROM EL DONOSO, THE MOTLEY POET, |
| On Sancho Panza and Rocinante |
| ON SANCHO |
| I am the esquire Sancho Pan- |
| Who served Don Quixote of La Man-; |
| But from his service I retreat-, |
| Resolved to pass my life discreet-; |
| For Villadiego, called the Si-, |
| Maintained that only in reti- |
| Was found the secret of well-be-, |
| According to the "Celesti-:" |
| A book divine, except for sin- |
| By speech too plain, in my opin- |
| ON ROCINANTE |
| I am that Rocinante fa-, |
| Great-grandson of great Babie-, |
| Who, all for being lean and bon-, |
| Had one Don Quixote for an own-; |
| But if I matched him well in weak-, |
| I never took short commons meek-, |
| But kept myself in corn by steal-, |
| A trick I learned from Lazaril-, |
| When with a piece of straw so neat- |
| The blind man of his wine he cheat-. |
| ORLANDO FURIOSO |
| To Don Quixote of La Mancha |
| SONNET |
| If thou art not a Peer, peer thou hast none; |
| Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer; |
| Nor is there room for one when thou art near, |
| Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one! |
| Orlando, by Angelica undone, |
| Am I; o'er distant seas condemned to steer, |
| And to Fame's altars as an offering bear |
| Valour respected by Oblivion. |
| I cannot be thy rival, for thy fame |
| And prowess rise above all rivalry, |
| Albeit both bereft of wits we go. |
| But, though the Scythian or the Moor to tame |
| Was not thy lot, still thou dost rival me: |
| Love binds us in a fellowship of woe. |
| THE KNIGHT OF PHOEBUS |
| To Don Quixote of La Mancha |
| My sword was not to be compared with thine |
| Phoebus of Spain, marvel of courtesy, |
| Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine |
| That smote from east to west as lightnings fly. |
| I scorned all empire, and that monarchy |
| The rosy east held out did I resign |
| For one glance of Claridiana's eye, |
| The bright Aurora for whose love I pine. |
| A miracle of constancy my love; |
| And banished by her ruthless cruelty, |
| This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame. |
| But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove, |
| For thou dost live in Dulcinea's name, |
| And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee. |
| FROM SOLISDAN |
| To Don Quixote of La Mancha |
| SONNET |
| Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it is true, |
| That crazy brain of yours have quite upset, |
| But aught of base or mean hath never yet |
| Been charged by any in reproach to you. |
| Your deeds are open proof in all men's view; |
| For you went forth injustice to abate, |
| And for your pains sore drubbings did you get |
| From many a rascally and ruffian crew. |
| If the fair Dulcinea, your heart's queen, |
| Be unrelenting in her cruelty, |
| If still your woe be powerless to move her, |
| In such hard case your comfort let it be |
| That Sancho was a sorry go-between: |
| A booby he, hard-hearted she, and you no lover. |
| DIALOGUE |
| Between Babieca and Rocinante |
| SONNET |
| B. "How comes it, Rocinante, you're so lean?" |
| R. "I'm underfed, with overwork I'm worn." |
| B. "But what becomes of all the hay and corn?" |
| R. "My master gives me none; he's much too mean." |
| B. "Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween; |
| 'T is like an ass your master thus to scorn." |
| R. He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born; |
| Why, he's in love; what's what's plainer to be seen?" |
| B. "To be in love is folly?"- R. "No great sense." |
| B. "You're metaphysical."- R. "From want of food." |
| B. "Rail at the squire, then."- R. "Why, what's the good? |
| I might indeed complain of him,I grant ye, |
| But, squire or master, where's the difference? |
| They're both as sorry hacks as Rocinante." |
