And make the waters of oblivion stay.

While fair Altisidora, who the sport Of cold Don Quixote’s cruelty hath been, Returns to life, and in this magic court The dames in sables come to grace the scene, And while her matrons all in seemly sort My lady robes in baize and bombazine, Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing With defter quill than touched the Thracian string. 970

But not in life alone, methinks, to me Belongs the office; Lady, when my tongue Is cold in death, believe me, unto thee My voice shall raise its tributary song. My soul, from this strait prison-house set free, As o’er the Stygian lake it floats along, Thy praises singing still shall hold its way, And make the waters of oblivion stay.