Ye on the mountain side that grow, Ye green things all, trees, shrubs, and bushes, Are ye aweary of the woe That this poor aching bosom crushes? If it disturb you, and I owe Some reparation, it may be a Defence for me to let you know Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, And all for distant Dulcinea Del Toboso.
The lealest lover time can show, Doomed for a ladylove to languish, Among these solitudes doth go, A prey to every kind of anguish. Why Love should like a spiteful foe Thus use him, he hath no idea, But hogsheads full—this doth he know— Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, And all for distant Dulcinea Del Toboso.
Adventure-seeking doth he go Up rugged heights, down rocky valleys, But hill or dale, or high or low, Mishap attendeth all his sallies: Love still pursues him to and fro, And plies his cruel scourge—ah me! a Relentless fate, an endless woe; Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, And all for distant Dulcinea Del Toboso.
The addition of “del Toboso” to Dulcinea’s