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.