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 Babieca “How comes it, Rocinante, you’re so lean?” Rocinante “I’m underfed, with overwork I’m worn.” Babieca “But what becomes of all the hay and corn?” Rocinante “My master gives me none; he’s much too mean.” Babieca “Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween; ’Tis like an ass your master thus to scorn.” Rocinante “ He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born; Why, he’s in love; what’s plainer to be seen?” Babieca “To be in love is folly?”— R. “No great sense.” Babieca “You’re metaphysical.”— R. “From want of food.” Babieca “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.”