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.”
Table of Contents
Some Commendatory Verses
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