My sword was not to be compared with thine Phoebus of Spain, marvel of courtesy, Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine That smote from east to west as lightnings fly.
I scorned all empire, and that monarchy The rosy east held out did I resign For one glance of Claridiana’s eye, The bright Aurora for whose love I pine.
A miracle of constancy my love; And banished by her ruthless cruelty, This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame.
But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove, For thou dost live in Dulcinea’s name, And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee.
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.”