Don Quixote [Trans. by Edith Grossman] Read Online Free PDF Page B

only your desire and your dress
    adorned my soul and body, I could see
    the famous knight you made so fortunate
    in unequal combat with his enemies!
    Oh, if only I chastely might escape
    Sir Amadís, as you did Don Quixote,
    that courteous and noble errant knight!
    Then I’d be the envied, not the envying,
    and melancholy time would turn to joy,
    and I’d delight in pleasures without end.
    G ANDALÍN, S QUIRE TO A MADÍS OF G AUL, TO S ANCHO P ANZA, S QUIRE TO D ON Q UIXOTE
    A Sonnet
    Oh hail, famed man, when our good Lady Fortune
    brought you to this our squirely vocation,
    she carried out her plan with so much care,
    that you ne’er suffered grief or dire disgrace.
    Now the hoe and the scythe do not repel
    knight errantry; now it is common custom
    to find a simple squire, and so I denounce
    the pride that sets its sights upon the moon.
    I envy you your donkey and your name,
    I envy you as well the saddlebags
    that proved your forethought and sagacity.
    Hail once again, O Sancho! So good a man,
    that only you, when the Ovid of our Spain
    bows to kiss your hand, smack him on the head.
    F ROM D ONOSO, AN E CLECTIC P OET, TO S ANCHO P ANZA AND R OCINANTE
    I am the squire, Sancho Pan-,
    of the Manchegan Don Quixo-;
    I often turned, oft retreat-,
    and lived; the better part’s discre-;
    that wise man called Villadie- 25
    summarized his long life’s mot
    in a single word: withdraw-.
    That’s the view in Celesti-, 26
    a book that’d be divine, I reck-,
    if it embraced more of the hum-.
    To Rocinante
    I am famous Rocinan-,
    great-grandson of Babie-, 27
    for the sin of being skin-
    I belonged to Don Quixo-.
    I ran races like a slack-
    but was never late for sup-.
    I learned this from Lazari-. 28
    to empty out the blind man’s wine-
    you must use a straw: how cle-.
    O RLANDO F URIOSO TO D ON Q UIXOTE OF L A M ANCHA
    A Sonnet
    If you are not a peer, then you’ve had none:
    for you would have no peer among a thousand;
    nor could there be a peer where you are found,
    unconquerable conqueror, ne’er conquered.
    I am Orlando who, Quixote, undone
    by fair Angelica, saw distant seas,
    and offered on the altars of Lady Fame
    the valor that respected oblivion.
    I cannot be your equal; I am humbled
    by your prowess, your noble deeds, your fame,
    for you, like me, have gone and lost your mind.
    But my equal you will be if you defeat
    the haughty Moor, the charging beast;
    today we are called equal in ill-fated love.
    T HE K NIGHT OF P HOEBUS 29 TO D ON Q UIXOTE OF L A M ANCHA
    A Sonnet
    This my sword was no equal to your own,
    O Spanish Phoebus, courtly paragon,
    nor to your heights of valor this my hand
    though it flashed where the day is born and dies.
    I turned down empires, refused the monarchy
    that red-lit Orient offered me in vain
    so I could look upon the sovereign visage
    of Claridiana, my most beauteous dawn.
    I loved her by a miracle rare and strange,
    and, absent in misfortune, she came to fear
    this arm of mine that tamed her raging scorn.
    But you, noble Quixote, high and brave,
    your lady’s made you eternal in this world,
    and through you she is famous, good, and wise.
    F ROM S OLISDÁN 30 TO D ON Q UIXOTE OF L A M ANCHA
    A Sonnet
    Well may it be, Quixote, that sheer folly
    hath overturned thy reason and thy wit,
    but ne’er wilt thou be assailed by any man
    as one who hath wrought actions vile and base.
    These thy great feats will judge this to be truth,
    for thou, knight errant, hath righted many wrongs
    and wreaked thy vengeance on a thousand varlets
    for dastardly assaults and villainies.
    And if thy lady-love, fair Dulcinea,
    treateth thee with harsh and rigorous scorn,
    and looketh not with pity on thy grief,
    in such affliction let thy comfort be
    that Sancho Panza wast no go-between,
    a fool he, she of stone, and thou no lover.
    D IALOGUE B ETWEEN B ABIECA AND R OCINANTE
    A Sonnet
    B. Why is it, Rocinante, that you’re so thin?
    R. Too little food, and far too much hard labor.
    B. But what about your feed,