The history of the valorous and vvitty-knight-errant, Don-Quixote, of the Mancha tr. out of the Spanish.

THE Delightfull Historie of the most witty Knight DON-QUIXOTE of the Mancha. (Book 2)

The Second Part. (Book 2)

CHAP. I.

Wherein is related the events of the fearfull Battell which the gallant Biscaine fought with Don-Quixote.

WEE left the valorous Biscaine and the famous Don-Quixote, in the first Part, with their Swords lifted up and naked, in termes to discharge one upon another two furious Cleevers, and such, as if they had lighted rightly, would cut and divide them both from the top to the toe, and open them like a Pomgranat. And that in so doubtfull a taking the delightfull Historie stopped and remained dismembred, the Author thereof leaving us no notice where wee might find the rest of the narration. This grieved mee not a little, but wholly turned the pleasure I tooke in reading the beginning there∣of into disgust, thinking how small commodity was offered, to finde out so much as in my opinion wanted of this so delectable a tale. It seemed unto mee almost impossible, and contrary to all good order, that so good a Knight should want some wise man that would undertake his wonderfull prowesses and feats of Chivalry. A thing that none of those Knights Errant ever wanted, of whom People speake, for each of them had one or two wise men of purpose, that did not only write their Acts, but also depain∣ted their very least thoughts and toyes, were they never so hidden. And surely so good a Knight could not bee so unfortunate as to want that wherewith Platyr and others his like abounded: and therefore could not induce my self to beleeve, that so gallant a Historie might remaine maimed and lame, and did rather cast the fault upon the malice of the time, who is a consumer and devourer of all things, which had eyther hidden or consumed it. Me thought on the other side, seeing that among his bookes were found some modern workes, such as the Vndeceiving of Iealousie, and the Nymphs and Sheep∣heards of Henares. That also his owne Historie must have been new; and if that it were not written, yet was the memory of him fresh among the dwellers of his owne Village, and the other Villages adjoyning. This imagination held mee suspended and desirous to learn really and truly all the life and miracles of our famous Spanyard, Don-Quixote of the Mancha, the light and mirror of all Manchicall Chivalrie; being the first who in this our age and time, so full of calamities, did undergoe the travells and exercise of armes Errant; and undid wrongs, succour'd widdowes, protected Dam∣zels that rode up and down with their whips and Palfreys, and with all their virginity

on their backs from hill to hill, and dale to dale; for if it hapned not that some lewd miscreant, or some Clowne with a hatchet and long haire, or some monstrous Giant did force them, Damzels there were in times past that at the end of fourescore yeeres, all which time they never slept one day under a roofe, went as entyre and pure may dens to their Graves, as the very mother that bore them. Therefore I say, that as well for this as for many other good respects, our gallant Don-Quixote is worthy of continu∣all and memorable praises; nor can the like bee justly denied to my self, for the labour and diligence which I used to finde out the end of this gratefull History, although I know very well that if Heaven, Chance, and Fortune had not assisted mee, the world had beene deprived of the delight and pastime that men may take for almost two houres together, who shall with diligent attention read it. The manner therefore of finding it was this.

Being one day walking in the Exchange of Toledo, a certain Boy by chance would have sold divers old quires & scroules of bookes to a Squire that walked up and down in that place, and I being addicted to read such scroules, though I found them torn in the streets, borne away by this my naturall inclination, tooke one of the quires in my hand, and perceived it to bee written in Arabicall Characters, and seeing that although I knew the Letters, yet could I not read the substance, I looked about to view whether I could perceive any Moor turned Spanyard thereabouts, that could reade them; nor was it very difficult to finde there such an Interpreter, for if I had searched one of another better and more ancient language [to Wit a Iew] that place would easily afford him. In fine, my good fortune presented one to mee, to whom telling my desire, and giving him the booke in his hand, hee opened it, and having read a little therein, began to laugh, I demanded of him why hee laughed? and hee answered, at that marginall note which the booke had. I bad him to expound it to mee, and with that tooke him a little aside, and hee continuing still his laughter said, there is written here on this margin these words. This Dulcinea of Toboso so many times spoaken of in this Historie, had the best hand for powdring of Porkes, of any woman in all the Mancha. When I heard it make mention of Dulcinea of Toboso, I rested amazed and suspended, and imagined forthwith that those quires contained the Historie of Don-Quixote, with this conceit I hastned him to read the ibegnning, which hee did, and translating the A∣rabicall into Spanish in a trice, hee said that it began thus. The Historie of Don-Quixote of the Mancha, written by Cyde Hamete Benegeli, an Arabicall Historiographer. Much discretion was requisite to dissemble the content of mind I conceived when I heard the Title of the book, and preventing the Squire, I bought all the boyes scroles and papers for a Riall, and were he of discretion, or knew my desire, he might have promised himself easily, and also have borne away with him more then six Reals for his Merchan∣dize. I departed after with the Moor to the Cloyster of the great Church, & I requested him to turn me all the Arabicall sheets that treated of Don-Quixote into Spanish, with∣out adding or taking away any thing from them; and I would pay him what hee listed for his paines: hee demanded fifty pounds of Raisons, and three Bushells of Wheat, and promised to translate them speedily, well, and faithfully. But I, to hasten the mat∣ter more, least I should lose such an unexpected and welcome treasure, brought him to my house, where he translated all the work in lesse then a moneth and a half, even in the manner that it is here recounted.

There was painted in the first Quier very naturally the battell betwixt Don-Quixote and the Biscaine; even in the same manner that the History relateth it, with their Swords lifted aloft, the one covered with his Buckler, the other with the Cushion: and the Biscaines Mule was delivered so naturally as a man might perceive it was hired; al∣though he stood farther oft then the shot of a Cross-bow. The Biscaine had a title written under his feet, that said, Don Sancho de Azpetia, for so belike he was called: and at Rozinante his feet, there was another that said Don-Quixote. Rozinante was marvellous well pourtraited, so long and lank, so thin and lean, so like one labouring with an incurable consumption, as he did shew very cleerly with what consideration and propriety he had given unto him the name Rozinante. By him stood Sancho Pan∣ca,

holding his Asse by the halter; at whose feet was another scroule, saying, Sancho Cancas: And I think the reason thereof was, that as his picture shewed, he had a great belly, a short stature, and thick leggs. And therefore I judge he was called Pan∣ca or Canca, for both these names were written of him indifferently in the History. There were other little things in it worthy nothing; but all of them are of no great Im∣portance, nor any thing necessary for the true relation of the History, for none is ill if it be true. And if any objection be made against the truth of this; it can be none o∣ther then that the Authour was a Moor; and it is a known propriety of that Na∣tion to be lying: Yet in respect that they hate us so mortally, it is to be conjectured that in this History there is rather want and concealement of our Knights worthy acts, then any superfluity; which I imagine the rather, because I finde in the progresse thereof many times, that when he might; and ought to have advanced his penn in our Knights prayses, he doth as it were of purpose passe them over in silence. Which was very ill done, seeing that Historiographers ought and should be very precise, true, and unpassi∣onate; and that neither profit, or fear, rancor or affection should make them to tread awry from the truth, whose mother is History; the Emulatresse of time; the depository of actions; the witnesse of things past; and advertiser of things to come. In this Hi∣storie I know a man may finde all that he can desire in the most pleasing manner; and if they want any thing to be desired, I am of opinion that it is through the fault of that ungracious knave that translated it, rather then through any defect in the subject. Finally, the second part thereof (according to the translation) began in this man∣ner.

The trenchant Swords of the two valorous and inraged combatants being listed a loft, it seemed that they threatned Heaven, the Earth, and the Depths. Such was their hardnesse and courage: And the first that discharged his blow was the Biscaine, which fell with such force and fury, as if the Sword had not turned a little in the way, that only blow had been sufficient to set an end to the rigorous Contention, and all other the Adventures of our Knight. But his good fortune which resolved him for greate•• Affairs, did wrest his adversaries Sword away in such sort, as though he stroke him on the left shoulder, yet did it no more ha•••• then disarm all that side carying away with it a great part of his Beaver, with the half of his eare; all which fell to the ground with a dreadfull ruine, leaving him in very ill case for a good time. Good God! who is he that can well describe at this present, the fury that entred in the heart of our Man∣chegan, seeing himself used in that manner? Let us say no more, but that it was such, that stretching himself again in the stirrops, and griping his Sword fast in both his hands, he discharged such a terrible blow on the Biscaine, hitting him right upon the Cushion and by it on the head, that the strength and thicknesse thereof so little availed him, that as if a whole Mountain had faln upon him, the blood gushed out of his mouth, nose, and ears, all at once, and he to••teredi so on his Mule, that every step he took, he was ready to fall off, as he would indeed if he had not taken him by the neck: yet never∣thelesse he lost the stirrops, and loosing his gripe of the Mule, it being likewise frighted by that terrible blow, ran away as fast as it could, about the Fields, and within two or three winches overthrew him to the ground. All which Don-Quixote stood beholding with great quietnesse; and as soon as he saw him fall, he leapt off his Horse, and ran over to him very speedily; and setting the poynt of his Sword on his eyes, he bad him yeeld himself, or else he would cut off his head. The Biscaine was so amazed as he could not speak a word; and it had succeeded very ill with him, considering Don-Quixote fury, if the Ladies of the Coach, which untill then had beheld the Conflict with great anguish, had not come where he was, and earnestly be sought him to doe them the fa∣vour to pardon their Squiers life. Don-Quixote answered with a great loftinesse and gravity.

Truly fair Ladyes I am well appaid to grant you your request, but it must be with this agreement and condition, that this Knight shall promise me to goe to Toboso, and present himself in my name to the Peerlesse Ladie Daloinea, to the end she may dispose of him as shee pleaseth.

The timerous and comfortlesse Lady with∣out considering what Don-Quixote demanded, or asking what Dul•••• was, promised

that her Squire should accomplish all that he pleased to command. Why then quoth Don-Quixote, trusting to your promise, I'le doe him no more harme, although he hath well deserved it at my hands.

CHAP. II.

Of that which after befell unto Don-Quixote, when he had left the Ladies.

BY this Sancho Panca had gotten up, though somewhat abused by Fri∣ars Lackeyes, and stood attentively beholding his Lords combate, and prayed to God with all his heart, that it would please him to give him the victory; and that he might therein winn some Island, whereof he might make him governour, as he had promised. And seeing the controversie ended at last, and that his Lord remounted upon Rozinante; he came to holde him the stirrop, and cast him∣self on his knees before him ere hee got up, and taking him by the hand, hee kist it, say∣ing, I desire that it will please you good my Lord Don-Quixote, to bestow upon mee the government of that Island which in this terrible Battell you have wonne; for though it were never so great, yet doe I finde my selfe able enough to govern it, as wel as any other whatsoever that ever governed Island in this world. To this demand Don-Quixote answered, thou must note friend Sancha, that this Adventure, and others of this kinde are not adventures of Islands, but of thwartings and high wayes, wherein no∣thing else is gained but a broaken pate, or the losse of an ear. Have patience a while, for Adventures will be offered, whereby thou shalt not only be made a Gover∣nor, but also a greater man. Sancho rendred him many thanks, and kissing his hand again, and the skirt of his Habergeon; he did help him to get up on Rozinante, and he leapt on his Asse, and followed his Lord: who with a swift pace, without taking leave or speaking to those of the Coach, he entred into a wood that was hard at hand. Sancho followed him as fast as his beast could trot; but Rozinante went off so swiftly, as he perceiving he was like to be left behinde, was forced to call aloud to his Master that he would stay for him; which Don-Quixote did by checking Rozinante with the bridle, untill his wearied Squire did arrive: who, as soon as he came, said unto him; Me∣thinks (Sir) that it will not be amisse to retire our selves to some Church; for ac∣cording as that man is ill dight with whom you fought. I certainly perswade my self that they will give notice of the fact to the Holy Brotherhood, and they will seek to appre∣hend us; which if they doe, in good faith before we can get out of their claws, I fear me we shall sweat for it. Peace, quoth Don-Quixote, where hast thou ever read or seen that Knight Errant, that hath been brought before the Judge, though he com∣mitted never so many homicides and slaughters? I know nothing of Omicills, quoth Sancho, nor have I cared in my life for any; but well I wot that it concerns the Holy Brotherhood to deal with such as fight in the Fields, and in that other I will not inter∣meddle. Then be not afraid friend, quoth Don-Quixote, for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Caldeans; how much more out of those of the Brotherhood? But tell me in very good earnest, whether thou did'st ever see a more valarous Knight then I am, on the face of the earth? did'st thou ever read in Histories of any other that hath or ever had more courage in assayling; more breath in persevering; more dexterity in offend∣ing; or more art in overthrowing, then I? The truth is, quoth Sancho, that I have never read any History; for I can neither read nor write: But that which I dare wager is, that I never in any life served a bolder Master then you are; and I pray God that we

pay not for this boldnesse, there where I have said, That which I request you is, that you will cure your selfe, for you lose much blood by that eare, and here I have lint and a little Vnguentum Album in my Wallet. All this might bee excused, quoth Don-Qui∣xote, if I had remembred to make a Violl-full of the Balsamum of Fierebras, for with one drop of it wee might spare both time, and want well all those other Medecines. What Violl, and what Balsamum is that, said Sancho Panca? It is, answered Don-Quixote, a Balsamum whereof I have the receipt in memory, which one possessing hee needs not fear death, nor ought he to think that he may be killed by any wound: and therefore after I have made it, and given it unto thee, thou hast nothing else to doe. but when thou shalt see that in any Bateel I bee cloven in twaine (as many times it happens) thou shalt take faire and softly that part of my Body that is faln to the ground, and put it up again with great subtlety, on the part that rests in the Saddle, before the blood congeale, having evermore great care that thou place it just and equal∣ly, then presently after thou shalt give mee two draughts of that Balsamum of which I have spoken, and thou shalt see me streight become founder then an Apple. If that bee true, quoth Sancho, I doe presently here renounce the government of the Island you promised, and will demand nothing else in recompence of my services of you, but only the receit of this precious liquor; for I am certain that an ounce thereof will be worth two Rials in any place, and when I have it I should neede nothing else to gain my li∣ving easily and honestly. But let mee know, is it costly in making? With lesse then three Reals, quoth Don-Quixote, a man may make three gallons of it, But I meane to reach thee greater secrets then this, and doe thee greater favours also. And now let me cure my self, for mine eare grieves me more then I would wish. Sancho then tooke out of his Wallet his lynt and oyntment to cure his Master. But when Don-Quixote saw that the vizar of his Helmet was broken, he was ready to run mad; and setting his hand to his Sword, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, he said, I vow to the creator of all things, and to the foure Gospels where they are largest written, to leade such ano∣ther life as the great Marquesse of Mantua did, when he swore to revenge the death of his Nephew Valdovinos, which was; not to eate on Table cloath, nor sport with his Wife, and other things, which although I doe not now remember, I give them here for expressed, untill I take compleate revenge on him that hath done me this outrage.

Sancho hearing this said, you must note, Sir Don-Quixote, that if the Knight hath ac∣complished that which you ordained, to goe and present himselfe before my Lady Dul∣cinea of Toboso, then hath hee fully satisfied his debt, and deserves no new punishment, except hee commit a new fault. Thou hast spoken well and hit the marke right, said Don-Quixote, and therefore I disanull the Oath, in that of taking any new revenge on him; but I make it, and confirm it again, that I will leade the life I have said until I take another Helmet like, or as good as this, perforce from some Knight. And doe not think Sancho that I make this resolution lightly, or as they say, with the smoak of strawes, for I have an Author whom I may very well imitate herein, for the very like in every respect past about Mambrinoes Helmet, which cost Sacriphante so deerely. I would have you resigne those kind of Oathes to the Devill, quoth Sancho, for they will hurt your health, and prejudice your Conscience. If not, tell mee now, I beseech you if wee shall not these many dayes encounter with any that weares a Helmet, what shall wee doe? Will you accomplish the Oath in despight of all the inconveniences and dis∣commodities that ensue thereof? to wit, to sleepe in your clothes, nor to sleepe in any dwelling, and a thousand other penitencies, which the Oath of the mad old man, the Marquesse of Mantua contained, which you meane to ratifie now? Doe not you con∣sider that armed men travell not in any of these wayes, but Carriers, and Waggoners, who not only carie no Helmets, but also for the most part never heard speake of them in their lives? Thou dost deceive thy self saying so, replied Don-Quixote, for wee shall not haunt these wayes two houres, before wee shall see more armed Knights then were at the siege of Albraca, to conquer Angelica the faire. Well then, let it bee so, quoth Sancho, and I pray God it befall us well, whom I devoutly beseech that the time

may come of gayning that Island which costs mee so deere, and after let me die present∣ly and I care not. I have already said to thee Sancho, quoth his Lord, that thou shouldst not trouble thy self in any wise about this Affair; for if an Island were wanting, we have then the Kingdome of Denmark or that of Sobradisa, which will come as fit for thy purpose as a Ring to thy finger, and principally thou art to rejoyce, because they are on the continent. But omitting this till his own time; see whether thou hast any thing in they Wallet, and let us eat it, that afterward wee may goe search out some Ca∣stle, wherein we may lodg this night, and make the Balsamum which I have told thee. For I vow to God that this ear grieves me marvellously. I have here an Onion, re∣plied the Squire, a peece of Cheese and a few crusts of bread, but such grosse meats are not befitting so noble a Knight as you are. How ill doest thou understand it? an∣swered Don-Quixote. I let thee to understand Sancho, that it is an honour for Knights Errant, not to eat once in a moneths space; and if by chance they should eat, to eat only of that which is next at hand. And this thou mightest certainly conceive, hadst thou read so many books as I have done. For though I past over many, yet did I never finde recorded in any, that Knights Errant did ever eat, but by meer chance and Adven∣ture, or in some costly Banquests that were made for them, and all the other dayes they past over with hearbs and roots: and though it is to be understood that they could not live without meat, and supplying the other needs of nature, because they were in effect men as wee are: It is likewise to be understood, that spending the greater part of their lives in Forrests and Deserts, and that too without a Cook, that their most ordinary meats were but course and rusticall, such as thou doest now offer unto me. So that friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee which is my pleasure, nor goe not thou about to make a new world, or to hoist Knight Errantry off of her hinges. Pardon me good Sir, quoth Sancho; for by reason I can neither read nor write, as I have said once before I have not fallne rightly in the Rules and Laws of Knighthood; and from hence forth my Wallet shall be well furnished with all Kindes of dry fruits for you, because you are a Knight: and for my self, seeing I am none, I will provide Fowls and other things, that are of more substance. I say not Sancho, quoth Don-Quixote, that it is a forcible Law to Knights Errant, not to eat any other things then such fruits; but that their most ordinary sustenance could be none other then those, and some herbs they found up and down the Fields, which they knew very well, and so doe I also. It is a virtue, quoth Sancho, to know those Hearbs; for as I imagine that knowledge will some day stand us in stead: And saying so, he took out the provision he had, which they both eat together with good conformity. But being desirous to search out a place where they might lodg that night, they did much shorten their poor dinner, and mount∣ing anon a horse-back, they made as much haste as they could, to finde out some dwel∣lings, before the night did fall; but the Sun and their hopes did fail them at once, they being neer the Cabins of certain Goat-heards; and therefore they concluded to take up their lodging there for that night: For, though Sancho's grief was great, to lie out of a Village yet Don-Quixote's joy exceeded it farr, considering he must sleep under open Heaven, because he made account as oft as this befell him, that he did a worthy act, which did facilitate and ratifie the practise of his Chivalry.

CHAP. III.

Of that which past between Don-Quixote and certain Goat-heards.

HE was entertained very cheerfully by the Goat-heards, and Sancho ha∣ving set up Rozinante and his Asse, as well as he could, he presently repaired to the smell of certain peeces of Goat-flesh, that stood boy∣ling in a Kettle over the Fire; and although he thought in that very moment to try whether they were in season to be translated out of the Kettle into the Stomack, he did omit it, because he saw the Heards take them off the Fire, and spreading certain Sheep-skins, which they had for that purpose on the ground, lay in a trice their rusticall table, and invited the Master and man with very cheerfull minde, to come and take part of that which they had. There sate down round about the skinns six of them, which were all that dwelled in that Fold; having first (using some course complements) placed Don-Quixote upon a Trough, turning the bottome up. Don-Quixote sate down and Sancho stood, to serve the Cup, which was made of horn. His Master seeing him a foot, said, Sancho, to the end thou mayest perceive the good included in wandring Knighthood, and also in what possibility they are, which exercise themselves in any ministery thereof, to arrive briefly to honour and reputation in the World. My will is that thou doest sit here by my side and in company with this good people, and that thou beest one and the very self∣same thing with me, who am thy Master and naturall Lord, that thou eat in my dish, and drink in the same cup wherein I drink: for the same may be said of Chivalrie that is of Love, to wit, that it makes all things equall. I yeeld you great thanks, quoth Sancho, yet dare I avouch unto you, that so I had therewithall to eat well, I could eat it as well or better standing and alone, then if I sate by an Emperour. And besides, if I must say the truth, me thinks that which I eat in a corner without ceremonies, curiosity, or re∣spect of any, though it were but bread and an Onion, smacks a great deal better then Turkey-Cocks at other Tables, where I must chew my meat leisurely, drink but little, wipe my hands often, must not neese nor cough though I have a desire, or be like to choake, nor doe other things that solitude and liberty bring with them. So that (good Sir) I would have you convert these honours that you would bestow upon me in re∣spect that I am an adherent to Chivalry, as I am being your Squire, into things more essentiall & profitable for me then these; & though I remain as thankfull for them, as if they were received, yet doe I here renounce from this time untill the worlds end. For all that thou shalt sit, for the humble shall be exalted; and so taking him by the arm hee forced him to sit down neer himself.

The Goat-heards did not understand that Gibbrish of Squires and Knights Errant, and therefore did nothing else but eat and hold their peace, and look on their guests, that tossed in with their fists whole slices, with good grace and stomacks. The course of flesh being ended, they served in on the rugges a great quantity of sheld Akorns, and half a Cheese harder then if it were made of rough-casting, the horne stood not the while idle; for it went round about so often, now full, now empty, much like a Conduit of Noria, [Arcaduzed Noria. p. 76.) And in a trice it emptied one of the two wine∣bags that ley there in the publique view. After that Don-Quixote had satisfied his ap∣petite well, he took up a handfull of Akorns. and beholding them earnestly, he began to discourse in this manner.

Happy time, and fortunate ages were those, whereon our Ancestors bestowed the title of Golden, not because Gould (so much prized in this our iron age) was gotten in that happy time without any labours, but because those which lived in that time, knew not these two words Thine and Mine: in that holy Age all things were in common. No man needed for his ordinary sustenance to doe

ought else then lift up his hand, and take it from the strong Oake, which did liberally invite them to gather his sweet and savory fruit. The cleer Fountains and running Rivers did offer them these savorie and transparent waters in magnificent abundance. In the clifts of Rocks and hollow Trees did the carefull and discreet Bees erect their Commonwealth, offering to every hand without interest, the fertile cropp of their sweetest travails. The loftie Cork-Trees did dismisse of themselves, without any art then that of their native liberality, their broad and light rindes. Wherewithall Horses were at first covered, being susteined by rusticall stakes, to none other end, but for to keep back the inclemencies of the Ayre. All then was peace, all Amitie, and all Concord: as yet the ploughshare presumed not with rude encounter to open and search the compassionate bowels of our first mother; for shee without compulsion offered up, through all the parts of her fertil and spacious bo∣some, all that which might satisfie, sustein, and delight those children which it then had: Yea it was then that the simple and beautifull young Sheepheardesse went from Valley to Valley, and Hill to Hill, with their haires sometimes plaited, sometime di∣shevel'd, without other apparell then that which was requisite to cover comelily that which modesty wills, and ever would have concealed. Then were of no request the Attires and Ornaments which are now used by those that esteem the purple of Tyre and the so-many-waies-marterized-Silk so much: but only certain green leaves of Burdocks and Ivie intertexed and woven together; wherewithall perhaps they went as gorgeously and comly deck'd, as now our Court-dames with all their rare and out∣landish inventions that idlenesse and curiosity hath found out. Then were the amo∣rous conceits of the minde, simply and sincerely delivered, and imbellished in the very form and manner that she had conceived them, without any artificiall contexture of words to indeer them: Fraud, Deceipt, or Mallice had not then medled themselves with Plainnesse and Truth: Justice was then in her proper terms, Favour daring not to trouble or confound her, or the respect of profit, which doe now Prosecute, Blem∣ish, and disturb her so much. The Law of Corruption, or taking Bribes had not yet possest the understanding of the Judge; for then was neither Judge, nor person to be judged. Maidens and Honesty wandred then, I say, where they listed, alone signio∣rizing secure, that no Stranger, Liberty, or Lascivious intent could prejudice it, or their own native desire or will any way indamage it. But now in these our detestable times no damzel is safe, although she be hid and shut up in another new Labyrinth, like that of Creet; for even there it self the amorous Plague would enter, either by some cranie, or by the aire, or by the continuall urgings of cursed Care, to infect her. For whose protection and security was last instituted, by successe of times, the order of Knigh-hood, to defend Damzels, protect Widows, and assist Orphans and di∣stressed Wights. Of this Order am I, friends, Goatheards, whom I doe heartily thank for the good entertainment which you doe give unto me and my Squire: for although that every one living is oblieged by the Law of Nature, to favour Knights Errant; yet notwithstanding, knowing that you knew not this Obligation, and yet did receive and make much of me, it stands with all reason that I doe render you thanks with all my heart!

Our Knight made this long Oration (which might have been well excused) because the Achorns that were given unto him, called to his minde the golden World: and therefore the humour took him to make the Goat-heards that unprofitable discourse, who heard him all amazed and suspended with very great attention all the while. San∣cho likewise held his peace, eating Acorns, and in the mean while visited very often the second wine-bagg, which, because it might be fresh, was hanged upon a Cork-Tree. Don-Quixote had spent more time in his Speech then in his Supper; at the end whereof one of the Goat-heards said, To the end that you may more assuredly know, Sir Knight Errant, that we doe entertain you with prompt and ready will, wee will likewise make you some pastime, by hearing one of our companions sing, who is a Heard of good un∣derstanding, and very amorous withall, and can besides read and write, and playes so well on a Rebeck, that there is nothing to be desired. Scarce had the Goat-Heard

ended his Speech, when the sound of the Rebeck touched his ear, and within a while after he arrived that played on it, being a youth of some twenty years old, and one of a very good grace and countenance. His fellows demanded if he had supped, and answer∣ing that he had; he which did offer the courtesie, said, then Anthony thou mayest doe us a pleasure by singing a little, that this Gentleman our Guest may see, that we enjoy amid'st these Groves and Woods, those that know what Musick is: we have told him already thy good qualities, and therefore we desire that thou shew them, to verifie our words. And therefore I desire thee by thy life, that thou wilt sit and sing the Ditty which thy Unkle the Prebendary made of thy Love, and was so well liked off in our Village. I am content, quoth the youth, and without further intreaty, sitting down on the trunk of a lopped Oak, he turned his Rebeck, and after a while began with a sin∣gular good grace to sing in this manner.

I Know Olalia thou dost me adore! Though yet to mee the same thou hast not said: Nor shown it once, by one poore glaunce or more Since love is soonest by such tongues bewray'd. Yet 'cause I ever held thee to be wise, It mee assures thou bearest mee good will; And hee is not unfortunate that sees How his affections are not taken ill. Yet for all this, Olalia 'tis true! I, by observance, gather to my woe; Thy mind is fram'd of brasse, by Art undue, And flint thy bosom is, though it seem snow; And yet amidst thy rigors, Winter-face And other shifts, thou usest to delay me, Somtimes hope, peeping out, doth promise Grace; But, woe is mee, I feare 'tis to betray mee. Sweetest! once in the ballance of thy minde, Poise with just weights my Faith, which never yet Diminisht, though disfavour it did finde; Nor can increase more, though thou favord'st it: If Love be courteous (as some men say) By thy humanity I must collect My hopes, hows'ever thou dost use delay, Shall reap, at last, the good I doe expect. If many services bee of esteeme Or pow'r to render a hard heart benign; Such things I did for thee, as make mee deems I have the match gain'd, and thou shalt be mine; For if at any time thou hast tane heed, Thou more then once might'st view how I was clad, To honour thee on Mondaies with the Weed Which, worn on Sondaies, got mee credit had. For Love and Brav'ry still themselves consort, Because they both shoote ever at one end; Which made mee when I did to thee resort Still to bee neat and fine I did contend: Here I omit the daunces I have done, And Musicks I have at thy Window given; When thou didst at Cock-crow listen alone, And seem'dst, hearing my voice, to be in Heav'n. I doe not, eke, the praises here recount Which of thy beauty I so oft have said;

Which though they all were true, were likewise wont To make thee (Enuious!) me for spight upbraid, When to Teresa, shee of Berrocal, I, of thy worths discourse, did somtime shape: Good God! quoth shee, you seem an Angels thrall, And yet, for Idoll, you adore an Ape. Shee to her Bugles thanks may give and chains, False haires, and other shifts that shee doth use To mend her beauty, with a thousand pains And guiles, which might loves very self abuse. Wroth at her words, I gave her streight the lie, Which did her and her Cousin so offend; As mee to fight hee challeng'd presently, And well thou know'st of our debate the end: I meane not thee, to purchase at a clap, Nor to that end doe I thy favour sue, Thereby thine honour either to intrap, Or thee perswade to take courses undue. The Church hath bands which doe so surely hold, As no silk string for strength comes to them neer; To thrust thy neck once in the yoake bee bold. And see if I, to follow thee, will fear. If thou wilt not, here solemnly I Vow By holliest Saint, enwrapt in precious Shrine, Never to leave those hils where I dwell now, If't bee not to become a Capucine.

Here the Goat-heard ended his Ditty, and although Don-Quixote intreated him to sing somwhat else. yet would not Sancho Panca consent to it; who was at that time better disposed to sleep then to heare Musick: and therefore said to his Master, you had better provide your self of a place wherein to sleep this night then to heare Music, for the labour that these good men indure all the day long, doth not permit that they likewise spend the night in singing. I understand thee well enough Sancho, answered Don-Quixote, nor did I thinke lesse, but that thy manifold visitations of the wine-bottle, would rather desire to bee recompenced with sleepe then with Music. The Wine liked us all well, quoth Sancho, I doe not denie it, replyed Don-Quixote, but goe thou and lay thee downe where thou pleasest, for it becomes much more men of my profession to watch then to sleepe. Yet notwithstanding it will not bee amisse to lay somwhat againe to mine eare, for it grieves mee very much. One of the Goat-heards beholding the hurt, bad him bee of good cheere, for hee would apply a remedy that should cure it easily. And taking some Rosemary leaves of many that grew thereabouts, hee hewed them, and after mixed a little salt among them, and applyed this Medecine to the eare, hee bound it up well with a cloth, assuring him that he nee∣ded to use no other Medecine, as it proved after in effect.

CHAP. IV.

Of that which one of the Goat-heards recounted to those that were with Don-Quixote.

ABOUT this time arived another youth, one of those that brought them provision from the Village, who said, Companions doe not you know what passeth in the Village? How can wee know it bee∣ing absent? saies another of them. Then wit, quoth the youth, that the famous Sheepheard, and Student Chrisostome died this morning, and they murmur that hee died for love of that divellish lasse Maree∣la, William the rich his daughter, shee that goes up and down these Plaines and Hills among us in the habit of a Sheepheardesse; Dost thou mean Marcela, quoth one of them? Even her, I say, answered the other; and the jest is, that hee hath commanded in his Testament, that hee bee buried in the fields, as if he were a Moor; and that it be at the foot of the Rock, where the Fountain stands of the Cork-Tree. For that according to same, and as they say, he himself affirmed, was the place wherein he viewed her first. And he hath likewise commanded such other things to be done, as the ancienter sort of the Village doe not allow, nor think fit to be performed; for they seem to be ceremonies of the Gentils. To all which objections his great friend Ambrosio the Student, who likewise apparelled himself like a Sheepheard, at once with him answers, that all shall be accomplished, without omission of any thing, as Chrysostome hath ordeyned, and all the Village is in an uproar about this affair, and yet it is said that what Ambrosio and all the other Sheepheards his friends doe pretend shall in fine be done: and to morrow morning they will come to the place I have named to burie him with great pomp: and as I suppose it will be a thing worthy the seeing: at leastwise I will not omit to goe and behold it, although I were sure that I could not return the same day to the Village. We will all doe the same, quoth the Goat-heards, and will draw Lots who shall tarry here to keep all our Heards. Thou saist well Peter, quoth one of them, although that labour may be excused, for I mean to stay behinde for you all, which you must not attribute to any virtue, or little curio∣sity in me; but rather to the fork that prickt my foot the other day, and makes me un∣able to travell from hence. We doe thank thee notwithstanding, quoth Peter, for thy good will. And Don-Quixote, who heard all their discourse, intreated Peter to tell him who that dead man was, and what the Sheepheardesse of whom they spoak.

Peter made answer, that what he knew of the affair was, that the dead person was a rich Gentleman of a certain Village, seated among those mountains, who had studied many yeers in Salamanca, and after returned home to his house, with the opinion to be a very wise and learned man: But principally it was reported of him, that he was skill∣full in Astronomie, and all that which passed above in heaven, in the Sunne and the Moon; for he would tell us most punctually the clips of the Sunne and the Moon. Friend, quoth Don-Quixote, the darkning of these two greater Luminaries is called an Eclipse, and not a Clipse. But Peter stopping not at those trifles, did prosecute his Hi∣story, saying; he did also Prognosticate, when the yeer would be abundant or Estill. Thou wouldest say Sterril, quoth Don-Quixote. Sterril or Estil, said Peter, all is one for my purpose: And I say, that by his words, his father and his other friends, that gave credit to him, became very rich: For they did all that he counselled them, who would say unto them; sow Barley this yeer and no Wheat. In this you may sow Pease and no Barley. The next yeer will be good for Oyle. The three ensuing you shall not gather a drop. That Science is called Astrologie, quoth Don-Quixote. I know not how it is called, replied Peter, but I know well he knew all this and much more. Finally, a few moneths after he came from Salamanca, he appeared one day apparalled like a

Sheepheard with his Flock, and leather Coat; having laid aside the long habits that he wore, being a Scholler, and joyntly with him came also a great friend of his, and fellow Student called Ambrosio, apparraled like a Sheepheard. I did almost forget to tell how Crisostome the dead man was a great maker of Verses; insomuch that he made the Carols of Christmas day at night, and the playes for Corpus Christi day, which the youths of our Village did represent, and all them affirmed, that they were most excel∣lent. When those of the Village saw the two Schollers so suddainly clad like Sheep∣heards, they were amazed, and could not guesse the cause that moved them to make so wonderfull a change. And about this time Chrisostome's father died, and he remained possessed of a great deal of goods, as well moveable as immoveable; and no little quan∣tity of Cattell great and small, and also a great sum of money; of all which the young man remained a dissolute Lord. And truly he deserved it all; for he was a good fel∣low, charitable, and a friend of good folk; and he had a face like a blessing. It came at last to be understood, that the cause of changing his habit was none other, then for to goe up and down through these Desarts after the Sheepherdesse Marcela, whom our Heard named before; of whom the poor dead Crisostome was become enamoured. And I will tell you now, because it is fit you should know it, what this wanton Lasse is, perhaps, and I think without perhaps, you have not heard the like thing in all the dayes of your life, although you had lived more yeers then Sarna. Say Sarra, quoth Don-Quixote, being not able any longer to hear him to change one word for ano∣ther. The Sarna or Scabb, quoth Peter, lives long enough too. And if you goe thus Sir, interrupting my tale at every pace, we shall not be able to end it in a yeer. Par∣don me friend, quoth Don-Quixote; for I speak to thee by reason there was such diffe∣rence between Sarna and Sarra. But thou doest answer well; for the Sarna or Scab lives longer then Sarra: and therefore prosecute thy History; for I will not interrupt thee any more. I say then deer Sir of my Soul, quoth the Goat-heard, that there was in our Village a Farmer that was yet richer then Crisostomes father, who was called William, to whom fortune gave in the end of his great riches a daughter called Mar∣cela, of whose birth her mother died, who was the best woman that dwelled in all this circuit. Me thinks I doe now see her quick before me, with that face which had on the one side the Sun, & on the other side the Moon; & above all, shee was a thriftie huswife, and a great friend to the poor: For which I believe that her soul is this very hour en∣joying of the Gods in the other World. For grief of the losse of so good a wife, her husband William likewise dyed, leaving his daughter Marcela young and rich in the custody of his Uncle, who was a Priest, and Curate of our Village. The child grew with such beauty as it made us remember that of her mother, which was very great. And yet notwithstanding they judged that the daughters would surpasse hers, as indeed it did: for when she arrived to the age of fourteen or fifteen yeers old, no man be∣held her, that did not blesse God for making her so fair: and most men remained ena∣moured and cast away for her love. Her Unkle kept her with very great care and closenesse: And yet neverthelesse the fame of her great beauty did spread it self in such sort, that as well for it as for her great Riches, her Unkle was not only requested by those of our Village, but also was prayed, solicited, and importuned by all those that dwelled many leagues about, and that by the very best of them, to give her to them in marriage. But he (who is a good Christian every inch of him) although he desired to marry her presently as soon as she was of age, yet would he not doe it with∣out her good will, without ever respecting the gain and profit he might make by the possession of her goods, whilest he desired her marriage. And in good sooth this was spoaken of, to the good Priest his commendation, in more then one meeting of the people of our Village. For I would have you to wit, Sir Errant, that in these little Villages they talk of all things, and make account, as I doe, that the Priest must have been too good who could obliege his Parishiones to speak so well of him, and especi∣ally in the Villages. Thou hast reason, quoth Don-Quixote; and therefore follow on, for the History is very pleasant, and thou good Peter doest recount it with a very good grace. I pray God, said Peter, that I never want our Heards; for it is that which

makes to the purpose. And in the rest you shall understand, that although her Unkle propounded and told to his Niese the quality of every woer of the many that desired her for wife, and intreated her to marry and chuse at her pleasure; yet would she never answer other, but that she would not marry as then, and that in respect of her over green years, she did not finde her self able enough yet to bear the burden of marriage. With these just excuses which shee seemed to give, her Unkle lest off importuning of her, and did expect untill she were farther entred into yeers; and that she might know how to choose one that might like her. For hee was wont to say, and that very well, That Parents were not to place or bestow their Children, where they bore no liking. But see here when we least imagined it, the coy Marcela appeared one morning to become a Sheep∣heardesse; and neither her Uncle, nor all those of the Village which disswaded her from it, could work any effect, but she would needs goe to the Fields, and keep her own Sheep with the other young Lasses of the Town. And shee coming thus in publique, when her beauty was seen without hindrance, I cannot possibly tell unto you, how many rich youths, as well Gentlemen as Farmers, have taken on them the habit of Chri∣sostome, and follow woing of her up and down those Fields. One of which, as is said already, was our dead man, of whom it is said, that leaving to love her, he had at last made her his Idol. Nor is it to be thought that because Marcela set her self in that liberty, and so loose a life, and of so little or no keeping, that therefore she hath given the least token or shadow of dishonesty or negligence: nay rather such is the watch∣fullnesse wherewithall shee looks to her honour, that among so many as serve and sollicite her, not one hath praised or can justly vaunt himself to have received at her hands, the least hope that may be to obtain his desires. For although she did not flie or shun the company and conversation of Sheepheards, and doth use them courteously and friendly, whensoever any one of them begin to discover their intention, be it ever so just and holy, as that of Matrimony, shee casts them away from her, as with a sling.

And with this manner of proceeding shee does more harme in this Countrey, then if the Plague had entred into it by her meanes, for her affability and beauty doth draw to it the hearts of those which doe serve and love her: But her disdaine and resolution doe conduct them to termes of desparation: and so they know not what to say unto her, but to call her with a loud voyce cruell and ungratefull, with other titles like unto this, which doe cleerely manifest the nature of her condition; and Sir, if you staid here but a few daies, you should heare these Mountaines resound with the lamentations of those wretches that follow her. There is a certain place not far off, wherein are about two dozen of Beech-trees, and there is not any one of them in whose rinde is not ingra∣ven Marcelas name, and over some names graven also a crowne in the same tree, as if her lover would plainly denote that Marcela beares it away, and deserves the Gar∣land of all humane beauty. Here sighs one Sheepheard, there another complaines, in another place are heard amorous ditties, here in another dolefull and despayring la∣ments: Some one there is that passeth over all the whol houres of the night at the foot of an Oake or Rock, and there without folding once his weeping eyes, swallowed and transported by his thoughts, the Sunne findes him there in the morning: and some o∣ther there is, who without giving wade or truce to his sighes, doth amidst the fervor of the most fastidious heate of the Summer, stretcht upon the burning sand, breathe his pittifull complaints to Heaven: and of this, and of him, and of those, and these, the beautifull Marcela doth indifferently and quietly triumph: all we that know her, doe await to see wherein this her loftinesse will finish, or who shall be so happy as to gain dominion over so terrible a condition, and enjoy so peerlesse a beauty. And be∣cause all that I have recounted is so notorious a truth, it make me more easily believe that our companion hath told, that is said of the occasion of Chrisostome's death: and therefore I doe counsell you Sir, that you doe not omit to be present to morrow at his buriall, which will be worthy the seeing; for Chrisostome hath many friends, and the place wherein he commanded himself to bee buried is not half a league from hence. I doe mean to be there, said Don-Quixote, and doe render thee many thanks for the

delight thou hast given me, by the relation of so pleasant a History. O, quoth the Goat-Heard, I doe not yet know the half of the Adventures succeeded to Marcela's lovers; but peradventure wee may meet some Sheepheard on the way to morrow that will tell them unto us. And for the present you will doe well to goe take your rest under some roof, for the air might hurt your wound, although the Medicine be such that I have applied to it, that any contrary accidents needs not much to be feared. Sancho Panca being wholy out of patience with the Goat-Heards long discourse, did sollicite for his part his Master so effectually as he brought him at last into Peters Cabin, to take his rest for that night; whereinto after he had entred, he bestowed the remnant of the might in remembrances of his Lady Dulcinea in imitation of Marcelaes Lovers. Sancho Panca did lay himself down between Rozinante and his Asse, and slept it out, not like a disfavored Lover, but like a man stamped and bruised with tramplings.

CHAP. V.

Wherein is finished the History of the Sheepheardesse Marcela, with other accidents.

BUT scarce had the day begun to discover it self by the Orientall win∣dows, when five of the six Goat-heards arising, went to awake Don-Quixote, and demanded of him whether he yet intended to goe to Chrisostome's Buriall, and that they would accompany him. Don-Quixote that desired nothing more, got up and commaunded Sancho to saddle and empannell in a trice; which he did with great expedi∣tion, and with the like they all presently began their journey. And they had not yet gone a quarter of a league, when at the crossing of a path-way they saw six Sheepheards comming towards them, apparrelled with black skinns, and crowned with Garlands of Cypresse and bitter Enula Campana. Every one of them carried in his hand a thick truncheon of Elme. There came likewise with them two Gentlemen a horse-back, very well furnished for the way, with other three Lacquies that attended on them. And as soon as they encountred, they saluted one another courteously, and demanded whether they travelled; and knowing that they all went towards the place of the buriall, they began their journey together. One of the horse-men speaking to his companion, said, I think (Mr. Vivaldo) we shall account the time well imployed that we shall stay to see this so famous an entertainment; for it cannot chuse but be famous according to the wonderfull things these Sheepheards have recounted unto us, as well of the dead Sheepheard, as also of the murthering Sheepheardesse. It seems so to mee likewise, quoth Vivaldo. And I say, I would not only stay one day, but a whole week rather then misse to behold it. Don-Quixote demanded of them, what they had heard of Marcela and Chrysostome? The Traveller answered, That they had encountred that morning with those Sheepheards, and that by reason they had seen them apparrel∣led in that mournfull attire, they demanded of them the occasion thereof, and one of them rehearsed it, recounting the strangenesse and beauty of a certain Sheepheardesse called Marcela; and the amorous pursuits of her by many, with the death of that Chrysostome, to whose buriall they rode. Finally, he told all that again to him, that Peter had told the night before.

This discourse thus ended, another began, and was, that he who was called Vivaldo, demanded of Don-Quixote the occasion that moved him to travell thus armed through so peaceable a countrey? To whom Don-Quixote answered, the profession of my ex∣ercise doth not license or permit me to doe other: Good dayes, cockering and ease

were invented for soft Courtiers; but Travell, Unrest, and Arms were only invented and made for those which the world terms Knights Errant, of which number I my self (although unworthy) am one, and the least of all. Scarce had they heard him say this, when they all held him to be wood. And to find out the truth better, Viualdo did ask him again, what meant the word Knights Errant?

Have you not read then, quoth Don-Quixote, the Histories and Annals of England, wherein are treated the famous acts of King Arthur, whom we continually call in our Castilian Romance, King Artus? of whom it is an ancient and common tradition in the Kingdome of Great Brittain, that he never dyed, but that he was turned by art of Inchantment into a Crow; and that in processe of time he shall return again to raign, and recover his Scepter and Kingdom. For which reason, it cannot be proved, that ever since that time untill this, any English man hath killed a Crow. In this good Kings time was first instituted the famous order of Knighthood, of the Knights of the Round Table, and the love that is there recounted, did in every respect passe as it is laid down between Sir Launce∣lot du Lake, and Queen Genever the honourable Lady Quintaniona being a dealer, and privie thereto. Whence sprung that so famous a Dittie, and so celebrated here in Spain of, Never was Knight of Ladies so well served as Launcelot when that hee in Brittain arrived, &c. with that progresse so sweet and delightfull of his amorous and valiant Acts: And from that time forward, the Order of Knight went from hand to hand, dilating and spreading it self through many and sundry parts of the World. And in it were famous and renowned for their feats of Armes, the valiant Amadis of Gaule, with all his progenie untill the fifth generation: and the valourous Felixmarte of Hircania; and the never-duely-praised Tirante the White, together with Sir Bevis of Hampton, Sir Gay of Warwick, Sir Eglemore, with diverse others of that Nation and Age. And almost in our dayes we saw, and communed, and heard of the invincible and valiant Knight Don Belianis of Greece! This then good Sirs, is to be a Knight Errant; and that which I have said is the Order of Chivalry: wherein, as I have already said, I, although a sinner, have made profession, and the same doe I professe that those Knights professed, whom I have above mentioned; and therefore I travell through these Solitudes and Desarts, seeking Adventures, with full resolution to offer mine own Arm and Person to the most dangerous that for∣tune shall present, in the aid of weak and needy persons.

By these reasons of Don-Quixot's the travellers perfectly perceived that he was none of the wisest, and knew the kinde of folly wherewithall he was crossed, whereat those remained wonderfully admired: that by the relation of the others came to un∣derstand it: and Vivaldo who was very discreete, and likewise of a pleasant disposition, to the end they might passe over the rest of the way without heavines unto the rock of the buriall, which the Sheepheards said was neere at hand, he resolved to give him further occasion to passe onward with his follies, and therefore said unto him. Me thinkes, Sir Knight, that you have profest one of the most austere professions in the world. And I doe constantly hold that even that of the Charterhouse Munkes is not neer so straight.

It may bee as straight as our profession, quoth Don-Quixote, but that it should be so necessary for the world, I am within the breadth of two fingers to call it in doubt. For if we would speak a truth, the Souldier that puts in execution his Captains command, doth no lesse then the very Captain that commands him. Hence I infer, That Religious men doe with all peace and quietnesse seek of Hea∣ven the good of the Earth. But Souldiers and wee Knights doe put in execution that which they demand, defending it with the valour of our Armes, and files of our Swords: not under any roof; but under the wide Heavens, made as it were in Sum∣mer a mark to the insupportable Sun beams, and in Winter to the rage of withering Frosts. So that wee are the Ministers of God on earth, and the Armes wherewith he executeh here his Justice. And as the Affairs of Warr, and things thereunto per∣taining, cannot be put in execution without sweat, labour and travell; it follows that those which professe warfare take questionlesse greater pain then those which in quiet, peace, and rest doe pray unto God, that he will favour and assist those that need

it. I mean not therefore to affirm, nor doth it once passe through my thought, that the state of a Knight Errant is as perfect as that of a retyred religious man, but only would infer through that which I my self suffer, that it is doubtlesly more laborious, more battered, hungry, thirsty, miserable, torn and lowsie. For the Knights Errant of times past, did without all doubt, suffer much woe and misery in the discourse of their life. And if some of them ascended at last to Empires, won by the force of their life. And if some of them ascended at last to Empires, won by the force of their Arms, in good faith it cost them a great part of their sweat and blood: And if those which mounted to so high a degree had wanted those inchanters and wise men that assisted them, they would have remained much defrauded of their desires, and greatly deceived of their hopes.

I am of the same opinion, replyed the Traveller: but one thing among many others hath seemed to me very ill in Knights Errant, which is when they perceive themselves in any occasion to begin any great and dangerous Adventure, in which appears manifest perill of losing their lives, they never in the instant of attempting it remember to commend themselves to God, as every Christian is bound to doe in like dangers; but rather doe it to their Ladies with so great desire and devotion as if they were their Gods; a thing which in my opinion smells of gentillisme.

Sir, quoth Don-Quixote, they can doe no lesse in any wise, and the Knight Errant which did any other, would digresse much from his duty. For now it is a received use and custome of errant Chivalry, that the Knight adventurous, who attempting of any great feat of Arms shall have his Lady in place, do mildly and amo∣rously turn his eyes towards her, as it were by them demanding that she doe favour and protect him in that ambiguous trance which he undertakes; and moreover if none doe hear him, he is bound to say certain words between his teeth, by which he shall with all his heart commend himself to her: and of this wee have innumerable examples in Histories. Nor is it therefore to be understood that they doe omit to commend themselves to God, for they have time and leisure enough to doe it, in the progresse of the work.

For all that, replied the Traveller, there remains in me yet one scruple, which is, That often times, as I have read, some speech begins between two Knights Errant, and from one word to another their choler begins to be inflamed, and they to turn their horses, and to take up a good piece of the Field, and without any more adoe, to run as fast as ever they can drive to encounter again; and in the midest of their race, doe commend themselves to their dames, and that which commonly ensues of this encountring is, that one of them falls down, thrown over the crupper of his horse, past through and through by his enemies Launce; and it befalls the other, that if he had not caught fast, of his horse main, he had likewise faln. And I here cannot perceive how he that is slain had any leisure to commend himself unto God in the discourse of this so accelerate and hasty a work. Me thinks it were better that those words which he spent in his race on his Lady, were bestowed as they ought, and as every Christian is bound to bestow them. And the rather, because I conjecture, that all Knights Errant have not Ladies to whom they may commend themselves; for all of them are not amorous.

That cannot be, answered Don-Quixote, I say it cannot be that there's any Knight Errant without a Lady: For it is as proper and essentiall to such to be enamoured, as to Heaven to have starrs: And I dare warrant that no History hath yet been seen, wherein is found a Knight Errant without love: for by the very reason that he were found without them, he would be convinced to be no legitimate Knight, but a Ba∣stard; and that he entred into the Fortresse of Chivalry, not by the Gate, but by leaping over the Staccado like a Robber and a Thiefe.

Yet notwithstanding, replied the other, I have read (if I doe not forget my self) that Don Gataor, brother to the valourous Amadis du Gaule, had never any certain Mistris, to whom he might commend himself; and yet for all that he was nothing lesse accounted of, and was a most valiant and famous Knight. To that objection our Don-Quixote answered, One Swallow makes not a Summer. How much more that I know, that the Knight whom you alledge, was secretly very much enamoured? besides that that his inclination of loving all Ladies well, which he thought were fair, was a

naturall inclination, which hee could not govern so well. But it is in conclusion suffi∣ciently verified, that yet hee had one Lady whom hee crowned Queen of his Will, to whom hee did also commend himself very often and secretly, for he did not a little glo∣ry to be so secret in his Loves.

Then Sir, if it bee of the essence of all Knights errant to bee in love, quoth the tra∣veller, then may it likewise bee presumed that you are also enamoured, seeing that it is annext to the profession? And if you doe not prize your selfe to bee as secret as Don Gataor, I doe entreate you as earnestly as I may, in all this companies name and mine owne, that it will please you to tell us the name, countrey, quality and beauty of your Ladie, for I am sure shee would account her self happy to think that all the world doth know shee is beloved and served by so worthy a Knight as is your self.

Here Don-Quixote breathing forth a deep sigh, said, I cannot affirm whether my sweet Enemy delight or no, that the world know how much shee is beloved, or that I serve her. Only I dare avouch (answering to that which you so courteously demanded) that her name is Dulcinea, her countrey Toboso, a Village of Mancha: her calling must bee at least of a Princesse, seeing shee is my Queene and Lady, her beauty soveraigne; for in her are verified, and give glorious lustre to all those impossible and Chimericall attributes of beauty, that Poets give to their Mistresses; that her haires are gold, her forehead the Elisian fields, her browes the Arkes of Heaven, her Eyes Sunnes, her cheekes Roses, her Lips Currall, her Teeth Pearles, her neck Alablaster, her Bosom Marble, Ivory her Hands, and her whitenesse Snow; and the Parts which modesty conceales from humane sight, such as I think and understand, that the discreet consi∣deration may prize, but never be able to equalize them: her linage, progeny, and pedegree wee desire to know likewise, quoth Vivaldo. To which Don Quixote an∣swered, she is not of the ancient Romane Curcios, Cayes, or Scipios, nor of the moderne Colomnas or Vrsinos, nor of the Moncadas or Requese∣nes of Catalunia, and much lesse of the Rebelias and Villanovas of Valencia, Pala∣foxes, Nucas, Rocabertis, Corelias, Alagones, Vrreas, Fozes and Gurreas of A∣ragon, Cerdas, Manziquez, Mendocas, and Guzmanes of Castile, Lancasters, Pa∣lias and Meneses of Portugal; but shee is of those of Toboso of the Mancha; a linage which though it bee moderne is such as may give a generous beginning to the most no∣ble families of ensuing ages. And let none contradict mee in this, if it bee not with those conditions that Cerbino put at the foote of Orlandoes Armour, To wit: Let none from hence presume these Armes to move, But hee that with Orlando dares his force to prove.

Although my linage bee of the Cachopines of Laredo, replied the Traveller, yet dare I not to compare it with that of Toboso in the Mancha, although to speake sinceerely, I never heard any mention of that linage you say untill now, What quoth Don-Quixote, is it possible that you never heard of it till now?

All the company travelled, giving marveilous attention to the reasons of those two; and even the very Goatheards and Sheepheards began to perceive the great want of judgement that was in Don-Quixote, only Sancho Panca did verily beleeve, that all his Masters words were most true, as one that knew what hee was, from the very time of his byrth. But that wherein his belief staggered somwhat, was of the beautifull Dul∣cinea of Toboso; for hee had never heard speake in his life before of such a name or Prin∣cesse, although he had dwelled so many yeers hard by Toboso.

And as they travelled in these discourses, they beheld discending betwixt the clift of two loftie Mountaines to the number of twenty Sheepheards, all apparelled in skinnes of black wooll, and crowned with Garlands; which as they perceived afterward, were all of Ewe and Cypresse; sixe of them carried a Beere, covered with many sorts of flowres and boughs. Which one of the Goatheards espying, hee said, those that come there are they which bring Chrisostom's body, and the foote of that Mountain is

the place where hee hath commanded them to bury him. These words were occasion to make them haste to arive in time; which they did just about the instant that the o∣thers had said downe the Corps on the ground: and foure of them, with sharp pick∣axes did dig the Grave at the side of a hard Rock. The one and the others saluted themselves very courteously, and then Don-Quixote, and such as came with him, be∣gan to behold the Beere, wherein they saw laid a dead body, all covered with flowres, and apparelled like a Sheepheard of some thirty yeeres old; and his dead countenance shewed that he was very beautifull and an able bodied man. He had placed round a∣bout him in the Beer, certain Books, and many Papers, some open and some shut, and altogether, as well those that beheld this, as they which made the grave; and all the o∣thers that were present kept a marvellous silence, untill one of them which carried the dead man, said to another; See well Ambrosio, whether this be the place that Crisostome meant seeing that thou wouldest have all so punctually observed, which he command∣ed in his Testament. This is it, answered Ambrosio; for many times my unfortunate friend recounted to me in it the History of his mishaps; even there he told me that he had seen that cruel enemy of mankinde first; and there it was, where he first broak his affection to as honest as they were amorous: and there was the last time wherein Mar∣cela did end to resolve, and began to disdain him, in such sort that shee set end to the Tragedie of his miserable life. And here in memory of so many misfortunes he commanded himself to be committed to the bowels of eternall oblivion, and turning himself to Don-Quixote, and to the other Travellers, he said: This body Sirs which you doe now behold with pittifull eyes, was the depository of a soul wherein heaven had hourded up an infinite part of his Treasures. This is the body of Crisostome, who was peerlesse in wit, without fellow for courtesie, rare for comlinesse, a Phoenix for friendship, magnificent without measure, grave without presumption, pleasant without offence; and finally, the first in all that which is good, and second to none in all un∣fortunate mischances. He loved well, and was hated; he adored, and was disdained; hee prayed to one no lesse savage then a Beast; he importuned a heart as hard a Marble; he pursued the Winde; he cryed to Desarts; he served Ingratitude; and he obteyned for reward, the spoyles of death in the mid'st of the carier of his life: to which a Sheep∣heardesse hath given end whom he laboured to eternize, to the end she might ever live in the memories of men, as those papers which you see there might very well prove, had he not commanded me to sacrifice them to the fire, as soon as his body was rendred to the earth.

If you did so, quoth Vivaldo, you would use greater rigour and cruelty towards them then their very Lord, nor is it discreet or justly done, that his will be accomplished, who commands any thing repugnant to reason. Nor should Augustus Caesar himself have gained the reputation of wisedome, if he had permited that to be put in execution which the divine Mantuan had by his will ordeined. So that Seignior Ambrosio, now that you commit your friends body to the earth, doe not therefore commit his labour to oblivion: for though he ordeined it as one injured, yet are not you to accomplish it, as one void of discretion: but rather cause, by giving life to these papers, that the cruelty of Marcela may live eternally, that it may serve as a document to those that shall breath in insuing ages, how they may avoid and shun the like downfalls: For both my self and all those that come here in my companie, doe already know the Histo∣rie of your enamoured and despairing friend; the occasion of his death; and what hee commanded e're he deceased: out of which lamentable relation may be collected, how great hath been the Crnelty of Marcela; the Love of Crisostome; the Faith of your Affection, and the Conclusion which those make, which doe rashly run through that way, which indiscreet Love doth present to their view. We understood yester night of Crisostomes death, and that he should be enterred in this place; and therefore we omitted our intended journies both for curiosity and pittie, and resolved to come and behold with our eyes that, the relation whereof did so much grieve us in the hear∣ing: And therefore wee desire thee (discreet Ambrosio) both in reward of this our compassion, and also of the desire which springs in our breasts to remedie this disaster,

if it were possible: but chiefly I for my part request thee, that omitting to burn these Papers, thou wilt license me to take away some of them. And saying so, without ex∣pecting the Sheepheards answer, he stretched out his hand and took some of them that were next to him. Which Ambrosio perceiving, said, I will consent Sir for courtesies sake, that you remain Lord of those which you have seized upon; but to imagine that I would omit to burn these that rest, were a very vain thought. Vivaldo, who did long to see what the Papers contained which he had gotten, did unfold presently one of them which had this title, A Dittie of despair. Ambrosio overheard him, and said; That is the last paper which this unfortunate Sheepheard wrote; and because Sir, that you may see the terms to which his mishaps conducted him; I pray you to read it; but in such manner as you may be heard; for you shall have leisure enough to doe it whil'st the grave is a diging. I will doe it with all my heart, replyed Vivaldo; and all those that were present, having the like desire, they gathered about him; and he reading it with a cleer voyce pronounced it thus.

CHAP. VI.

Wherein are rehearsed the dispayring Verses of the dead Sheep∣heard, with other unexpected accidents.

The Canzone of Chrisostome.

1

SInce cruell thou (I publish) dost desire, From tongue to tongue, and th' one to th' other Pole The efficacy of thy rigor sharp, I' le Hell constrain t' assist my soules desire, And in my brest infuse a tun of dole. Whereon my voice, as it is wont, may Harp, And labour, as I wish, at once to carp And tell my sorrowes and thy Murdring deeds; The dreadfull voyce and accents shall agree, And, with them; meet for greater torture bee Lumps of my wreched bowels, which still bleeds. Then listen, and lend once attentive eare, Not well consorted tunes, but howling t' heare, That from my bitter bosoms dopth takes flight; And by constrained raving born away, Issues forth for mine ease and thy despight.

2

The Lion's roaring, and the dreadfull howles Of ravening Wolfe, and hissing terrible Of squamy Serpent; and the fearfull bleate Of some sad Monster; of fore-telling-foules, The Pies crackling, and rumor horrible Of the contending Wind, as it doth beat The Sea; and implacable bellowes, yet Of vanquish't Bull; and of the Turtle sole The feeling mourning and the dolefull song Of th' envious-Owle, with the dyre plaints among, Of all th' infernall Squadron full of dole,

Sallie with my lamenting Soule a round All mixed with so strange unusuall sound, As all the Senses may confounded be; For my fierce torment, a new way exact, Wherein I may recount my Miserie,

3

The dolefull Ecchoes of so great confusion, Shall not resound o're father Tagus sands, Nor touch the Olive-watring Betis eares, Of my dire pangs I' le only make effusion Mongst those steep Rocks, aud hollow bottom lands, With mortified tongue, but living teares: Sometimes in hidden Dales where nought appeares, Or in unhaunted plaines free from accesse; Or where the Sun could ne're intrude a Beam; Amidst the venemous crue of Beasts unclean, Whose wants, with bounty, the free plains redresse; For though among those vast and Desart downes, The hollow Eccho indistinctly sounds Thy matchlesse rigour, and my cruell paine, Yet by the priviledge of my niggard Fates, It will their force throughout the world proclaim.

4

A disdain kils; and patience runs a ground, By a suspicion either false or true; But Iealousie with greater rigour slayes, A prolix absence doth our life confound. Against fear of oblivion to ensue, Firm hope of best successe gives little ease, Inevitable death lurks in all these. But I (O unseen Miracle) doe still live Iealous, absent, disdain'd, and certain too Of the suspicions that my life undoe! Drownd in Oblivion which my fire revives, And amongst all those paines I never scope Got, to behold the shadow once of hope: Nor thus despaired would I it allow; But cause I may more aggravate my moanes, To live ever without it, here I vow.

5

Can hope and fear, at once, in one consist? Or is it reason that it should bee so? Seeing the cause more certain is of feare; If before mee dyre Iealousie exist, Shall I deflect mine eyes? since it will shew It self by a thousand wounds in my soule there. Or, who will not the gates unto Despair Wide open set, after that hee hath spy'd Murdring disdain? and noted each suspicion To seeming truth transform'd? O sowre conversion! Whil'st Verity by Falshood is beli'd? O Tyrant of Loves state, fierce Iealousie, With cruell chaines, these hands together tie, With stubborn cords couple them, rough Disdain; But woe is mee, with bloody victory Your memory, is by my sufferance slain!

6

I die, in fine, and cause I'le not expect In death or life for the least good successe:

I obstinate will rest in Fantasie. And say hee doth well, that doth affect. And eke the Soule most liberty possesse, That is most thrall to Loves old Tyrannie. And will affirm mine ever enemie In her fair shrine, a fairer soule containes: And her oblivion from my fault to spring, And to excuse her wrongs will witnesse bring, That Love by her in peace his state maintains, And with a hard knot, and this strange opinion, I will accelerate the wretched summon, To which guided I am by her scornes rife, And offer to the ayre Body and Soule, Without hope or reward of future life.

7

Thou that by multiplying wrongs dost shew The reason forcing mee t' use violence Vnto this loathsom life, grown to mee hatefull, Since now by signes notorious thou maist know From my hearts deepest wound; how willingly sense Doth sacrifice mee to thy scorns ingratefull. If my deserts have seemd to thee so bootefull, As thy fayr eyes cleer heav'n should bee ore-cast And clouded at my death; yet doe not so, For I'le no recompence take for the woe: By which, of my Soules spoyles possest thou wast: But rather laughing at my funerals sad, Shew how mine end, begins to make thee glad. But 'tis a folly to advise thee this, For I know in my deaths acceleration Consists thy glory and thy chiefest blisse:

8

Let Tantalus from the profoundest deeps Come, for it is high time now, with his thirst: And Sisifus with his oppressing stone. Let Ticius bring his Raven that ne're sleeps, And Ixion make no stay with wheele accurst, Nor the three Sisters ever lab'ring on. And let them all at once their mortall moane; Translate into my breast, and lovely sound (If it may bee a debt due to despaire) And chant sad obsequies with dolefull ayre, Over a Corse unworthy of the ground. And the three-fac'd-infernall Porter Grimme, With thousand Monsters and Chymaeraes dimme, Relish the dolorous descant out amain. For greater Pomp then this I think not fit That any dying Lover should obtain.

9

Despayring Canzone doe not thou complain, When thou my sad soci'ty shalt refrain: But rather since the cause whence thou didst spring, By my misfortune growes more fortunate Ev'n in the Grave, thou must shun sorrowing.

Chrisostomes Canzone liked wonderfully all the hearers, although the reader thereof affirmed that it was not conformable to the relation that he had received ef Marcelaes virtue and care of her self. For in it Crisostome did complain of jealousies, suspicions,

and absence, being all of them things that did prejudice Marcelaes good fame. To this objection Ambrosio answered (as one that knew very well the most hidden secrets of his friend) you must understand Sir, to the end you may better satisfie your own doubt, That when the unfortunate Sheepheard wrote that Canzone, he was absent from Mar∣cela; from whose presence he had wittingly withdrawn himself, to see if he could de∣face some part of his excessive passions, procured by absence. And as every thing doth vex an absent Lover, and every fear afflict him; so was Crisostome likewise tormented by imagined jealousies and feared suspicions, as much as if they were reall and true. And with this remains the truth in her perfection and poynt of Marcelaes virtue; who excepting that she is cruel, and somewhat arrogant, and very disdainfull; very envy it self neither ought, nor can attaint her of the least defect. You have reason, quoth Vivaldo, and so desiring to read another paper, he was interrupted by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly offered it self to their view: Which was, That on the top of the Rock wherein they made the grave, appeared the Sheepheardesse Marcela, so fair, that her beauty surpassed far the fame that was spread thereof; such as had not beheld her before, did look on her then with admiration and silence; and those which were wont to view her remained no lesse suspended then the others, which never had seen her. But scarce had Ambrosio eyed her, when with an irefull & disdaining minde, he spake these words. Com'st thou by chance, O fierce Basilisk of these Mountains! to see whether the wounds of this wretch will yet bleed at thy presence? Or doest thou come to insult and vaunt in the Tragicall feats of thy stern nature? Or to behold from that height, like another mercilesse Nero, the Fire of inflamed Rome? Or arrogantly to trample this infortunate Carkasse, as the ingratefull daughter did her father Tar∣quin's? Tell us quickly, why thou commest, or what thou doest most desire? For seeing I know that Crisostomes thoughts never disobeyed thee in life, I will likewise cause that all those his friends shall serve and reverence thee.

I come not here, good Ambrosio, to any of those ends thou sayest, quoth Marcela; but only to turn for mine honour, and give the world to understand, how little rea∣son have all those which make me the Authour eyther of their own pains, or of Criso∣stom's death; and therefore I desire all you that be here present, to lend attention unto me; for I mean not to spend much time•• or words, to perswade to the disceet, so manifest a truth. Heaven, as you say, hath made me beautifull, and that so much that my feature moves you to love, almost whether you will or no. And for the affection you shew unto me, you say I and you affirm, that I ought to love you again: I know by the naturall instinct that Iove hath bestowed on me, That each fair thing is amiable: but I cannot conceive, why, for the reason of being beloved, the partie that is so beloved for her beauty, should be bound to love her Lover, although he bee foul. And seeing that foul things are worthy of hate, It is a bad argument to say, I love thee because fair; and therefore thou must affect me although uncomely. But set the case that the beauties occur equall on both sides, it follows not therefore, that their desires should run one way: For all beauties doe not enamour; for some doe only delight the sight, and subject not the will: For if all beauties did enamour and subject together, mens wills would ever run confused and straying, without being able to make any election; for the beautifull subjects being infinite, the desires must also perforce be infinite: And as I have heard, true Love brooks no division, and must needs be voluntary, and not inforced. Which being so, as I presume it is; why would you have me subject my will forcibly, without any other obligation then that, that you say you love me? If not, tell me: If heaven had made me foul, as it hath made me beautifull, Could I justly complain of you because you affected me not? How much more, seeing you ought to consider, that I did not chuse the beauty I have; for, such as it is, heaven bestow'd it gratis, without my demanding or electing it. And even as the Viper deserves no blame for the poyson she carries, although therewithall she kill, seeing it was bestowed on her by nature: So doe I as little merit to be re∣prehended because beautifull; for beauty in an honest woman is like fire a far off, or a sharp edged Sword; for neither that burns nor this cuts any but such as come

neer them. Honour and Virtues are the ornaments of the Soul, without which, the fairest body is not to be esteemed such. And if that honesty be one of the virtues that adorneth and beautifieth most the body and Soul; Why should shee that is beloved, because fair, adventure the losse thereof, to answer his intention, which only for his pleasures sake labours that she may lose it, with all his force and industry? I was born free, and because I might live freely, I made election of the solitude of the Fields: The Trees of these mountains are my companions; the cleer water of these streams my mirrours. With the Trees and Waters I communicate my thoughts and beauty: I am a parted Fire, and a Sword laid aloofe. Those whom I have enamoured with my sight, I have undeceived with my words. And if desires be susteined by hopes, I never having given any to Chrisostome or to any other, it may well be said, that he was rather slain by his own obstinacy, then by my cruelty. And if I be charged that his thoughts were honest; and that I was therefore oblieged to answer unto them: I say, that when in that very place where you make his Sepulchre, he first broak his minde unto mee: I told him that mine intention was to live in perpetuall soli∣tude; and that only the earth should gather the fruits of my solitarinesse, and the spoyles of my beauty. And if he would after this my resolution persist obstinately without all hope, and against the winde; what wonder is it that he should be drown∣ed in the mid'st of the Gulf of his rashnesse? If I had entertained him, then were I false: If I had pleased him, then should I doe against my better purposes and pro∣jects. He strived being perswaded to the contrary: He dispaired e're he was hated. See then if it be reason that I bear the blame of his torment. Let him complain who hath been deceived: Let him dispair to whom his promised hopes have failed: Let him confesse it whom I shall ever call: Let him vaunt whom I shall admit. But let him not call me cruell or an homicide, whom I never promised, deceived, called, or admitted. Heaven hath not yet ordeined that I should Love by destiny; and to think that I will doe it by election may be excused. And let this generall caveat serve every one of those which sollicite me for his particular benefit: And let it he known, that if any shall hereafter dye for my Love, that he dies not jealous or unfortunate: For whosoever loves not any, breeds not in reason jealousie in any; nor should any resolutions to any be accounted disdaynings. He that calls me a Savage and Basi∣lisk, let him shun me as a hurtfull and prejudiciall thing. He that calls me ungratefull, let him not serve me. Hee that's strange, let him not know me. He that's cruell, let him not follow me: For this Savage, this Basilisk, this Ingrate, this Cruell and Strange one, will neither seek, serve, know, or pursue any of them. For if Cri∣sostomes impatience and headlong desire slew him; why should mine honest proceed∣ing and care be inculped therewithall? If I preserve mine integrity in the society of these Trees; why would any desire me to lose it, seeing every one covets to have the like himself, to converse the better among men? I have, as you all know, riches enough of mine own, and therefore doe not covet other mens. I have a free condition, and I doe not please to subject me: Neither doe I love or hate any. I doe not deceive this man, or sollicite that other; Nor doe I jest with one, & passe the time with another. The honest conversation of the Pastoraes of these Villages, and the care of my Goats doe entertain me. My desires are limited by these Moun∣tains; and if they doe issue from hence, it is to contemplate the beauty of Heaven, steps wherewithall the Soul travells toward her first dwelling.

And ending here, without desiring to hear any answer, she turned her back and entred into the thickest part of the wood, that was there at hand, leaving all those that were presently marvel∣lously admired at her beauty & discretion.

Some of the Sheepheards present, that were wounded by the powerfull beams of her beautifull eyes, made profer to pursue her, without reaping any profit out of her mani∣fest resolution made there in their hearing; which Don-Quixote noting, and thinking that the use of this Chivalry did jump fitly with that occasion, by succouring distressed Damzels, laying hand on the pommell of his sword, he said in loud and intelligible words:

Let no person of whatsoever state or condition he be, presume to follow

the fair Marcela, under pain of falling into my furious indignation. Shee hath shewn by cleer and sufficient reasons, the little or no fault she had in Crisostomes death, and how far she lives from meaning to condescend to the desires of any of her Lovers; for which respect it is just, that instead of being pursued and persecuted, she be honoured and esteemed by all the good men of the world; for she shews in it, that it is only she alone that lives therein with honest intention.

Now whether it was through Don-Quixotes menaces, or whether because Ambrosio requested them to con∣clude with the obligation they ought to their good friend: none of the Sheepheards moved or departed from thence untill the grave being made, and Crisostomes Papers burned, they laid the body into it, with many tears of the beholders. They shut the Sepulchre with a great stone, untill a Monument were wrought, which Ambrosio said he went to have made, with an Epitaph to this sense.

HEre, of a loving Swain, The Frozen Carkasse lies; Who was a Heard likewise, And dyed through disdain. Stern rigour hath him slain, Of a coy fair ingrate, By whom love doth dilate Her Tyrannie amain.

They presently strewed on the grave many flowers and boughs, and every one con∣doling a while with his friend Ambrosio, did afterward bid him farewell, and departed. The like did Vivaldo and his companion: And Don-Quixote, bidding his Hoste and the Travellers adieu, they requested him to come with them to Sivill, because it was a place so fit for the finding of Adventures, as in every street and corner thereof are offer∣ed more then in any other place whatsoever. Don-Quixote rendred them thanks for their advice, and the good will they seemed to have to gratifie him, and said, he neither ought nor would goe to Sivill, untill he had freed all those Mountains of Theeves and Robbers, whereof, as fame ran, they were full. The Travellers perceiving his good intention, would not importune him more; but bidding him again farewell, they departed, and followed on their journey; in which they wanted not matter of dis∣course, as well of the History of Marcela and Crisostome, as of the follies of Don-Quixote, who determined to goe in the search of the Sheepheardesse Marcela, and offer unto her, all that he was able to doe in her service: But it befell him not as he thought, as shall be rehearsed in the discourse of this true Historie. Giving end here to the second Part.