To the book of Don Quixote of La Mancha

If to reach goodly read-

oh book, you proceed with cau-,

you cannot, by the fool-,

be called a stumbling nin-.

But if you are too impa

and pull the loaf untime-

from the fire and go careen-

into the hands of the dim

you’ll see them lost and puzz-

though they long to appear learn-.

And since experience teach-

that ’neath a tree that’s stur

the shade is the most shelt

in Béjar your star so luck-

unto you a royal tree off-,

its fruit most noble prin-;

there a generous duke does flow-,

like a second Alexand-:

seek out his shade, for bold-

is favored by Dame Fort-.¹⁶

You will recount the advent-

of a gentleman from La Manch-

whose idle reading of nov-

caused him to lose his reas-:

fair maidens, arms, and chiv

spurred him to imita

of Orlando Furio-,¹⁷

exemplar of knightly lov-;

by feats of his arm so might-

he won the lady of Tobo-.

Do not inscribe indiscre

on your shield, or hieroglyph-;

for when your hand lacks face-

with deuces and treys you wag-.

Be humble in your dedica

and you will hear no deri-;

“What? Don Alvaro de la Lu-,¹⁸

and great Hannibal of Carth-,

and in Spain, King Francis-

all lamenting his misfor-!”

Since it’s not the will of hea

for you to be quite as cle

as Juan Latin the Afri-,¹⁹

avoid Latin words and phra-.

Don’t pretend to erudi-,

or make claims to philo-;

when you commence the fak

and twist your mouth in decep-

those who are truly the

learn-will call your tricks into ques-.

Don’t mind the business of oth-,

and don’t engage in gos-;

it’s a sign of utmost wis-:

ignore the faults of your broth-.

Those who speak much too glib

often fail in their inten-;

your only goal and ambi-

should be a good reputa-;

the writer who stoops to fol-

gains nothing but constant cen-.

Be careful: it is impru

if your walls are made of crys

to pick up stones and peb

and throw them at your neigh-.

Let the mature man of reas

in the works that he compo-

place his feet with circumspec-;

if his writing’s too lightheart-,

meant for young girls’ sheer amuse-,

he writes only for the sim-.

A Sonnet

You, who mimicked the tearful life of woe

that I, in isolation, scorned by love,

led on the lofty heights of Peña Pobre,²¹

when all my joy did shrink to penitence,

you, to whom your eyes did give to drink

abundant waters, though briny with salt tears,

and, removing for your sake its min’ral wealth,

earth did give of the earth for you to eat,

be certain that for all eternity,

as long, at least, as golden-haired Apollo

drives steeds across the fourth celestial sphere,

you will enjoy renown as a valiant knight;

your kingdom will be first among all realms;

and your wise chronicler, unique on earth.

A Sonnet

I bruised, and fought, and cut, and said, and did

more than any knight errant who e’er lived;

I was deft, I was valiant, I was proud;

I avenged a thousand wrongs and righted more.

To Lady Fame I gave eternal deeds;

I was a lover courtly and discreet;

to me great giants were no more than dwarves,

and I answered every challenge with a duel.

I had Dame Fortune prostrate at my feet;

my prudence seized on Chance and never failed

to turn her to me, pulling with both hands.

And yet, though my good fortunes ever soared

as high as the hornéd moon that sails the sky,

I envy, O Quixote, your great feats!

A Sonnet

Oh, if only, beauteous Dulcinea,

for greater ease and peace I had my castle,

Miraflores, in Toboso; could change

its London for the comforts of your town!

Oh, if 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.

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.

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-²⁴

summarized his long life’s mot

in a single word: withdraw-.

That’s the view in Celesti-, ²⁵

a book that’d be divine, I reck-,

if it embraced more of the hum-.

I am famous Rocinan-,

great-grandson of Babie-,²⁶

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-.²⁷

to empty out the blind man’s wine-

you must use a straw: how cle-.

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.

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.

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.

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, your oats and hay?

R. My master doesn’t leave a bite for me.

B. Well, Señor, your lack of breeding shows

because your ass’s tongue insults your master.

R. He’s the ass, from the cradle to the grave.

Do you want proof? See what he does for love.

B. Is it foolish to love?      R. It’s not too smart.

B. You’re a philosopher.    R. I just don’t eat.

B. And do you complain of the squire?   R. Not enough.

How can I complain despite my aches and pains

if master and squire, or is it majordomo,

are nothing but skin and bone, like Rocinante?