In thy gentleness I see

Something holding out assurance

To the hope of winning thee.

If it be that in devotion

Lies a power hearts to move,

That which every day I show thee,

Helpful to my suit should prove.

Many a time thou must have noticed—

If to notice thou dost care—

How I go about on Monday

Dressed in all my Sunday wear.

Love’s eyes love to look on brightness;

Love loves what is gaily drest;

Sunday, Monday, all I care is

Thou shouldst see me in my best.

No account I make of dances,

Or of strains that pleased thee so,

Keeping thee awake from midnight

Till the cocks began to crow;

Or of how I roundly swore it

That there’s none so fair as thou;

True it is, but as I said it,

By the girls I’m hated now.

For Teresa of the hillside

At my praise of thee was sore;

Said, “You think you love an angel;

It’s a monkey you adore;

“Caught by all her glittering trinkets,

And her borrowed braids of hair,

And a host of made-up beauties

That would Love himself ensnare.”

’Twas a lie, and so I told her,

And her cousin at the word

Gave me his defiance for it;

And what followed thou hast heard.

Mine is no high-flown affection,

Mine no passion par amours—

As they call it—what I offer

Is an honest love, and pure.

Cunning cords the holy Church has,

Cords of softest silk they be;

Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear;

Mine will follow, thou wilt see.

Else—and once for all I swear it

By the saint of most renown—

If I ever quit the mountains,

’Twill be in a friar’s gown.

Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more inclined for sleep than for listening to songs; so said he to his master, “Your worship will do well to settle at once where you mean to pass the night, for the labour these good men are at all day does not allow them to spend the night in singing.”

“I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “I perceive clearly that those visits to the wine-skin demand compensation in sleep rather than in music.”

“It’s sweet to us all, blessed be God,” said Sancho.