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SCARCE had the silver morn given bright Phoebus leave, with the ardour of his burning rays, to
dry the liquid pearls on his golden locks, when Don Quixote, shaking off sloth from his drowsy members, rose up, and
called Sancho his squire, that still lay snorting; which Don Quixote seeing, before he could wake, he said: ‘O happy
thou above all that live upon the face of the earth, that without envy, or being envied, sleepest with a quiet
breast, neither persecuted by enchanters nor frighted by enchantments! Sleep, I say once again—nay, an hundred
times—sleep; let not thy master’s jealousy keep thee continually awake, nor let care to pay thy debts make thee
watchful, or how another day thou and thy small but straitened family may live, whom neither ambition troubles nor
the world’s vain pomp doth weary, since the bounds of thy desires extend no farther than to thinking of thine ass;
for, for thine own person, that thou hast committed to my charge,—a counterpoise and burden that nature and custom
bath laid upon the masters. The servant sleeps, and the master wakes, thinking how he may maintain, good him, and do
him kindnesses; the grief that it is to see heaven obdurate in relieving the earth with seasonable moisture troubles
not the servant, but it doth the master, that must keep, in sterility and hunger, him that served him in abundance
and plenty.’
Sancho answered not a word to all this, for he was asleep, neither would he have awaked so soon, if Don Quixote had
not made him come to himself with the little end of his lance. At length he awaked sleepy and drowsy, and, turning
his face round about, he said: ‘From this arbour, if I be not deceived, there comes a steam and smell rather of good
broiled rashers than thyme and rushes; a marriage that begins with such smells, by my holidam, I think ‘twill be
brave and plentiful.’ ‘Away, glutton!’ quoth Don Quixote. ‘Come and let us go see it, and what becomes of the
disdained Basilius.’ ‘Let him do what he will,’ said Sancho, ‘were it not better that he were poor still and married
to Quiteria? There is no more in it, but let the moon lose one quarter and she’ll fall from the clouds. Faith, sir,
I am of opinion that the poor fellow be contented with his fortunes, and not seek after things impossible. I’ll hold
one of mine arms that Camacho will cover Basilius all over with sixpences; and if it be so, as ‘tis like, Quiteria
were a very fool to leave her bravery and jewels that Camacho hath and can give her, and choose Basilius for his
bar-pitching and fencing. In a tavern they will not give you a pint of wine for a good throw with the bar, or a
trick at fence; such abilities that are worth nothing have ‘em whoso will for me; but when they light upon one that
hath crowns withal, let me be like that man that hath them. Upon a good foundation a good building may be raised,
and money is the best bottom and foundation that is in the world.’ ‘For God’s love, Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote,
‘conclude thy tedious discourse, with which, I believe, if thou wert let alone, thou wouldst neither eat nor sleep
for talking.’ ‘If you had a good memory,’ said Sancho, ‘you would remember the articles of our agreement before we
made our last sally from home, one of which was that you would let me speak as much as I list, on condition that it
were not against my neighbour or against your authority; and hitherto I am sure I have not broken that article.’ ‘I
remember no such article, Sancho,’ said he; ‘and, though it were so, I would have you now be silent and come with
me; for now the instruments we heard over night begin to cheer the valleys, and doubtless the marriage is kept in
the cool of the morning, and not deferred till the afternoon’s heat.
Sancho did what his master willed him, and, saddling Rozinante, with his pack-saddle clapped likewise on Dapple, the
two mounted, and fair and softly entered the arbour. The first thing that Sancho saw was a whole steer spitted upon
a whole elm, and for the fire, where it was to be roasted, there was a pretty mountain of wood, and six pots that
were round about this bonfire, which were never cast in the ordinary mould that other pots were, for they were six
half olive-butts, and every one was a very shambles of meat, they bad so many whole sheep soaking in ‘em which were
not seen, as if they had been pigeons. The flayed hares and the pulled hens that were hung upon the trees to be
buried in the pots were numberless; birds and fowl of divers sorts infinite, that hung on the trees, that the air
might cool them. Sancho counted above threescore skins of wine, each of them of above two arrobas,1 and
as it afterward seemed, of sprightly liquor; there were also whole heaps of purest bread, heaped up like corn in the
threshing-floors; your cheeses, like bricks piled one upon another, made a goodly wall; and two kettles of oil,
bigger than a dyer’s, served to fry their paste-work, which they took out with two strong peels when they were
fried, and they ducked them in another kettle of honey that stood by for the same purpose. There were cooks above
fifty, men and women, all cleanly, careful, and cheerful. In the spacious belly of the steer there were twelve
sucking pigs, which, being sewed there, served to make him more savoury. The spices of divers sorts, it seems they
were not bought by pounds, but by arrobas, and all lay open in a great chest. To conclude, this preparation for the
marriage was rustical, but so plentiful that it might furnish an army.
Sancho Panza beheld all, and was much affected with it; and first of all the goodly pots did captivate his desires,
from whence with all his heart he would have been glad to have received a good pipkin-full; by and by he was
enamoured on the skins; and last of all on the fried meats, if so be those vast kettles might be called frying-pans:
so, without longer patience, as not being able to abstain, he came to one of the busy cooks, and with courteous and
hungry reasons desired him that he might sop a cast of bread in one of the pots. To which the cook replied,
‘Brother, this is no day on which hunger may have any jurisdiction, thanks be to the rich Camacho; alight, and see
if you can find ever a ladle there, and skim out a hen or two, and much good may they do you!’ ‘I see none,’ said
Sancho. ‘Stay,’ said the cook; ‘God forgive me, what a ninny ‘tis!’ And saying this, he laid hold of a kettle, and,
sousing into it one of the half-butts, he drew out of it three hens and two geese, and said to Sancho, ‘Eat, friend,
and break your fast with this froth till dinner-time.’ ‘I have nothing to put it in,’ said Sancho. ‘Why, take spoon
and all,’ said the cook; ‘for Camacho’s riches and content will very well bear it.’
Whilst Sancho thus passed his time, Don Quixote saw that by one side of the arbour there came a dozen husbandmen
upon twelve goodly mares, with rich and sightly furniture fit for the country, with many little bells upon their
petrels, all clad in bravery for that day’s solemnity, and all in a joint troop ran many careers up and down the
meadow, with a great deal of mirth and jollity, crying, ‘Long live Camacho and Quiteria! he as rich as she fair, and
she the fairest of the world.’ Which when Don Quixote heard, thought he to himself, ‘It well appears that these men
have not seen my Dulcinea del Toboso; for, if they had, they would not be so forward in praising this their
Quiteria.’
A while after there began to enter, at divers places of the arbour, certain different dances, amongst which there
was one sword-dance by four-and-twenty swains, handsome lusty youths, all in white linen, with their handkerchiefs
wrought in several colours of fine silk; and one of the twelve upon the mares asked him that was the foreman of
these, a nimble lad, if any of the dancers bad hurt themselves. ‘Hitherto,’ said he, ‘nobody is hurt; we are all
well, God be thanked.’ And straight he shuffled in amongst the rest of his companions, with so many tricks and so
much sleight that Don Quixote, though he were used to such kind of dances, yet he never liked any so well as this.
He also liked another very well, which was of fair young maids, so young that never a one was under fourteen nor
none above eighteen, all clad in coarse green, their hair partly filleted and partly loose—but all were yellow, and
might compare with the sun—upon which they had garlands of jasmines,2 roses, woodbine, and honeysuckles.
They had for their guides a reverend old man and a matronly woman, but more light and nimble than could be expected
from their years. They danced to the sound of a Zamora bagpipe,3 so that with their honest looks and
their nimble feet, they seemed to be the best dancers in the world.
After this there came in another artificial dance, of those called brawls; it consisted of eight nymphs, divided
into two ranks; god Cupid guided one rank and Money the other: the one with his wings, his bow, his quiver and
arrows; the other was clad in divers rich colours of gold and silk. The nymphs that followed Love carried a white
parchment scroll at their backs, in which their names were written in great letters. The first was Poesy, the second
Discretion, the third Nobility, the fourth Valour. In the same manner came those whom god Money led: the first was
Liberality, the second Reward, the third Treasure, the fourth Quiet Possession. Before them came a wooden castle,
which was shot at by two savages clad in ivy, and canvas dyed in green, so to the life that they had well-nigh
frighted Sancho. Upon the frontispiece and of each side of the castle was written, ‘The Castle of Good Heed.’ Four
skilful musicians played to them on a tabor and pipe; Cupid began the dance, and, after two changes, he lifted up
his eyes and bent his bow against a virgin that stood upon the battlements of the castle, and said to her in this
manner:
‘I am the powerful deity,
In heaven above and earth beneath,
In sea’s and hell’s profundity,
O’er all that therein live or breathe.
‘What ‘tis to fear, I never knew;
I can perform all that I will;
Nothing to me is strange or new;
I bid, forbid, at pleasure still.’
The verse being ended, he shot a flight over the castle, and retired to his standing. By and by
came out Money, and performed his two changes; the tabor ceased, and he spoke:
‘Lo! I that can do more than love,
Yet Love is he that doth me guide;
My offspring great’st on earth, to Jove
Above I nearest am allied.
‘I Money am, with whom but few
Perform the honest works they ought;
Yet here a miracle to show,
That without me they could do aught.’
Money retired, and Poetry advanced, who, after she had done her changes as well as the rest, her
eyes fixed upon the damsel of the castle, she said:
‘Lady, to thee, sweet Poesy
Her soul in deep conceits doth send,
Wrapped up in writs of sonnetry,
Whose pleasing strains do them commend.
‘If, with my earnestness, I thee
Importune not, fair damsel, soon
Thy envied fortune shall, by me,
Mount to the circle of the moon.’
Poetry gave way, and from Money’s side came Liberality, and, after her changes, spoke:
‘To give is Liberality,
In him that shuns two contraries,
The one of prodigality,
T’other of hateful avarice.
‘I’ll be profuse in praising thee,
Profuseness hath accounted been
A vice, yet sure it cometh nigh
Affection, which in gifts is seen.’
In this sort both the shows of the two squadrons came in and out, and each of them performed
their changes and spoke their verses, some elegant, some ridiculous. Don Quixote only remembered (for he had a great
memory) the rehearsed ones. And now the whole troop mingled together, winding in and out with great sprightliness
and dexterity; and still as Love went before the castle he shot a flight aloft, but Money broke gilded balls, and
threw into it.
At last, after Money had danced a good while, he drew out a great purse made of a Roman cat’s skin, which seemed to
be full of money, and, casting it into the castle, with the blow the boards were disjoined and fell down, leaving
the damsel discovered, without any defence. Money came with his assistants, and, casting a great chain of gold about
her neck, they made a show of leading her captive, which when Love and his party saw, they made show as if they
would have rescued her; and all these motions were to the sound of the tabors. With skilful dancing the savages
parted them, who very speedily went to set up and join the boards of the castle, and the damosel was there enclosed
anew; and with this the dance ended, to the great content of the spectators.
Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who had so dressed and ordered her. She answered, a parson of the town, who had
an excellent capacity for such inventions. ‘I’ll lay a wager,’ said Don Quixote, ‘he was more Basilius his friend
than Camacho’s, and that he knows better what belongs to a satire than an evensong; he hath well fitted Basilius his
abilities to the dance, and Camacho’s riches.’
Sancho Panza, that heard all, said, ‘The king is my cock; I hold with Camacho.’ ‘Well, Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote,
‘thou art a very peasant, and like them that cry, “Long live the conqueror!”’ ‘I know not who I am like,’ said
Sancho; ‘but I know I shall never get such delicate froth out of Basilius his pottage-pots as I have out of
Camacho’s.’ And with that showed him the kettle full of geese and hens, and, laying hold on one, he fell to it
merrily and hungerly. And for Basilius’ abilities this he said to their teeth: ‘So much thou art worth as thou hast,
and so much as thou hast thou art worth. An old grandam of mine was wont to say there were but two lineages in the
world, Have-much and Have-little; and she was mightily inclined to the former; and at this day, master, your
physician had rather feel a having pulse than a knowing pulse, and an ass covered with gold makes a better show than
a horse with a pack-saddle. So that I say again I am of Camacho’s side, the scum of whose pots are geese, hens,
hares, and conies, and Basilius his, be they near or far off, but poor thin water.’
‘Hast thou ended with thy tediousness, Sancho?’ said Don Quixote. ‘I must end,’ said he, ‘because I see it offends
you; for, if it were not for that, I had work cut out for three days.’ ‘Pray God, Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote, ‘that
I may see thee dumb before I die.’ ‘According to our life,’ said Sancho, ‘before you die, I shall be mumbling clay,
and then perhaps I shall be so dumb that I shall not speak a word till the end of the world, or at least till
doomsday.’ ‘Although it should be so, Sancho,’ said he, ‘thy silence will never be equal to thy talking past and thy
talk to come; besides, ‘tis very likely that I shall die before thee, and so I shall never see thee dumb,—no, not
when thou drinkest or sleepest, to paint thee out thoroughly.’ ‘In good faith, master,’ quoth Sancho, ‘there is no
trusting in the Raw-bones, I mean Death, that devours lambs as well as sheep; and I have heard our vicar say she
tramples as well on the high towers of kings as the humble cottages of poor men. This lady bath more power than
squeamishness; she is nothing dainty, she devours all, plays at all, and fills her wallets with all kind of people,
ages, and pre-eminences; she is no mower that sleeps in the hot weather, but mows at all hours, and cuts as well the
green grass as the hay; she doth not chew, but swallows at once, and crams down all that comes before her; she hath
a canine appetite, that is never satisfied; and, though she have no belly, yet she may make us think she is
hydropsical, with the thirst she hath to drink all men’s lives, as if it were a jug of cold water.’ ‘No more,
Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote, ‘at this instant; hold while thou art well, and take heed of falling, for certainly thou
hast spoken of Death, in thy rustical terms, as much as a good preacher might have spoken. I tell thee, Sancho, that
for thy natural discretion thou mightst get thee a pulpit, and preach thy fine knacks up and down the world.’ ‘He
preaches well that lives well,’ said Sancho, ‘and I know no other preaching.’ ‘Thou needest not,’ quoth he; ‘but I
wonder at one thing, that wisdom beginning from the fear of God, that thou, who fearest a lizard more than Him,
shouldst be so wise?’ ‘Judge you of your knight-errantry,’ said Sancho, ‘and meddle not with other men’s fears or
valours, for I am as pretty a fearer of God as any of my neighbours, and so let me snuff away this scum;4
for all the rest are but idle words, for which we must give account in another life.’
And in so saying he began to give another assault to the kettle, with such a courage that he wakened Don Quixote,
that undoubtedly would have taken his part, if he had not been hindered by that that of necessity must be set down.
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