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Read books online » Poetry » Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (a book to read .txt) 📖

Book online «Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (a book to read .txt) 📖». Author Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra



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the tinged ocean blushed with hostile gore! O'erpowered by numbers, gloriously ye fell: Death only could such matchless courage quell; Whilst dying thus ye triumphed o'er your foes— Its fame the world, its glory heaven, bestows!

sonnet on the fort.

From 'midst these walls, whose ruins spread around, And scattered clods that heap the ensanguined ground, Three thousand souls of warriors, dead in fight, To better regions took their happy flight. Long with unconquered souls they bravely stood, And fearless shed their unavailing blood: Till, to superior force compelled to yield, Their lives they quitted in the well-fought field. This fatal soil has ever been the tomb Of slaughtered heroes, buried in its womb: Yet braver bodies did it ne'er sustain, Nor send more glorious soul the skies to gain.

i.

Tossed in a sea of doubts and fears, Love's hapless mariner, I sail, Where no inviting port appears, To screen me from the stormy gale.

ii.

At distance viewed, a cheering star Conducts me through the swelling tide; A brighter luminary, far, Than Palinurus o'er descried.

iii.

My soul, attracted by its blaze, Still follows where it points the way, And while attentively I gaze, Considers not how far I stray.

iv.

But female pride, reserved and shy, Like clouds that deepen on the day, Oft shroud it from my longing eye, When most I need the genial ray.

v.

O lovely star, so pure and bright! Whose splendor feeds my vital fire, The moment thou deny'st thy light, Thy lost adorer will expire!

song.

Unconquered hope, thou bane of fear, And last deserter of the brave, Thou soothing ease of mortal care, Thou traveller beyond the grave; Thou soul of patience, airy food, Bold warrant of a distant good, Reviving cordial, kind decoy; Though fortune frowns and friends depart, Though Silvia flies me, flattering joy, Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doting heart.
No slave, to lazy ease resigned, E'er triumphed over noble foes; The monarch fortune most is kind To him who bravely dares oppose. They say, Love rates his blessing high, But who would prize an easy joy? My scornful fair then I'll pursue, Though the coy beauty still denies; I grovel now on earth, 'tis true, But, raised by her, the humble slave may rise.

Might overcomes.

Him to whom God giveth may St. Peter bless.

Diligence is the mother of success, and in many important causes experience hath shown that the assiduity of the solicitor hath brought a very doubtful suit to a very fortunate issue; but the truth of this maxim is nowhere more evinced than in war, where activity and despatch anticipate the designs of the enemy, and obtain the victory before he has time to put himself in a posture of defence.

The common adage that delays are dangerous acts as spurs upon the resolution.

There are more tricks in the town than are dreamt of.

Virtue is always more persecuted by the wicked than beloved by the righteous.

Virtue is so powerful that of herself she will, in spite of all the necromancy possessed by the first inventor, Zoroaster, come off conqueror in every severe trial, and shine refulgent in the world, as the sun shines in the heavens.

Fables should not be composed to outrage the understanding; but by making the wonderful appear possible, and creating in the mind a pleasing interest, they may both surprise and entertain; which cannot be effected where no regard is paid to probability. I have never yet found a regular, well-connected fable in any of our books of chivalry—they are all inconsistent and monstrous; the style is generally bad; and they abound with incredible exploits, lascivious amours, absurd sentiment, and miraculous adventures; in short, they should be banished every Christian country.

Just are virtue's fears where envy domineers.

Bounty will not stay where niggards bear the sway.

Fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel, and those who were yesterday at top, may find themselves at bottom to-day.

Every one is the son of his own works.

The mind receives pleasure from the beauty and consistency of what is presented to the imagination, not from that which is incongruous and unnatural.

Fiction is always the better the nearer it resembles truth, and agreeable in proportion to the probability it bears and the doubtful credit which it inspires. Wherefore, all such fables ought to be suited to the understanding of those who read them, and written so as that, by softening impossibilities, smoothing what is rough, and keeping the mind in suspense, they may surprise, agreeably perplex, and entertain, creating equal admiration and delight; and these never can be excited by authors who forsake probability and imitation, in which the perfection of writing consists.

Epics may be written in prose as well as verse.

To assert that there never was an Amadis in the world, nor any other of the knights-adventurers of whom so many records remain, is to say that the sun does not enlighten, the frost produce cold, nor the earth yield sustenance.

The approbation of the judicious few should far outweigh** the censure of the ignorant.

An author had better be applauded by the few that are wise, than laughed at by the many that are foolish.

Our modern plays, not only those which are formed upon fiction, but likewise such as are founded on the truth of history, are all, or the greatest part, universally known to be monstrous productions, without either head or tail, and yet received with pleasure by the multitude, who approve and esteem them as excellent performances, though they are far from deserving that title; and if the authors who compose, and the actors who represent them, affirm that this and no other method is to be practised, because the multitude must be pleased; that those which bear the marks of contrivance, and produce a fable digested according to the rules of art, serve only for entertainment to four or five people of taste, who discern the beauties of the plan, which utterly escape the rest of the audience; and that it is better for them to gain a comfortable livelihood by the many, than starve upon reputation with the few; at this rate, said I, if I should finish my book, after having scorched every hair in my whiskers in poring over it, to preserve those rules and precepts already mentioned, I might fare at last like the sagacious botcher, who sewed for nothing and found his customers in thread.

It is not a sufficient excuse to say that the object in permitting theatrical exhibitions being chiefly to provide innocent recreation for the people, it is unnecessary to limit and restrain the dramatic author within strict rules of composition; for I affirm that the same object is, beyond all comparison, more effectually attained by legitimate works. The spectator of a good drama is amused, admonished, and improved by what is diverting, affecting, and moral in the representation; he is cautioned against deceit, corrected by example, incensed against vice, stimulated to the love of virtue.

Comedy, according to Tully, ought to be the mirror of life, the exemplar of manners, and picture of truth; whereas those that are represented in this age are mirrors of absurdity, exemplars of folly, and pictures of lewdness; for sure, nothing can be more absurd in a dramatic performance, than to see the person, who, in the first scene of the first act, was produced a child in swaddling-clothes, appear a full-grown man with a beard in the second; or to represent an old man active and valiant, a young soldier cowardly, a footman eloquent, a page a counsellor, a king a porter, and a princess a scullion. Then what shall we say concerning their management of the time and place in which the actions have, or may be supposed to have happened? I have seen a comedy, the first act of which was laid in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third was finished in Africa; nay, had there been a fourth, the scene would have shifted to America, so that the fable would have travelled through all the four divisions of the globe. If imitation be the chief aim of comedy, how can any ordinary understanding be satisfied with seeing an action that passed in the time of King Pepin and Charlemagne, ascribed to the Emperor Heraclius, who, being the principal personage, is represented, like Godfrey of Boulogne, carrying the cross into Jerusalem, and making himself master of the holy sepulchre, an infinite number of years having passed between the one and the other? Or, when a comedy is founded upon fiction, to see scraps of real history introduced, and facts misrepresented both with regard to persons and times, not with any ingenuity of contrivance, but with the most manifest and inexcusable errors and stupidity; and what is worst of all, there is a set of ignorant pretenders who call this the perfection of writing, and that every attempt to succeed by a contrary method is no other than a wild-goose chase.

The bow cannot remain always bent; and relaxation, both of body and mind, is indispensable to all.

Can you deny what is in everybody's mouth, when a person is in the dumps? It is always then said, "I know not what such a one ails—he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor answers to the purpose, like other men—surely he is enchanted." Wherefore, it is clear that such, and such only, are enchanted who neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep, and not they who eat and drink when they can get it, and answer properly to all that is asked them.

The poor man is unable to exercise the virtue of liberality; and the gratitude which consists only in inclination is a dead thing, even as faith without works is dead. I shall, therefore, rejoice when fortune presents me with an opportunity of exalting myself, that I may show my heart in conferring benefits on my friends, especially on poor Sancho Panza here, my squire, who is one of the best men in the world; and I would fain bestow on him an earldom, as I have long since promised; although I am somewhat in doubt of his ability in the government of his estate.

Sancho, overhearing his master's last words, said: "Take you the trouble, Signor Don Quixote, to procure me that same earldom, which your worship has so often promised, and I have been so long waiting for, and you shall see that I shall not want ability to govern it. But even if I should, there are people, I have heard say, who farm these lordships; and paying the owners so much a year, take upon themselves the government of the whole, while his lordship lolls at his ease, enjoying his estate, without concerning himself any further about it. Just so will I do, and give myself no more trouble than needs mast, but enjoy myself like any duke, and let the world rub."

"This, brother Sancho," said the canon, "may be done, as far as regards the management of your revenue; but the administration of justice must be attended to by the lord himself, and requires capacity, judgment, and, above all, an upright intention, without which nothing prospers; for Heaven assists the good intent of the

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