GLOSS

Dame Fortune once upon a day

To me was bountiful and kind;

But all things change; she changed her mind,

And what she gave she took away.

O Fortune, long I've sued to thee;

The gifts thou gavest me restore,

For, trust me, I would ask no more,

Could 'was' become an 'is' for me.

No other prize I seek to gain,

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No triumph, glory, or success,

Only the long-lost happiness,

The memory whereof is pain.

One taste, methinks, of bygone bliss

The heart-consuming fire might stay;

And, so it come without delay,

Then would I ask no more than this.

I ask what cannot be, alas!

That time should ever be, and then

Come back to us, and be again,

No power on earth can bring to pass;

For fleet of foot is he, I wis,

And idly, therefore, do we pray

That what for aye hath left us may

Become for us the time that is.

Perplexed, uncertain, to remain

'Twixt hope and fear, is death, not life;

'Twere better, sure, to end the strife,

And dying, seek release from pain.

And yet, thought were the best for me.

Anon the thought aside I fling,

And to the present fondly cling,

And dread the time that is to be."

When Don Lorenzo had finished reciting his gloss, Don Quixote stood up,

and in a loud voice, almost a shout, exclaimed as he grasped Don

Lorenzo's right hand in his, "By the highest heavens, noble youth, but

you are the best poet on earth, and deserve to be crowned with laurel,

not by Cyprus or by Gaeta--as a certain poet, God forgive him, said--but

by the Academies of Athens, if they still flourished, and by those that

flourish now, Paris, Bologna, Salamanca. Heaven grant that the judges who

rob you of the first prize--that Phoebus may pierce them with his arrows,

and the Muses never cross the thresholds of their doors. Repeat me some

of your long-measure verses, senor, if you will be so good, for I want

thoroughly to feel the pulse of your rare genius."

Is there any need to say that Don Lorenzo enjoyed hearing himself praised

by Don Quixote, albeit he looked upon him as a madman? power of flattery,

how far-reaching art thou, and how wide are the bounds of thy pleasant

jurisdiction! Don Lorenzo gave a proof of it, for he complied with Don

Quixote's request and entreaty, and repeated to him this sonnet on the

fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.

SONNET

The lovely maid, she pierces now the wall;

Heart-pierced by her young Pyramus doth lie;

And Love spreads wing from Cyprus isle to fly,

A chink to view so wondrous great and small.

There silence speaketh, for no voice at all

Can pass so strait a strait; but love will ply

Where to all other power 'twere vain to try;

For love will find a way whate'er befall.

Impatient of delay, with reckless pace

The rash maid wins the fatal spot where she

Sinks not in lover's arms but death's embrace.

So runs the strange tale, how the lovers twain

One sword, one sepulchre, one memory,

Slays, and entombs, and brings to life again.




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