to his lady Dulcinea he
made up his mind to listen to the music; and to let them know he was
there he gave a pretended sneeze, at which the damsels were not a little
delighted, for all they wanted was that Don Quixote should hear them. So
having tuned the harp, Altisidora, running her hand across the strings,
began this ballad:

O thou that art above in bed,
Between the holland sheets,
A-lying there from night till morn,
With outstretched legs asleep;

O thou, most valiant knight of all
The famed Manchegan breed,
Of purity and virtue more
Than gold of Araby;

Give ear unto a suffering maid,
Well-grown but evil-starr'd,
For those two suns of thine have lit
A fire within her heart.

Adventures seeking thou dost rove,
To others bringing woe;
Thou scatterest wounds, but, ah, the balm
To heal them dost withhold!

Say, valiant youth, and so may God
Thy enterprises speed,
Didst thou the light mid Libya's sands
Or Jaca's rocks first see?

Did scaly serpents give thee suck?
Who nursed thee when a babe?
Wert cradled in the forest rude,
Or gloomy mountain cave?

O Dulcinea may be proud,
That plump and lusty maid;
For she alone hath had the power
A tiger fierce to tame.

And she for this shall famous be
From Tagus to Jarama,
From Manzanares to Genil,
From Duero to Arlanza.

Fain would I change with her, and give
A petticoat to boot,
The best and bravest that I have,
All trimmed with gold galloon.

O for to be the happy fair
Thy mighty arms enfold,
Or even sit beside thy bed
And scratch thy dusty poll!

I rave,--to favours such as these
Unworthy to aspire;
Thy feet to tickle were enough
For one so mean as I.

What caps, what slippers silver-laced,
Would I on thee bestow!
What damask breeches make for thee;
What fine long holland cloaks!

And I would give thee pearls that should
As big as oak-galls show;
So matchless big that each might well
Be called the great "Alone."

Manchegan Nero, look not down
From thy Tarpeian Rock
Upon this burning heart, nor add
The fuel of thy wrath.

A virgin soft and young am I,
Not yet fifteen years old;
(I'm only three months past fourteen,
I swear upon my soul).

I hobble not nor do I limp,
All blemish I'm without,
And as I walk my lily locks
Are trailing on the ground.

And though my nose be rather flat,
And though my mouth be wide,
My teeth like topazes exalt
My beauty to the sky.