n their knees,--his fame, I say, shall be
greater both in this world and the next than that which all the heathen
emperors and knights-errant in the world ever had or ever shall have."

"I grant it," answered Don Quixote.

"Then," replied Sancho, "the bodies and relics of saints have this power
and grace, and these privileges, or how do you call them, and with the
license of our holy mother church have their lamps, winding-sheets,
crutches, pictures, perukes, eyes, and legs, whereby they increase
people's devotion and spread abroad their own Christian fame. Kings
themselves carry the bodies or relics of saints upon their shoulders,
kiss the fragments of their bones, and adorn their chapels and most
favorite altars with them."

"Certainly, but what wouldst thou infer from all this, Sancho?" quoth
Don Quixote.

"What I mean," said Sancho, "is, that we had better turn saints
immediately, and we shall then soon get that fame we are seeking after.
And pray take notice, sir, that it was but yesterday--I mean very
lately--a couple of poor barefooted friars were canonized, and people
now reckon it a greater happiness to touch or kiss the iron chains that
bound them, and which are now held in greater veneration than Orlando's
sword in the armory of our lord the king, Heaven save him; so that it is
better to be a poor friar of the meanest order than the bravest
knight-errant, because four dozen of good penitent lashes are more
esteemed in the sight of God than two thousand tilts with a lance,
though it be against giants, goblins, or dragons."

"I confess," answered Don Quixote, "all this is true. We cannot all be
friars, and many and various are the ways by which God conducts his
elect to Heaven. Chivalry is a kind of religious profession, and some
knights are now saints in glory."

"True," quoth Sancho, "but I have heard say there are more friars in
Heaven than knights-errant."

"It may well be so," replied Don Quixote, "because their number is much
greater than that of knights-errant."

"And yet," quoth Sancho, "there are abundance of the errant sort."

"Abundance, indeed," answered Don Quixote, "but few who deserve the name
of knight."

There is a time for jesting, and a time when jokes are
unseasonable.

Truth may bend but never break, and will ever rise above
falsehood, like oil above water.

With lovers the external actions and gestures are couriers,
which bear authentic tidings of what is passin