todas las cosas se compran, balanza y peso que iguala al pastor con el
rey, y al simple con el discreto. Sola una cosa tiene mala el sueno,
segun he oido decir, y es que se parece a la muerte, pues de un dormido
a un muerto hay muy poca diferencia."

"I know not what that means," replied Sancho; "I only know that while I
am asleep I have neither fear, nor hope, nor trouble, nor glory.
Blessings light on him who first invented sleep! Sleep is the mantle
that shrouds all human thoughts; the food that dispels hunger; the drink
that quenches thirst; the fire that warms the cold; the cool breeze that
moderates heat; in a word, the general coin that purchases every
commodity; the weight and balance that makes the shepherd even with his
sovereign, and the simple with the sage. There is only one bad
circumstance, as I have heard, in sleep: it resembles death, inasmuch as
between a dead corse and a sleeping man there is no apparent
difference."

"Enjoy thy repose," said Don Quixote; "thou wast born to sleep and I to
watch; and, during the little of night that remains, I will give my
thoughts the rein, and cool the furnace of my reflections with a short
madrigal, which I have this evening, unknown to thee, composed in my own
mind."

Amor, cuando yo pienso
En el mal que me das terrible y fuerte,
Voy corriendo a la muerte,
Pensando asi acabar mi mal inmenso:

Mas en llegando al paso,
Que es puerto en este mar de mi tormento,
Tanta alegria siento,
Que la vida se esfuerza, y no le paso.

Asi el vivir me mata,
Que la muerte me torna a dar la vida.
O condicion no oida,
La que conmigo muerte y vida trata!

O love! when, sick of heart-felt grief,
I sigh, and drag thy cruel chain,
To death I fly, the sure relief
Of those who groan in lingering pain.

But coming to the fatal gates,
The port in this my sea of woe,
The joy I feel new life creates,
And bids my spirits brisker flow.

Thus dying every hour I live,
And living I resign my breath.
Strange power of love, that thus can give
A dying life and living death!

Till Heaven, in pity to the weeping world,
Shall give Altisidora back to day,
By Quixote's scorn to realms of Pluto hurled,
Her every charm to cruel death a prey;
While matrons throw their gorgeous robes away,
To mourn a nymph by cold disdain betrayed:
To the complaining lyre's enchanting lay
I'll sing the praises of