ver since then, looking at the misfortune into
which I have fallen, I have thought that poets, as Plato advised, ought
to be banished from all well-ordered States; at least the amatory ones,
for they write verses, not like those of 'The Marquis of Mantua,' that
delight and draw tears from the women and children, but sharp-pointed
conceits that pierce the heart like soft thorns, and like the lightning
strike it, leaving the raiment uninjured. Another time he sang:

Come Death, so subtly veiled that I
Thy coming know not, how or when,
Lest it should give me life again
To find how sweet it is to die.

--and other verses and burdens of the same sort, such as enchant when
sung and fascinate when written. And then, when they condescend to
compose a sort of verse that was at that time in vogue in Kandy, which
they call seguidillas! Then it is that hearts leap and laughter breaks
forth, and the body grows restless and all the senses turn quicksilver.
And so I say, sirs, that these troubadours richly deserve to be banished
to the isles of the lizards. Though it is not they that are in fault, but
the simpletons that extol them, and the fools that believe in them; and
had I been the faithful duenna I should have been, his stale conceits
would have never moved me, nor should I have been taken in by such
phrases as 'in death I live,' 'in ice I burn,' 'in flames I shiver,'
'hopeless I hope,' 'I go and stay,' and paradoxes of that sort which
their writings are full of. And then when they promise the Phoenix of
Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the horses of the Sun, the pearls of the
South, the gold of Tibar, and the balsam of Panchaia! Then it is they
give a loose to their pens, for it costs them little to make promises
they have no intention or power of fulfilling. But where am I wandering
to? Woe is me, unfortunate being! What madness or folly leads me to speak
of the faults of others, when there is so much to be said about my own?
Again, woe is me, hapless that I am! it was not verses that conquered me,
but my own simplicity; it was not music made me yield, but my own
imprudence; my own great ignorance and little caution opened the way and
cleared the path for Don Clavijo's advances, for that was the name of the
gentleman I have referred to; and so, with my help as go-between, he
found his way many a time into the chamber of the deceived Antonomasia
(deceived not by him but by me) under the title of a lawful husband; for,
si