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By the girls I'm hated now.

For Teresa of the hillside

At my praise of thee was sore;

Said, "You think you love an angel;

It's a monkey you adore;

"Caught by all her glittering trinkets,

And her borrowed braids of hair,

And a host of made-up beauties

That would Love himself ensnare."

'T was a lie, and so I told her,

And her cousin at the word

Gave me his defiance for it;

And what followed thou hast heard.

Mine is no high-flown affection,

Mine no passion par amours—

As they call it—what I offer

Is an honest love, and pure.

Cunning cords the holy Church has,

Cords of softest silk they be;

Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear;

Mine will follow, thou wilt see.

Else—and once for all I swear it

By the saint of most renown—

If I ever quit the mountains,

'T will be in a friar's gown.

{verse

Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more inclined for sleep than for listening to songs; so said he to his master, "Your worship will do well to settle at once where you mean to pass the night, for the labour these good men are at all day does not allow them to spend the night in singing."