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SONNET

Or Love is lacking in intelligence,

Or to the height of cruelty attains,

Or else it is my doom to suffer pains

Beyond the measure due to my offence.

But if Love be a God, it follows thence

That he knows all, and certain it remains

No God loves cruelty; then who ordains

This penance that enthrals while it torments?

It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name;

Such evil with such goodness cannot live;

And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame,

I only know it is my fate to die.

To him who knows not whence his malady

A miracle alone a cure can give.

"There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme," said Sancho, "unless by that clue there's in it, one may draw out the ball of the whole matter."

"What clue is there?" said Don Quixote.

"I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it," said Sancho.

"I only said Chloe," replied Don Quixote; "and that no doubt, is the name of the lady of whom the author of the sonnet complains; and, faith, he must be a tolerable poet, or I know little of the craft."