DON QUIXOTE

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B.  "Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween;
  'T is like an ass your master thus to scorn."
R.  He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born;
  Why, he's in love; what's what's plainer to be seen?"
B.  "To be in love is folly?"--R. "No great sense."
B.  "You're metaphysical."--R. "From want of food."
B.  "Rail at the squire, then."--R. "Why, what's the good?
    I might indeed complain of him, I grant ye,
  But, squire or master, where's the difference?
    They're both as sorry hacks as Rocinante."




THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this