DON QUIXOTE

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of any way of restoring her to her original form; and these reflections
so absorbed him, that without being aware of it he let go Rocinante's
bridle, and he, perceiving the liberty that was granted him, stopped at
every step to crop the fresh grass with which the plain abounded.

Sancho recalled him from his reverie. "Melancholy, senor," said he, "was
made, not for beasts, but for men; but if men give way to it overmuch
they turn to beasts; control yourself, your worship; be yourself again;
gather up Rocinante's reins; cheer up, rouse yourself and show that
gallant spirit that knights-errant ought to have. What the devil is this?
What weakness is this? Are we here or in France? The devil fly away with
all the Dulcineas in the world; for the well-being of a single
knight-errant is of more consequence than all the enchantments and
transformations on earth."

"Hush, Sancho," said Don Quixote in a weak and faint voice, "hush and
utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady; for I alone am to blame