The Knight of Phoebus

To Don Quixote of La Mancha

My sword was not to be compared with thine

Phoebus of Spain, marvel of courtesy,

Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine

That smote from east to west as lightnings fly.

I scorned all empire, and that monarchy

The rosy east held out did I resign

For one glance of Claridiana’s eye,

The bright Aurora for whose love I pine.

A miracle of constancy my love;

And banished by her ruthless cruelty,

This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame.

But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove,

For thou dost live in Dulcinea’s name,

And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee.