“No entiendo éso,” replied Sancho; “solo entiendo que en tanto que duermo, ni tengo temor, ni esperanza, ni trabajo, ni gloria; y bien haya el que invento el sueño, capa que cubre todos los humanos pensamientos, manjar que quita la hambre, agua que ahuyenta la sed, fuego que calienta el frio, frio que templa el ardor, y finalmente moneda general con que todas las cosas se compran, balanza y peso que iguala al pastor con el rey, y al simple con el discreto.  Sola una cosa tiene mala el sueño, según he oido decir, y es que se parece a la muerte, pues de un dormido a un muerto hay muy poca diferencia.”

“I know not what that means,” replied Sancho; “I only know that while I am asleep I have neither fear, nor hope, nor trouble, nor glory.  Blessings light on him who first invented sleep!  Sleep is the mantle that shrouds all human thoughts; the food that dispels hunger; the drink that quenches thirst; the fire that warms the cold; the cool breeze that moderates heat; in a word, the general coin that purchases every commodity; the weight and balance that makes the shepherd even with his sovereign, and the simple with the sage.  There is only one bad circumstance, as I have heard, in sleep:  it resembles death, inasmuch as between a dead corse and a sleeping man there is no apparent difference.”

“Enjoy thy repose,” said Don Quixote; “thou wast born to sleep and I to watch; and, during the little of night that remains, I will give my thoughts the rein, and cool the furnace of my reflections with a short madrigal, which I have this evening, unknown to thee, composed in my own mind.”

    Amor, cuándo yo pienso
  En el mal que me das terrible y fuerte,
  Voy corriendo a la muerte,
  Pensando así acabar mi mal inmenso: 

    Mas en llegando al paso,
  Que es puerto en este mar de mi tormento,
  Tanta alegría siento,
  Que la vida se esfuerza, y no lé paso.

    Así el vivir me mata,
  Que la muerte me torna a dar la vida. 
  O condición no oida,
  La que conmigo muerte y vida trata!

  O love! when, sick of heart-felt grief,
    I sigh, and drag thy cruel chain,
  To death I fly, the sure relief
    Of those who groan in lingering pain.

  But coming to the fatal gates,
    The port in this my sea of woe,
  The joy I feel new life creates,
    And bids my spirits brisker flow.

  Thus dying every hour I live,
    And living I resign my breath. 
  Strange power of love, that thus can give
    A dying life and living death!

  Till Heaven, in pity to the weeping world,
    Shall give Altisidora back to day,
  By Quixote’s scorn to realms of Pluto hurled,
    Her every charm to cruel death a prey;
    While matrons throw their gorgeous robes away,
  To mourn a nymph by cold disdain betrayed: 
    To the complaining lyre’s enchanting lay
  I’ll sing the praises of this hapless maid,
In sweeter notes than Thracian Orpheus ever played.

  Nor shall my numbers with my life expire,
    Or this world’s light confine the boundless song: 
  To thee, bright maid, in death I’ll touch the lyre,
    And to my soul the theme shall still belong. 
    When, freed from clay, the flitting ghosts among,
  My spirit glides the Stygian shores around,
    Though the cold hand of death has sealed my tongue,
  Thy praise the infernal caverns shall rebound,
And Lethe’s sluggish waves move slower to the sound.

  Better kill me outright than break my back with other men’s
  burdens.

  Sleep is the best cure for waking troubles.

  Devils, play or not play, win or not win, can never be
  content.

  History that is good, faithful, and true, will survive for
  ages; but should it have none of these qualities, its
  passage will be short between the cradle and the grave.

  As for dying for love, it is all a jest; your lovers,
  indeed, may easily say they are dying, but that they will
  actually give up the ghost, believe it ­Judas.

“Madam,” said he, “your ladyship should know that the chief cause of this good damsel’s suffering is idleness, the remedy whereof is honest and constant employment.  Lace, she tells me, is much worn in purgatory, and since she cannot but know how to make it, let her stick to that; for, while her fingers are assiduously employed with her bobbins, the images that now haunt her imagination will keep aloof, and leave her mind tranquil and happy.  This, madam, is my opinion and advice.”

“And mine, too,” added Sancho, “for I never in my life heard of a lacemaker that died for love; for your damsels that bestir themselves at some honest labor think more of their work than of their sweethearts.  I know it by myself; when I am digging, I never think of my Teresa, though, God bless her!  I love her more than my very eyelids.”

  Railing among lovers is the next neighbor to forgiveness.

  The ass will carry the load, but not a double load.

  When money’s paid before it’s due,
  A broken limb will straight ensue.

  Delay breeds danger.

  Pray to God devoutly,
  And hammer away stoutly.

  A sparrow in the hand is worth an eagle on the wing.

“No more proverbs, for God’s sake,” quoth Don Quixote, “for, methinks, Sancho, thou art losing ground, and returning to sicut erat.  Speak plainly, as I have often told thee, and thou wilt find it worth a loaf per cent to thee.”

“I know not how I came by this unlucky trick,” replied Sancho:  “I cannot bring you in three words to the purpose without a proverb, nor give you a proverb which, to my thinking, is not to the purpose; ­but I will try to mend.”

  The straw is too hard to make pipes of.

The knight and squire ascended a little eminence, whence they discovered their village; which Sancho no sooner beheld than, kneeling down, he said:  “Open thine eyes, O my beloved country! and behold thy son, Sancho Panza, returning to thee again, if not rich, yet well whipped!  Open thine arms, and receive thy son Don Quixote, too! who, though worsted by another, has conquered himself, which, as I have heard say, is the best kind of victory!  Money I have gotten, and though I have been soundly banged, I have come off like a gentleman.”

“Leave these fooleries, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, “and let us go directly to our homes, where we will give full scope to our imagination, and settle our intended scheme of a pastoral life.”

It must here be mentioned that Sancho Panza, by way of sumpter-cloth, had thrown the buckram robe painted with flames, which he had worn on the night of Altisidora’s revival, upon his ass.  He likewise clapped the mitre on Dapple’s head, ­in short, never was an ass so honored and bedizened.  The priest and bachelor, immediately recognizing their friends, ran toward them with open arms.  Don Quixote alighted, and embraced them cordially.  In the mean time, the boys, whose keen eyes nothing can escape, came flocking from all parts.

“Ho!” cries one, “here comes Sancho Panza’s ass, as gay as a parrot, and Don Quixote’s old horse, leaner than ever!”

Thus, surrounded by the children and accompanied by the priest and the bachelor, they proceeded through the village till they arrived at Don Quixote’s house, where, at the door, they found the housekeeper and the niece, who had already heard of his arrival.  It had likewise reached the ears of Sancho’s wife, Teresa, who, half-naked, with her hair about her ears, and dragging Sanchica after her, ran to meet her husband; and seeing him not so well equipped as she thought a governor ought to be, she said:  “What makes you come thus, dear husband? methinks you come afoot and foundered!  This, I trow, is not as a governor should look.”

“Peace, wife,” quoth Sancho; “the bacon is not so easily found as the pin to hang it on.  Let us go home, and there you shall hear wonders.  I have got money, and honestly, too, without wronging anybody.”

“Hast thou got money, good husband?  Nay, then, ’t is well, however it be gotten; for, well or ill, it will have brought up no new custom in the world.”

All things human, especially the lives of men, are transitory, ever advancing from their beginning to their decline and final determination.

“The greatest folly,” said Sancho, “that a man can commit in this world, is to give himself up to death without any good cause for it, but only from melancholy.”