"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, cuando yo pienso En el mal que me das terrible y fuerte, Voy corriendo á 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 le paso.
Así el vivir me mata, Que la muerte me torna á dar la vida. O condicion 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.