To the book of Don Quixote of la Mancha If to be welcomed by the good, O Book! thou make thy steady aim, No empty chatterer will dare To question or dispute thy claim.
But if perchance thou hast a mind To win of idiots approbation, Lost labour will be thy reward, Though they’ll pretend appreciation.
They say a goodly shade he finds Who shelters ’neath a goodly tree; And such a one thy kindly star In Bejar bath provided thee: A royal tree whose spreading boughs A show of princely fruit display; A tree that bears a noble Duke, The Alexander of his day.
Of a Manchegan gentleman Thy purpose is to tell the story, Relating how he lost his wits O’er idle tales of love and glory, Of 'ladies, arms, and cavaliers:' A new Orlando Furioso— Innamorato, rather—who Won Dulcinea del Toboso.
Put no vain emblems on thy shield; All figures—that is bragging play. A modest dedication make, And give no scoffer room to say, 'What! Álvaro de Luna here? Or is it Hannibal again? Or does King Francis at Madrid Once more of destiny complain?
' Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee Deep erudition to bestow, Or black Latino’s gift of tongues, No Latin let thy pages show. Ape not philosophy or wit, Lest one who cannot comprehend, Make a wry face at thee and ask, 'Why offer flowers to me, my friend?
' Be not a meddler; no affair Of thine the life thy neighbours lead: Be prudent; oft the random jest Recoils upon the jester’s head. Thy constant labour let it be To earn thyself an honest name, For fooleries preserved in print Are perpetuity of shame.
A further counsel bear in mind: If that thy roof be made of glass, It shows small wit