The lealest lover time can show, Doomed for a lady-love to languish, Among these solitudes doth go, A prey to every kind of anguish. Why Love should like a spiteful foe Thus use him, he hath no idea, But hogsheads full — this doth he know — Don Quixote’s tears are on the flow, And all for distant Dulcinea Del Toboso.
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