Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

My Days Are In The Yellow Leaf; The Flowers And Fruits Of Love Are Gone; The Worm, The Canker, And The Grief, Are Mine Alone!

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.