pursued our journey, in the course of which my infirmity was touched upon. The good student checked my mirth in a moment: "This malady is the dropsy, which not all the water of the ocean, let it be ever so sweet drinking, can cure. Let your worship set bounds to your drink, not forgetting to eat, for so without other medicine you will do well." "That many have told me," answered I. "but I can no more give up drinking for pleasure than I had been born for nothing else. My life is slipping away, and by the diary my pulse is keeping, which at the latest will end its reckoning this coming Sunday, I have to close my life's account. Your worship has come to know me in a rude moment, since there is no time for me to show my gratitude for the good-will you have shown me."
He ends his narrative with the words:
Good-by, humors; good-by, pleasant fancies; good-by,
merry friends; for I perceive I am dying, in the wish to
see you happy in the other life.
Cervantes died on April 19, 1616, at Madrid, and
was buried without any ceremony. No stone or inscription
even marked his grave. When, thirty years
later, Lope de Vega died, grandees bore his coffin and
bishops officiated at the funeral ceremonies, which
lasted nine days.
Look out for people about whom a tremendous fuss is made, and remember that loud applause is not necessarily the accompaniment of real merit.
No wise man expects to get immediate credit for his achievements. He does not work for personal re-
