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Little bird, little bird Awoo! In the cinnamon tree In the cinnamon tree Little bird, little bird Do you sing for me? Do you bring me word Of one I know? Little bird, little bird I love her so Little bird, little bird And I have to know Little bird, little bird Beneath this tree This cinnamon tree We learned to love We learned to cry For here we met And here we kissed And here|one cold and moonless night We said good-bye Little bird, little bird Little bird, little bird Oh, have pity on me Little bird, little bird Bring her back to me now Little bird, little bird Beneath the cinnamon tree Little bird, little bird I have waited too long Little bird Without a song - Little bird,|- Little bird, little bird Please fly, please go Little bird, little bird And tell her so Little bird, little bird Little bird, little bird - Sss!|- Awoo! I spit on all your little birds! Here! Give it back!|Give it back to me! What's this? - "The most lovely sovereign...|- Oh! "And high-born lady..." It's from her knight! It's a love letter. - Such fine words.|- Well, fine words! All right.|He's a man, isn't he? He wants what|every other man wants. So! - Yeah!|- Yeah! Hey... soon? When I'm through in the kitchen. Now I must consider|how sages of the future... will describe|this historic night. Long after the sun|had retired to his couch... darkening the gates|and balconies of La Mancha... Don Quixote, with lofty|expression and measured tread... held vigil in the courtyard|of a mighty castle. Ohh. Maker of empty boasts... on this of all nights|to give way to vanity. No. Don Quixote,|take a deep breath of life... and consider|how it should be lived. Call nothing thine|except thy soul. Love not what thou art,|only what thou may become. Do not pursue pleasure... or thou mayest have|the misfortune to overtake it. Look always forward. In last year's nests... there are no birds this year. Be just to all men,|courteous to all women. Live in the vision... of the one for whom|great deeds are done... Dulcinea. Get up from there! Get up! Milady. Why do you call me|by that name? - Because it is yours.|- My name is Aldonza! I know you, milady. I think you know me not. All my years I have known you,|your nobility of spirit... long have I seen you|in my heart. Your heart|doesn't know much about women. It knows all, milady. Woman is the soul of man... the radiance|that lights his way. Woman is glory. What do you want of me? - Nothing.|- Liar. I deserve the rebuke. - I ask of milady...|- Now we get to it! That I may be allowed|to serve her... that I may hold her|in my heart... that to her|I may dedicate each victory... and call upon her in defeat. And if at last I give my life... I give it|in the sacred name of Dulcinea. I must go. Pedro is waiting. Why do you do these things? What things? These ridiculous...|the things you do. I come in a world of iron... to make a world of gold. The world's a dung heap... and we are maggots|that crawl on it. No. Milady knows better|in her heart. What's in my heart|will get me halfway to hell... and you, Seņor Don Quixote... your head is going to end up|a stranger to your neck. - That doesn't matter.|- What does? Only that I follow the quest. That for your quest. What does it mean... quest? The mission of each true knight|is duty... nay, is privilege. To dream the impossible dream To fight the unbeatable foe To bear with unbearable sorrow To run|where the brave dare not go To right the unrightable wrong To love|pure and chaste from afar To try when your arms|are too weary To reach the unreachable star This is my quest To follow that star No matter how hopeless No matter how far To fight for the right Without question or pause To be willing|to march into hell For a heavenly cause And I know if I'll only be true To this glorious quest That my heart|will lie peaceful and calm When I'm laid to my rest And the world|will be better for this That one man|scorned and covered with scars Still strove|with his last ounce of courage To reach The unreachable star Once, just once, would you|look at me as I really am? I see beauty, purity. Dulcinea. You!|You keep me waiting, would you? - I wasn't. I didn't mean to...|- Milady! My little flower! Monster! Stay clear! Thou wouldst strike a woman? Ah, stand back,|or I'll break your head. Thou heart of flint|and bowels of cork. I'm killed. Jose! Tenorio! Jose! Tenorio! - Pedro!|- Anselmo! Jose! Muleteers! Anselmo! Tenorio! Anselmo! Muleteers! Hold thou! Heed the knocking|of thy craven knees! Prepare to do battle! Come one! Come all! Come what may come!|Here am I! Let him be.|He's worth a thousand of you! Ahh, back, whore!|I'll show you! Sancho! Hold on, Your Grace! Sancho! Coming, Master! Look out, Tenorio! Help me! Help me! Help me! Look out, Master! Look out! Victory. - Victory?|- Victory? - Victory.|- Victory! - Victory?|- Victory. Victory! Victory! What's this? All the noise? What's this? All the noise? - What dreadful thing?|- What glorious thing! Don Castellano... I would inform you|right has triumphed! Your Grace, are you hurt? No, no.|A little weakness... temporary. Your Grace! Bring water! Water, quick! Oh, crusader. Your Grace. Your Grace? - He's coming round.|- Oh. Oh, that I might always wake|unto such a vision. Don't move. I must say, Your Grace,|we certainly did a job out here. We routed them. That bunch will be|walking bow-legged for a week. Milady, it is not seemly|to gloat over the fallen. Let them rot in hell! Sir, I am|a tame and peaceful man. Please, Sir Knight, I do not|wish to be inhospitable... but I must ask you to leave|as soon as you're able. I am sorry to have offended|the dignity of your castle... and at daylight,|I shall depart... but first, may I remind you|of your promise? Promise? True, it is not yet dawn... but I have kept vigil|and proven myself in combat. I therefore beg you,|dub me knight. Oh, certainly.|Let's get it over with. Sancho, would you be|good enough to fetch my sword? Yes, Your Grace. I cannot speak, milady... how joyful I am that this|ceremony should take place... in your presence. Be careful, now. It is the solemn moment|that seals my vocation. - Are you ready?|- I am. Very well, then. Kneel. Don Quixote de La Mancha... I hereby dub thee knight. My Lord. Didn't I do it right? If your lordship|could make some mention... of the deeds I've performed|to deserve this honor... Oh, of course. Don Quixote de La Mancha... having proved yourself|this day... in glorious and terrible|combat... and by my authority|as lord of this castle... I hereby dub thee knight. My Lord... Something else? If your lordship recalls... it is the custom|to grant the new knight... an additional name. If your lordship|could devise such a name... Uh, let me see. Hail, Knight Of the Woeful Countenance Knight|of the Woeful Countenance Wherever you go People will know Of the glorious deeds Of the Knight|of the Woeful Countenance Farewell and good cheer Oh, my brave cavalier Ride onward to glorious strife I swear when you're gone I'll remember you well For all of the rest of my life Hail, Knight|of the Woeful Countenance Knight|of the Woeful Countenance Wherever you go Face to the foe They will quail at the sight Of the Knight|of the Woeful Countenance Oh, valorous knight Go and fight for the right And battle the villains that be But, oh, when you do What will happen to you? Thank God|I won't be there to see Hail, Knight - Of the Woeful Countenance|- Hail, Knight - Of the Woeful Countenance|- Hail, Knight Of the Woeful Countenance Hail, Knight Hail, Knight|of the Woeful Countenance Knight|of the Woeful Countenance Wherever you go People will know Of the glorious deeds Of the Knight of the Woeful Countenance I thank you. Well, Sir Knight,|I am going to bed. And I advise you to do the same. Knight|of the Woeful Countenance. It's a beautiful name. Come, Your Grace.|Let's get you to bed. Not yet, Sancho.|I owe something to my enemies. - That account's been paid.|- Not yet, milady. - What?|- Nobility demands. It does? Yes.|Therefore I will go to them. I'll go. I'll minister. There is no need. They were my enemies, too. Oh, blessed one. Come, Your Grace.|Let's get you to bed. Sancho, I do envy my enemies. Your Grace, you're tired. No, Sancho, I feel quite well. Your Grace, many a man... has gone to bed in the evening|feeling well... only to wake up in the morning|and find himself dead. - That's a proverb.|- Yes, Your Grace. - I don't approve of them.|- I know, Your Grace. What in hell|do you think you're doing? I'm going to minister|to your wounds. - You're what?|- Nobility demands. Turn over, you foxy goat! You... Sons of whores! Let me out! No! Bastards! Bastards! Bastards! Bastards! Ow! Bastards! Bastards! Let me go! Let me go! No! Enough! Load up. We're leaving. What do we do with this? We'll take it along. Let these events be proof|to thee, my Sancho. Nobility triumphs.|Virtue will always prevail. Oh, yes, Your Grace. Now, in this moment of glory... do I confirm my knighthood|and my oath. For all my life,|this I do swear. To dream the impossible dream To fight the unbeatable foe To bear with unbearable sorrow To run|where the brave dare not go What is that? One of the hazards|of this prison... the brave men|of the Inquisition! It means|they're coming to fetch someone. Haul him off,|put the question to him. Next thing he knows, he is dead. They're coming for me|very possibly. What, Cervantes, not afraid?|Where's your courage? Or is that|in your imagination, too? No escape. This is happening. Not to your brave|man of La Mancha, but to you. Quick, Cervantes, call on him.|Let him shield you. Let him save you,|if he can... from that. No! No! No! No! Well, not this time. But you see, Cervantes,|there is a difference... between reality and illusion... and a difference|between these prisoners... and your men of lunacy. I'd say rather men|whose illusions were very real. Much the same thing,|isn't it, really? Why are you poets|so fascinated with madmen? We have much in common. You both turn your backs|on life? We both select from life! A man has to come to terms|with life as it is. Life as it is. I have lived for over|forty years, and I've seen... life as it is. Pain... misery... cruelty beyond belief. I've heard all the voices|of God's noblest creature. Moans from bundles of filth|in the street. I've been a soldier and a slave. I've seen my comrades|fall in battle... or die more slowly|under the lash in Africa. I've held them|at the last moment. These were men|who saw life as it is. Yet they died despairing. No glory, no brave last words. Only their eyes,|filled with confusion... questioning why. I do not think they were|asking why they were dying... but why they had ever lived. When life itself seems lunatic,|who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical|is madness. To surrender dreams,|this may be madness. To seek treasure|where there is only trash... too much sanity may be madness! And maddest of all... to see life as it is|and not as it should be! I am I, Don Quixote The Lord of La Mancha Destroyer of evil am I I will march to the sound Of the trumpets of glory Forever to conquer or die I don't understand. Don't understand what,|my friend? Why you're so cheerful. First you find your lady,|then you lose her. Never lost. Well, she ran off|with those muleteers. Doubtless for some high purpose. High purpose|with those low characters? Sancho, always thine eye sees|evil in preference to good. My eye did not make this world.|It only sees it. Right, and furthermore,|I think you should call a truce. What, and allow wickedness|to flourish? I've noticed wickedness|wears pretty thick armor. And for that|would you have me cease? Nay, let a man be struck down|a thousand times! - Still must he rise and...|- Do battle, yes. Lies, lies, lies!|Madness and lies! Lies, lies, lies!|Madness and lies! They shall be punished,|who did this crime. Crime? You know the worst crime|of all? Being born. For that you get punished|your whole life. - Dulcinea.|- Enough of that! Get yourself to a madhouse! Rave about nobility|where no one can hear. - Milady.|- I'm not your lady! I'm not any kind of a lady. For a lady|has modest and maidenly airs And a virtue a blind man|could see that I lack It's hard to develop These maidenly airs In a stable,|laid flat on your back Won't you look at me,|look at me God, won't you look at me? Look at the kitchen slut Reeking of sweat Born on a dung heap To die on a dung heap A strumpet men use and forget If you feel that you see me Not quite at my virginal best Cross my palm with a coin And I'll willingly|show you the rest Never deny|that you are Dulcinea. Take the clouds from your eyes|and see me as I really am! You have shown me the sky But what good is the sky To a creature who'll never|do better than crawl? Of all the cruel bastards Who've badgered and battered me You are the cruelest of all Can't you see what your gentle|insanities do to me? Rob me of anger|and give me despair Blows and abuse I can take And give back again Tenderness I cannot bear So please torture me now With your sweet Dulcineas|no more I am no one, I am nothing I'm only Aldonza the whore Now and forever|you are milady, Dulcinea. No! Master. Master! Is this|Don Quixote de La Mancha? If it is, and he is not afraid|to look upon me... let him stand forth. I am Don Quixote... Knight|of the Woeful Countenance. Then hear me, thou charlatan. Thou art no knight,|but a foolish pretender. Thy pretense|is a child's mockery... and thy principles|dirt beneath my feet. False, graceless knight... before I chastise thee,|tell me thy name. Thou shalt hear it|in due course. And why seekest thou me? Thou called upon me,|Don Quixote. Thou reviled me|and threatened me. The Enchanter. Behold at thy feet|the gauge of battle. On what terms do we fight? Choose. Very well. If thou art beaten,|thy freedom is forfeit... and thou must obey|my every command. And thy conditions? If thou livest... thou shalt kneel and beg|forgiveness of milady, Dulcinea. Ha!|Thy lady is an alley cat. - Monster! Defend thyself!|- Halt. Thou asked my name, Don Quixote. Now I shall tell it. I am called|the Knight of the Mirrors. Look, Don Quixote.|Look in the mirror of reality... and behold things|as they truly are. Look, Don Quixote. Look in the mirror of reality. Look!|What seest thou, Don Quixote? A gallant knight?|Naught but an aging fool. Look, dost thou see him? A madman|dressed for a masquerade. A masquerade! Look, Don Quixote.|See him as he truly is. See the clown. Look, what seest thou,|Don Quixote? Look! Dost thou see him? A madman! Look, Don Quixote! See him as he truly is. Look, Don Quixote. Drown, Don Quixote. Drown in the mirror. Drown, Don Quixote.|Drown in the mirror. Go deep. Deep. Deep. Deep. Go deep. Deep. The masquerade is ended. Confess!|Thy lady is a trollop... and thy dream the nightmare|of a disordered mind. It is done. Your Grace, it is Dr. Carrasco. It is only Sanson Carrasco. Forgive me, Seņor Quijana.|It was the only way. Don Miguel de Cervantes? Who calls? Don Miguel. Cervantes! Cervantes! Don Miguel de Cervantes! Don Miguel de Cervantes! Prepare to be summoned. Summoned? By whom? The judges of the Inquisition. Captain? How long? Soon. But not yet. Good. You'll just have time|to finish your story. The story is finished. Of course.|Quite the proper ending. No, no, no! I don't like this ending! And I don't think|the jury likes it, either. Well, then. He's failed. Ah, Don Miguel de Cervantes. The court|hereby sentences you... - Wait!|- What for? - Time. I need time.|- I'll grant you that. But, uh, what about|the Inquisition? A few moments only.|I'll improvise an ending. A farmhouse|on the plains of La Mancha. Candle. A room in that house. When a man who once called|himself Don Quixote... lies in the shadows|between living and dying. Can you do nothing? I'm afraid there will be no|need of my services as a doctor. Where is he, I wonder? In what dark cavern|of the mind? - According to recent theory...|- Oh, Doctor, please. Don't you think I did right? There's the contradiction. You again! - Tell him to go away.|- What harm can he do? It's all been done. Your reverence?|Could I talk to him? I'm afraid|he won't be able to hear you. Well, then, I won't say much. No mention of knight-errantry. Oh, no. One does not speak|of the rope... in the house of the hanged. Proverb. Excuse me, Your Grace. - Your Grace?|- Just a few words. Little ones...|to lighten his heart. A little gossip A little chat A little idle talk|of this and that I'll tell him|all the troubles I have had And since he doesn't hear At least he won't feel bad Shh, shh. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, what a time|I've been having... since I got back, Your Grace. You know my wife Teresa,|how strong she is... muscles like a bull. Well, she beat me. She hit me with everything|but the house itself. And she yells at me... "Where's all the gold|and all the jewels... "you were going to bring back? "Where's that kingdom|you were going to conquer?" Well, I kept a dignified|silence, Your Grace... because there are some|questions you just can't answer. Like when a man yells, "What|are you doing with my wife?" That's a question|you just can't answer. Of course, I hit her back,|Your Grace. But she's a lot harder|than I am... and as the saying goes... "Whether the stone|hits the pitcher... "or the pitcher|hits the stone... "it's going to be bad|for the pitcher." So I've got bruises|from here to... Oh, I haven't fought|a windmill in a fortnight And the humble joys|get duller every day Why, when I'm asleep, a dragon|with his fiery tongue a-waggin' Whispers, Sancho, won't you|please come out and play? That's enough! - What did I do?|- I warned you. - I didn't do anything. I was...|- Please be quiet. My friend? Did Your Grace say something? You are a fat pudding... stuffed with proverbs. Oh, that's very well-known,|Your Grace. Well, as I was saying... - Uncle?|- My dear. Good morning, Father. Or is it evening? How do you feel, sir? I am but well. Can you speak your name? Should a man not know his name? If you would just say it. Alonso Quijana. Father? I am here, beside you. I wish to make a will. Yes. Of course. - Uncle?|- Forgive me. L... When I close my eyes,|I see a pale horse... and I am bid mount him. No, uncle, you will get well. Oh, my dear master's worship,|do not die... but live on many years. Dying is such a waste|of good health. Soft and fair, my dear ones. In last year's nests,|there are no birds this year. Come closer. I have dreamed so strangely. Oh, such dreams. I... thought|I had declared myself a... No, I dare not tell you,|lest you think me mad. - Put them from your mind.|- They are gone. Nor do I know what they meant. Father? Just speak, and I shall write. I, Alonso Quijana... with one foot in the stirrup... and all too ready|for the final ride... Don't admit anyone. Do hereby make the following|disposition of my estate. The bulk I leave to my beloved|niece Antonia Quijana... with the exception|of certain personal bequests... which are as follows... I will allow nobody|into that room! Get out of the way, you hag! - What is that, Sanson?|- It's that slut from the inn. I tried to stop her,|and she threatened to... Tear your eyes out|if you touch me again, by God! - Get out!|- Not before I see him! Let her be. In my house|there will be courtesy! Come closer, girl. What is it you wish? Don't you know me? Should I? I am Aldonza. I'm so sorry. L... I don't recall|anyone of that name. Oh, please, My Lord. Why do you say, "My Lord"? You are My Lord, Don Quixote. Don Quixote? Forgive me.|I am confused by shadows. It is possible I knew you once.|I do not remember. This way. Please try to remember. Is it so important? Everything. My whole life. You spoke to me. And everything was... different. I spoke to you? And you looked at me... and you called me|by another name. Dulcinea. Dulcinea Once you found a girl And called her Dulcinea When you spoke the name An angel seemed to whisper Dulcinea Dulcinea Then perhaps it was not a dream. You spoke of a dream... and about the quest. A quest? How you must fight? And it doesn't matter|whether you win or lose... if only you follow the quest. What did I say to you? Tell me the words. "To dream... "the impossible dream." But they are your own words. "To fight... "the unbeatable foe." Don't you remember? "To bear... "with unbearable sorrow." You must remember! "To run... "where the brave dare not go." To right... the unrightable wrong. Yes. To love... pure and chaste from afar. Yes. To try|when your arms are too weary. To reach the unreachable star. Thank you, My Lord. Milady! This is not seemly. On your knees to me? - But, My Lord, you're not well.|- Not well? What is sickness|to the body of a knight-errant? What matter wounds?|For each time he falls... he will rise again...|and woe to the wicked! - Sancho?|- Here, Your Grace! - My armor, my sword!|- More misadventures! Adventures, old friend! Oh, the trumpets of glory Now call me to rise Yes, the trumpets|are calling to me And wherever I ride Ever staunch at my side My squire and my lady will be I am I, Don Quixote The Lord of La Mancha Our destiny calls, and we go And the wild winds of fortune Will carry us onward Whithersoever they blow Whithersoever they blow Onward to glory we go Master! - Master!|- Uncle! Master. My Lord. De profundis clamo ad te Domine Domine Audi vocem meam Fiant aures tuae intentae Ad vocem abse creationis meae Si delictarum memorium Serva neris Domine Domine... He is dead. My master is dead. A man died. He seemed a good man... but I did not know him. But you saw. Don Quixote's not dead. Believe, Sancho. Believe. Aldonza... Dulcinea. Dulcinea. Under authority of the Holy|Office of the Inquisition... by reason of certain offenses... committed against His Majesty's|Most Catholic Church... the following is summoned|to give answer... and submit his person|for purification... if it be so ordered... Don Miguel de Cervantes. I am a popular defendant. Summoned before one court... before I've quite finished|with another. Well, what says this jury? You know, I think I know now|what this contains. The history of your mad knight. As much as is written. Read as well there|as you did here... and you may not burn. I have no intention of burning. Cervantes? I think Don Quixote... is brother to Cervantes. God help us.|We are both men of La Mancha. For me alone|was Don Quixote born... and I for him. I give him to you. Ready, old friend? Courage. To dream the impossible dream... to fight the unbeatable foe. To bear with unbearable sorrow To run|where the brave dare not go To run|where the brave dare not go Though the goal|be forever too far To try|though you're wayworn and weary To reach the unreachable star To reach the unreachable star Though you know|it's impossibly high To live with your heart|striving upward To a far Unattainable Star |
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