WOE TO THE WICKED

DON QUIXOTE 

(Growing in power) 

Not well?  

What is sickness to the body of a knight-errant?  

What matter wounds?  

For each time he falls he shall rise again – 

and woe to the wicked!  

(A lusty bellow) 

Sancho!

 

SANCHO  

Here, your Grace!

 

DON QUIXOTE  

My armor!  My sword!

 

SANCHO  

(Delightedly, clapping his hands) 

More misadventures!

 

DON QUIXOTE  

Adventures, old friend!  

(Rising from the bed, and as ALDONZA and SANCHO support him on either side, he sings)

 

Oh the trumpets of glory 

Now call me to ride, 

Yes, the trumpets are calling to me

And wherever I ride, 

every staunch at my side, 

My squire and My Lady shall be –

I am I, 

Don Quixote—

 

DON QUIXOTE, 

ALDONZA, 

and 

SANCHO

The Lord of LaMancha 

Our destiny calls and we go!

And the wild winds of fortune shall carry us onward

Oh, withersoever... 

(DON QUIXOTE falters)

 

ALDONZA 

(A cry of apprehension) 

My Lord--!

 

SANCHO  

Master--!

 

DON QUIXOTE 

(Reassuring them, sings on)

Withersoever they blow, 

Onward to glory – 

(A sudden cry. A whisper)

I... go... 

(He crumples to the floor)