old gipsy also encouraged them to go in, and that decided the
question. As soon as they had entered the room, the cavalier of the
order, seeing the paper which Preciosa carried, stretched out his hand
to take it. "Do not take it from me," she said: "It is a romance but
just given to me, and which I have not yet had time to read."

"And do you know how to read, my girl?" said one of the cavaliers.

"Ay, and to write too," said the old woman. "I have brought up my
grandchild as if she was a lawyer's daughter."

The cavalier opened the paper, and finding a gold crown inclosed in it,
said, "Truly, Preciosa, the contents of this letter are worth the
postage. Here is a crown inclosed in the romance."

"The poet has treated me like a beggar," said Preciosa; "but it is
certainly a greater marvel for one of his trade to give a crown than for
one of mine to receive it. If his romances come to me with this
addition, he may transscribe the whole _Romancero General_ and send me
every piece in it one by one. I will weigh their merit; and if I find
there is good matter in them, I will not reject them. Read the paper
aloud, senor, that we may see if the poet is as wise as he is liberal."
The cavalier accordingly read as follows:--

Sweet gipsy girl, whom envy's self
Must own of all fair maids the fairest,
Ah! well befits thy stony heart
The name thou, Preciosa,[66] bearest.

If as in beauty, so in pride
And cruelty thou grow to sight,
Woe worth the land, woe worth the age
Which brought thy fatal charms to light.

A basilisk in thee we see,
Which fascinates our gaze and kills.
No empire mild is thine, but one
That tyrannises o'er our wills.

How grew such charms 'mid gipsy tribes,
From roughest blasts without a shield?
How such a perfect chrysolite
Could humble Manzanares yield?

River, for this thou shalt be famed,
Like Tagus with its golden show,
And more for Preciosa prized
Than Ganges with its lavish flow.

In telling fortunes who can say
What dupes to ruin thou beguilest?
Good luck thou speak'st with smiling lips.
But luckless they on whom thou smilest!

Tis said they're witches every one,
The women of the gipsy race;
And all men may too plainly see
That thou hast witchcraft in thy face.

A thousand different modes are thine
To turn the brain; for rest or move,