Constant love beyond death

Quevedo wrote extensively about love and in this case, about how love survives even death, if love is true.

The last one can close my eyes
shadow that the white day will take me;
and will be able to untie this soul of mine
time to his anxious desire flattery;

but not from that other part on the bank
will leave the memory, where it burned;
swimming knows my name is the cold water,
and lose respect for severe law.

Soul to whom a god has been a prison,
veins that have given humor to so much fire,
marrows, which have gloriously burned,

his body will leave, not his care;
They will be ashes, the more they will have meaning;
dust they will be, more dust in love.

I looked at the walls of my homeland

Poetry dedicated to his land, his environment, his nature, in which the author confesses his love for her.

I looked at the walls of my country,
If once strong, already crumbling,
from the race of the tired age,
for whom his courage already expires.

Go out to the field; I saw that the sun was drinking
the streams of ice unleashed,
and the cattle complain from the mountain,
that with shadows stole its light from the day.

I entered my house; I saw that, stained,
The old room was ruins;
my staff, more curved and less strong.

Defeated by age I felt my sword,
and I couldn’t find anything to put my eyes on
that it was not a memory of death.

satirical romance

The poet had a negative fixation with some professions, among them especially that of doctors, to whom he dedicated some of his most famous satires, like the one we leave you below.

Well you make me a matchmaker,
Angela de Mondragón,
listen to your husband
the greatness and the value.

He is an honest doctor,
by the grace of the Lord,
which has very good lyrics
in the change and the bag.

Who painted you as a coward?
He doesn’t know him, and he lied,
that more living men have died
that the Cid Campeador killed.

On entering a house
has such a reputation,
which the children then say:
«God forgive him who died.»

And with everyone being mortal
The Doctors, I think
that they are all venial,
compared to the Dotor.

To the walker, in the towns
information is requested,
fearing it more than the plague
whether you know him or not.

From similar doctors
makes the King our Lord
bombard their castles,
muskets to his squad.

If he heals anyone, and he does not die,
he thinks he was resurrected,
and by miracle he offers
the shroud and the cord.

If perhaps being at home
hear some clamor,
taking paper and ink
He writes: «He passed before me.»

No one has died
of those who heal to this day,
because before they die
He kills them without confession.

Of envy of the executioners
curses the Corregidor,
what about the hanged
He doesn’t want to give him a pension.

Some think it is death;
others, seeing its rigor,
They call it the day of judgment,
Well, it’s total loss.

He doesn’t eat to gain weight,
not even for the sweet taste,
but to kill hunger,
which is killing your inclination.

To kill kill the lights,
and if the sun does not shine on him,
how a bat lives
in the shadow of a corner.

His mule, although it is not dead,
don’t think that he escaped,
who is dead lucky
which is going to be worse.

He who looks so famous
and in such good estimation,
attentive to your beauty,
He has fallen in love with you.

He does not ask you to give him more dowry
to see that you kill with love,
that in killing somehow
for in one you are both.

Marry him, and never
widow you will have passion,
than ever the same death
It was heard that he died.

If you do, I pray to God
May you rejoice with blessing;
but if not, free us
to meet the Doctor.