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,
    Speak, sing, be mute, approach, retire,
      Thou kindlest still the fire of love.

    The freest hearts bend to thy sway,
      And lose the pride of liberty;
    Bear witness mine, thy captive thrall,
      Which would not, if it could, be free.

    These lines, thou precious gem of love,
      Whose praise all power of verse transcend,
    He who for thee will live or die,
      Thy poor and humble lover sends.

[66] Piedra preciosa, precious stone.

“The poem ends with ‘poor’ in the last line,” said Preciosa; “and that is a bad sign.  Lovers should never begin by saying that they are poor, for poverty, it strikes me, is a great enemy to love.”

“Who teaches you these things, girl?” said one of the cavaliers.

“Who should teach me?” she replied.  “Have I not a soul in my body?  Am I not fifteen years of age?  I am neither lame, nor halt, nor maimed in my understanding.  The wit of a gipsy girl steers by a different compass from that which guides other people.  They are always forward for their years.  There is no such thing as a stupid gitano, or a silly gitana.  Since it is only by being sharp and ready that they can earn a livelihood, they polish their wits at every step, and by no means let the moss grow under their feet.  You see these girls, my companions, who are so silent.  You may think they are simpletons, but put your fingers in their mouths to see if they have cut their wise teeth; and then you shall see what you shall see.  There is not a gipsy girl of twelve who does not know as much as one of another race at five-and-twenty, for they have the devil and much practice for instructors, so that they learn in one hour what would otherwise take them a year.”