Este tipo altamente apreciable ha existido ya muy a menudo; pero como un caso afortunado, como una emoción, no fue nunca querido. Quizás, por el cont… - Miguel de Cervantes

"How can you say that?" retorted Don Quixote. "Do you not hear the neighing of the horses, the blaring of the trumpets, and the rattling of the drums?"
"All I can hear," replied Sancho, "is lots of sheep bleating."

All I know is that while I’m asleep, I’m never afraid, and I have no hopes, no struggles, no glories — and bless the man who invented sleep, a cloak over all human thought, food that drives away hunger, water that banishes thirst, fire that heats up cold, chill that moderates passion, and, finally, universal currency with which all things can be bought, weight and balance that brings the shepherd and the king, the fool and the wise, to the same level. There’s only one bad thing about sleep, as far as I’ve ever heard, and that is that it resembles death, since there’s very little difference between a sleeping man and a corpse.

we were taking his bones to be buried in his tomb in Segovia, his home town.’1 ‘And who killed him?’ asked Don Quixote. ‘God did, with a pestilential fever,’ replied the bachelor of arts. ‘That means,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that Our Lord has relieved me of the task I would have had of avenging his death, if anybody else had killed him; but seeing who it was that killed him, all one can do is shrug one’s shoulders and be silent, for that is what I should do if he had killed me.