The Sun Over Breda

In regard to my own condition, I am writing to you having recently emerged from an abominable flux of humors that, evincing itself in fevers, had laid me low for several days. Now, thanks to a merciful God, I am fine and can send you both my constant affection and my greetings.

I hazard that you are deeply engaged in the affair at Breda, which is a business that buzzes from mouth to mouth at Court because of its importance to the future of our monarchy and to the Catholic faith, and also because it is said that the military machine set in motion has seen no equal since the days when Julius Caesar besieged Alesia. Here it is ventured that the stronghold will be definitively won from the Dutch and that it will fall like a ripe plum…although there is always someone who points out that don Ambrosio Spínola is taking his time and that ripe fruit must be eaten in season or it becomes full of worms. Whatever the case, since you have never lacked a sturdy heart, I wish you good fortune in the assaults, trenches, mines, countermines, and other diabolical inventions that keep you engaged in such clamorous affairs.

Once, I heard Y.M. say that war is clean, and I understood your argument fully, to the point that at times I cannot but consider you to be correct. Here in La Villa y Corte, our city of Madrid, the enemy does not wear breastplate and helmet but, rather, toga, cassock, or silk doublet, and he never attacks face on but prefers ambush. In that particular, please know that everything is as it has always been, only worse. I have faith still in the intent of the conde-duque, but I fear that not even his desires will prevail. We Spanish have fewer tears than reasons to weep, for it is a vain labor to offer light to the blind, words to the deaf, science to the ignorant, and honor to monarchs. Here the same types continue to flourish: the blond and powerful caballero is still soldier, horse, and king in any matter, and he who is honest does naught but harm himself. As for me, I continue to make no progress in my eternal suit concerning the Torre de Juan Abad, each day battling this wretched and venal legal system and its practitioners that God, weary of confining monstrosities to hell, instead visits upon us. And I assure you, Capitán, that never before have I found myself among such toads as those in the Providencia square. And regarding that subject, please allow me to regale you with a sonnet inspired by my recent calamities: