He stood like Atlas, with a world of words

About his ears, and nathless would not bend;

The blood of all his line's Castilian lords

Boiled in his veins, and, rather than descend

To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords

A thousand times of him had made an end;

At length perceiving the "foot" could not stand,

Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand,