Part 34

Yet did divine Ulysses keep his roof, And with Minerva plotted still the proof Of all the Wooers’ deaths; when thus his son He taught with these fore-counsels: “We must run A close course with these arms, and lay them by, And to the Wooers make so fair a sky As it would never thunder. Let me then, That you may well retain, repeat again What in Eumæus’ cottage I advis’d: If when they see no leisure exercis’d, In fetching down your arms, and ask what use Your mind will give them, say, ’tis their abuse With smoke and rust that makes you take them down, This not being like the armory well-known To be the leavings of Laertes’ son Consorting the design for Ilion; Your eyes may see how much they are infected, As all fires’ vapours ever since reflected On those sole arms. Besides, a graver thought Jove graves within you, lest, their spirits wrought Above their pitch with wine, they might contend At some high banquet, and to wounds transcend, Their feast inverting; which, perhaps, may be Their nuptial feast with wise Penelopé. _The ready weapon, when the blood is up, Doubles the uproar heighten’d by the cup. Wrath’s means for act, curb all the ways ye can, As loadstones draw the steel, so steel draws man._ Retain these words; nor what is good think, thus Receiv’d at second hand, superfluous.” The son, obeying, did Euryclea call, And bade her shut in th’ utter porches all The other women, till himself brought down His father’s arms, which all were overgrown By his neglect with rust, his father gone, And he too-childish to spend thoughts upon Those manly implements; but he would now Reform those young neglects, and th’ arms bestow Past reach of smoke. The loving nurse replied: “I wish, O son, your pow’rs would once provide For wisdom’s habit, see your household were In thrifty manage, and tend all things there. But if these arms must down, and ev’ry maid Be shut in utter rooms, who else should aid Your work with light?” He answer’d: “This my guest. There shall no one in my house taste my feast, Or join in my nave, that shall idly live,[1] However far hence he his home derive.” He said, and his words stood. The doors she shut Of that so well-fill’d house. And th’ other put Their thoughts in act; best shields, helms, sharpen’d lances, Brought down; and Pallas before both advances A golden cresset, that did cast a light As if the Day sat in the throne of Night. When, half-amaz’d, the prince said: “O my father, Mine eyes my soul’s pow’rs all in wonder gather, For though the walls, and goodly wind-beams here, All all these pillars, that their heads so rear, And all of fir, they seem yet all of fire. Some God is surely with us.” His wise sire Bade peace, and keep the counsels of the Gods, Nor ask a word: “These Pow’rs, that use abodes Above the stars, have pow’r from thence to shine Through night and all shades to earth’s inmost mine. Go thou for sleep, and leave me here to wake The women, and the Queen whose heart doth ache To make inquiry for myself of me.” He went to sleep where lights did endlessly Burn in his night-rooms; where he feasted rest, Till day’s fair weed did all the world invest. Thus was divine Ulysses left alone With Pallas, plotting foul confusion To all the Wooers. Forth then came the Queen; Phœbe, with golden Cytherea seen, Her port presented. Whom they set a chair Aside the fire, the fashion circular, The substance silver and rich elephant; Whose fabric did the cunning finger vaunt Of great Icmalius, who besides had done A footstool for her that did suit her throne, On which they cast an ample skin, to be The cushion for her other royalty. And there she sat; about whom came her maids, Who brought upon a table store of breads, And bowls that with the Wooers’ wine were crown’d. The embers then they cast upon the ground From out the lamps, and other fuel added, That still with cheerful flame the sad house gladded. Melantha seeing still Ulysses there, Thus she held out her spleen: “Still, stranger, here? Thus late in night? To see what ladies do? Avaunt you, wretch, hence, go without doors, go; And quickly, too, lest ye be singed away With burning firebrands.” He, thus seeing their fray Continued by her with such spleen, replied: “Minion! What makes your angry blood thus chide My presence still? Is it because you see I shine not in your wanton bravery, But wear these rags? It fits the needy fate That makes me beg thus of the common state. Such poor souls, and such beggars, yet are men; And ev’n my mean means means had to maintain A wealthy house, and kept a manly press, Was counted blessed, and the poor access Of any beggar did not scorn, but feed, With often hand, and any man of need Reliev’d as fitted; kept my servants, too, Not few, but did with those additions go That call choice men _The Honest_, who are styl’d The rich, the great. But what such great ones build Jove oft pulls down, as thus he ruin’d me; His will was such, which is his equity. And therefore, woman, bear you fitting hand On your behaviour, lest your spirit thus mann’d, And cherish’d with your beauties, when they wane, Comes down, your pride now being then your bane; And in the mean space shun the present danger, Lest your bold fashion breed your sov’reign’s anger, Or lest Ulysses come, of whom ev’n yet Hope finds some life in Fate. Or, be his seat Amongst the merely ruin’d, yet his son, Whose life’s heat Phœbus saves, is such a one As can discover who doth well deserve Of any woman here his years now serve.” The Queen gave ear, and thus suppress’d the flame: “Thou quite without a brow, past female shame, I hear thy monstrous boldness, which thy head Shall pay me pains for. Thou hast heard it said, And from myself too, and ev’ry part Thy knowledge serves thee, that, to ease my heart So punish’d in thy witness, my desire Dwelt on this stranger, that I might inquire My lost friend’s being. But ’tis ever tried, _Both man and God are still forgot with pride._ Eurynomé, bring here this guest a seat, And cushion on it, that we two may treat Of the affair in question. Set it near, That I may softly speak, yet he well hear.” She did this little freely; and he sat Close by the Queen, who ask’d him, Whence, and what He was himself? And what th’ inhabited place Where liv’d his parents? Whence he fetch’d his race? “O woman,” he replied, “with whom no man, That moves in earth’s unbounded circle, can Maintain contention for true honour giv’n, Whose fame hath reach’d the fairly-flowing heav’n, Who, like a never-ill-deserving king, That is well-spoke of, first, for worshipping, And striving to resemble God in empire; Whose equal hand impartially doth temper Greatness and Goodness; to whom therefore bears The black earth store of all grain, trees confers Cracking with burthen, long-liv’d herds creates, All which the sea with her sorts emulates; And all this feeds beneath his pow’rful hand Men, valiant, many, making strong his land With happy lives led; nothing else the cause Of all these blessings, but well-order’d laws; Like such a king are you, in love, in fame, And all the bliss that deifies a dame. And therefore do not mix this with a moan So wretched as is now in question; Ask not my race nor country, lest you fill My heart yet fuller with repeated ill; For I must follow it with many tears, Though ’tis not seemly to sit wounding ears In public roofs with our particular life. _Time’s worst expense is still-repeated grief._ I should be irksome to your ladies here, And you yourself would say you urg’d your ear To what offends it, my still-broken eyne Supposing wounded with your too-much wine.” “Stranger,” said she, “you fear your own excess With giving me too great a nobleness. The Gods my person, beauty, virtue too, Long since subverted, when the Ilion woe The Greek design attempted; in which went My praise and honour. In his government Had I deserv’d your utmost grace, but now Sinister Deity makes dishonour woo, In show of grace, my ruin. All the peers Sylvan Zacynthus, and Dulichius, spheres, Samos and Ithaca, strange strifes have shown To win me, spending on me all mine own; Will wed me, in my spite; and these are those That take from me all virtue to dispose Or guest or suppliant, or take any course Amongst my heralds, that should all disburse, To order anything. Though I need none To give me grief at home, abroad errs one That my veins shrink for, whom these holding gone, Their nuptials hasten, and find me as slow. Good spirits prompted me to make a show Of undertaking a most curious task, That an unmeasur’d space of time would ask; Which they enduring long would often say, When ends thy work? I soon had my delay, And pray’d their stay; for though my lord were dead, His father’s life yet matter ministred That must employ me; which, to tell them true, Was that great work I nam’d. For now near drew Laertes’ death, and on my hand did lie His funeral-robe, whose end, being now so nigh, I must not leave, and lose so much begun, The rather lest the Greek dames might be won To tax mine honour, if a man so great Should greet his grave without his winding sheet. Pride made them credulous, and I went on; When whatsoever all the day had done I made the night help to undo again, Though oil and watch it cost, and equal pain. Three years my wit secur’d me undiscern’d, Yet, when the fourth came, by my maids discern’d, False careless wenches, how they were deluded; When, by my light discern’d, they all intruded, Used threat’ning words, and made me give it end; And then could I to no more length extend My linger’d nuptials; not a counsel more Was to be stood upon; my parents bore Continual hand on me to make me wed; My son grew angry that so ruinéd His goods were by them. He is now a man Wise in a great degree, and one that can Himself give order to his household fare; And Jove give equal glory to his care. But thus you must not pass me; I must know, It may be for more end, from whence doth grow Your race and you; for I suppose you none Sprung of old oak, or justled out of stone.” He answer’d: “O Ulysses’ rev’rend wife! Yet hold you purpose to inquire my life? I’ll tell you, though it much afflict me more Than all the sorrows I have felt before. As worthily it may, since so long time As I have wander’d from my native clime, Through human cities, and in suff’rance still, To rip all wounds up, though of all their ill I touch but part, must actuate all their pain. But, ask you still, I’ll tell, though still sustain. In middle of the sable sea there lies An isle call’d Crete, a ravisher of eyes, Fruitful, and mann’d with many an infinite store; Where ninety cities crown the famous shore, Mix’d with all-languag’d men. There Greeks survive, There the great-minded Eteocretans live, There the Dorensians never out of war, The Cydons there, and there the singular Pelasgian people. There doth Cnossus stand, That mighty city, where had most command Great Jove’s disciple, Minos, who nine years Conferr’d with Jove, both great familiars In mutual counsels. And this Minos’ son, The mighty-minded king Deucalion, Was sire to me and royal Idomen, Who with Atrides went to Ilion then, My elder brother and the better man, My name Aethon. At that time began My knowledge of Ulysses, whom my home Receiv’d with guest-rites. He was thither come By force of weather, from the Malean coast But new got off, where he the navy lost, Then under sail for Troy, and wind-bound lay Long in Amnisus; hardly got away From horrid storms, that made him anchor there, In havens that sacred to Lucina were, Dreadful and dang’rous, in whose bosom crept Lucina’s cavern. But in my roof slept Ulysses, shor’d in Crete; who first inquir’d For royal Idomen, and much desir’d To taste his guest-rites, since to him had been A welcome guest my brother Idomen. The tenth or ’leventh light on Ulysses shin’d In stay at Crete, attending then the wind For threaten’d Ilion. All which time my house With love and entertainments curious Embrac’d his person, though a number more My hospitable roofs receiv’d before, His men I likewise call’d, and from the store Allow’d them meal and heat-exciting wine, And oxen for their slaughter, to confine In my free hand the utmost of their need. Twelve days the Greeks stay’d, ere they got them freed, A gale so bitter blew out of the north, That none could stand on earth, being tumbled forth By some stern God. But on the thirteenth day The tempest ceas’d, and then went Greeks their way.” Thus many tales Ulysses told his wife, At most but painting, yet most like the life; Of which her heart such sense took through her ears, It made her weep as she would turn to tears. And as from off the mountains melts the snow, Which Zephyr’s breath conceal’d, but was made flow By hollow Eurus, which so fast pours down, That with their torrent floods have overflown; So down her fair cheeks her kind tears did glide, Her miss’d lord mourning set so near her side. Ulysses much was mov’d to see her mourn, Whose eyes yet stood as dry as iron or horn In his untroubled lids, which in his craft Of bridling passion he from issue saft. When she had giv’n her moan so many tears, That now ’twas satiate, her yet loving fears Ask’d thus much further: “You have thus far tried My love’s credulity, but if gratified With so long stay he was with you, you can Describe what weed he wore, what kind of man Both he himself was, and what followers Observ’d him there.” “Alas,” said he, “the years Have grown so many since—this making now Their twentieth revolution—that my show Of these slight notes will set my memory sore, But, to my now remembrance, this he wore: A double purple robe, drawn close before With golden buttons, plaited thick, and bore A facing where a hundred colours shin’d. About the skirts a hound a freckled hind In full course hunted; on the fore skirts, yet, He pinch’d and pull’d her down, when with her feet, And all her force, she struggled hard for flight. Which had such life in gold, that to the sight It seem’d the hind itself for ev’ry hue, The hound and all so answering the view, That all admir’d all. I observ’d beside His inner weed, so rarely beautified That dumb amaze it bred, and was as thin As any dry and tender onion skin; As soft ’twas, too, and glister’d like the sun. The women were to loving wonder won By him and by his weeds. But, by the way, You must excuse me, that I cannot say He brought this suit from home, or had it there Sent for some present, or, perhaps, elsewhere Receiv’d it for his guest-gift; for your lord Had friends not few, the fleet did not afford Many that had not fewer. I bestow’d A well-edg’d sword on him, a robe that flow’d In folds and fulness, and did reach his feet, Of richest purple; brought him to his fleet With all my honour; and besides, to add To all this sifted circumstance, he had A herald there, in height a little more Put from the earth, that thicker shoulders wore, A swarth complexion and a curléd head, His name Eurybates; and much in stead He stood your king, employ’d in most command, Since most of all his mind could understand.” When all these signs she knew for chiefly true, Desire of moan upon her beauties grew, And yet, ev’n that desire suffic’d, she said: “Till this, my guest, a wretched state array’d Your ill-us’d person, but from this hour forth You shall be honour’d, and find all the worth That fits a friend. Those weeds these hands bestow’d From out my wardrobe; those gold buttons sew’d Before for closure and for ornament. But never more must his return present The person that gave those adornments state; And therefore, under an abhorréd fate, Was he induc’d to feed the common fame, To visit vile Troy, ay too vile to name.” “No more yet mourn,” said he, “nor thus see pin’d Your lovely person. _Weeping wastes the mind._ And yet I blame you not; for any dame That weds one young, and brings to him his name, Whatever man he is, will mourn his loss. Much more respectful then must show your woes That weep thus for Ulysses, who, Fame says, Was equal with the Gods in all his ways. But where no cause is there must be no moan, And therefore hear me, my relation Shall lay the clear truth naked to your view: I heard amongst the Thesprots for most true, That lord Ulysses liv’d, and stood just now On his return for home; that wealth did flow In his possession, which he made not known, But begg’d amongst the people, since alone He quite was left, for all his men were lost In getting off from the Trinacrian coast; Jove and the Sun was wroth with them for rape Made of his oxen, and no man let ’scape The rugged deeps of Neptune; only he, The ship’s keel only keeping, was by sea Cast on the fair Phæacian continent, Where men survive that are the Gods’ descent, And like a God receiv’d him, gave him heaps Of wealthy gifts, and would conduct his steps Themselves safe home; which he might long ago His pleasure make, but profit would not so. He gather’d going, and had mighty store Of gold in safeguard; so beyond the shore That common sails kept, his high flood of wit Bore glorious top, and all the world for it Hath far exceeded. All this Phædon told, That doth the sceptre of Thesprotia hold, Who swore to me, in household sacrifice, The ship was launch’d, and men to man the prise, That soon should set him on his country earth, Show’d me the goods, enough to serve the birth That in the tenth age of his seed should spring, Yet in his court contain’d. But then the king, Your husband, for Dodona was in way, That from th’ Oraculous Oak he might display Jove’s will what course for home would best prevail, To come in pomp, or bear a secret sail. But me the king dispatch’d in course before, A ship then bound for the Dulichian shore. So thus you see his safety whom you mourn; Who now is passing near, and his return No more will punish with delays, but see His friends and country. All which truth to thee I’ll seal with sacred oath. Be witness, Jove, Thou first and best of all the thron’d above! And thou house of the great Laertes’ heir, To whose high roofs I tender my repair, That what I tell the Queen event shall crown! This year Ulysses shall possess his own, Nay ere the next month ends shall here arrive, Nay, ere it enters, here abide alive!” “O may this prove,” said she; “gifts, friendship, then Should make your name the most renown’d of men. But ’tis of me receiv’d, and must so sort, That nor my lord shall ever see his court, Nor you gain your deduction thence, for now The alter’d house doth no such man allow As was Ulysses, if he ever were, To entertain a rev’rend passenger, And give him fair dismission. But, maids, see Ye bathe his feet, and then with tapestry, Best sheets and blankets, make his bed, and lay Soft waistcoats by him, that, lodg’d warm, he may Ev’n till the golden-seated morning’s ray Enjoy good rest; and then, with her first light, Bathe, and give alms, that cherish’d appetite He may apply within our hall, and sit Safe by Telemachus. Or, if th’ unfit And harmful mind of any be so base To grieve his age again, let none give grace Of doing any deed he shall command, How wroth soever, to his barbarous hand. For how shall you, guest, know me for a dame That pass so far, nay, turn and wind the fame Of other dames for wisdom, and the frame Of household usage, if your poor thin weeds I let draw on you want, and worser deeds, That may, perhaps, cause here your latest day? _The life of man is short and flies away._ And if the ruler’s self of households be Ungentle, studying inhumanity, The rest prove worse, but he bears all the blame; All men will, living, vow against his name Mischiefs and miseries, and, dead, supply With bitter epitaphs his memory. But if himself be noble—noble things Doing and knowing—all his underlings Will imitate his noblesse, and all guests Give it, in many, many interests.” “But, worthiest Queen,” said he, “where you command Baths and rich beds for me, I scorn to stand On such state now nor ever thought it yet, Since first I left the snowy hills of Crete. When once I fell a-shipboard those thoughts fled; I love to take now, as long since, my bed. Though I began the use with sleepless nights, I many a darkness with right homely rites Have spent ere this hour, and desir’d the morn Would come, and make sleep to the world a scorn. Nor run these dainty baths in my rude head; Nor any handmaid, to your service bred, Shall touch my ill-kept feet, unless there live Some poor old drudge here, that hath learn’d to give Old men good usage, and no work will fly, As having suffer’d ill as much as I. But if there live one such in your command, I will not shame to give my foot her hand.” She gave this answer: “O my lovéd guest, There never enter’d these kind roofs for rest Stranger or friend that so much wisdom laid In gage for guest-rites, as your lips have paid. There lives an old maid in my charge that knows The good you speak of by her many woes; That nourish’d and brought up, with curious care, Th’ unhappy man; your old familiar, Ev’n since his mother let him view the light, And oft hath felt in her weak arms his weight; And she, though now much weaker, shall apply Her maiden service to your modesty. Euryclea, rise, and wash the feet of one That is of one age with your sov’reign gone, Such hands, such feet hath, though of alter’d grace. _Much grief in men will bring on change apace.”_ She, from her aged slumber wak’d, did clear Her heavy eyes, and instantly, to hear Her sov’reign’s name, had work enough to dry Her cheeks from tears, and to his memory These moans did offer: “O my son,” said she, “I never can take grief enough for thee, Whom Goodness hurts, and whom ev’n Jove’s high spleen, Since thou art Jove-like, hates the most of men. For none hath offer’d him so many thighs, Nor such whole hecatombs of sacrifice, Fat and selected, as thy zeal hath done; For all, but praying that thy noble son, Thy happy age might see at state of man. And yet hath Jove with mists Cimmerian Put out the light of his returning day. And as yourself, O father, in your way Took these fair roofs for hospitable rites, Yet find, for them, our dogged women’s spites; So he, in like course, being driven to proof, Long time ere this, what such a royal roof Would yield his mis’ries, found such usage there. And you, now flying the foul language here, And many a filthy fact of our fair dames, Fly me like them, and put on causeless shames To let me cleanse your feet. For not the cause The Queen’s command yields is the pow’r that draws My will to wash your feet, but what I do Proceeds from her charge and your rev’rence too; Since I in soul am stricken with a ruth Of your distresses, and past show of truth;[2] Your strangeness claiming little interest In my affections. And yet many a guest Of poor condition hath been harbour’d here, But never any did so right appear Like king Ulysses as yourself, for state Both of your stature, voice, and very gait.” “So all have said,” said he, “that ever yet Had the proportions of our figures met In their observance; so right your eye Proves in your soul your judging faculty.” Thus took she up a caldron brightly scour’d, To cleanse his feet in; and into it pour’d Store of cold wave, which on the fire she set; And therein bath’d, being temperately heat, Her sov’reign’s feet. Who turn’d him from the light, Since suddenly he doubted her conceit, So rightly touching at his state before, A scar now seeing on his foot, that bore An old note, to discern him, might descry The absolute truth; which, witness’d by her eye, Was straight approv’d. He first receiv’d this sore As in Parnassus’ tops a white-tooth’d boar He stood in chase withal, who struck him there, At such time as he liv’d a sojourner With his grandsire, Autolycus; who th’ art Of theft and swearing (not out of the heart, But by equivocation) first adorn’d Your witty man withal, and was suborn’d By Jove’s descent, ingenious Mercury, Who did bestow it, since so many a thigh Of lambs and kids he had on him bestow’d In sacred flames, who therefore when he vow’d Was ever with him. And this man impos’d Ulysses’ name, the light being first disclos’d To his first sight then, when his grandsire came To see the then preferrer of his fame, His lovéd daughter. The first supper done, Euryclea put in his lap her son, And pray’d him to bethink and give his name, Since that desire did all desires inflame. “Daughter and son-in-law,” said he, “let then The name that I shall give him stand with men. Since I arriv’d here at the hour of pain, In which mine own kind entrails did sustain Moan for my daughter’s yet unended throes, And when so many men’s and women’s woes, In joint compassion met of human birth, Brought forth t’ attend the many-feeding earth, Let Odyssëus be his name, as one[3] Expos’d to just constraint of all men’s moan. When here at home he is arriv’d at state Of man’s first youth he shall initiate His practis’d feet in travel made abroad, And to Parnassus, where mine own abode And chief means lie, address his way, where I Will give him from my open’d treasury What shall return him well, and fit the fame Of one that had the honour of his name.” For these fair gifts he went, and found all grace Of hands and words in him and all his race. Amphithea, his mother’s mother, too, Applied her to his love, withal, to do In grandame’s welcomes, both his fair eyes kist, And brows; and then commanded to assist Were all her sons by their respected sire In furnishing a feast, whose ears did fire Their minds with his command; who home straight led A five-years-old male ox, fell’d, slew, and flay’d, Gather’d about him, cut him up with art, Spitted, and roasted, and his ev’ry part Divided orderly. So all the day They spent in feast; no one man went his way Without his fit fill. When the sun was set, And darkness rose, they slept, till day’s fire het Th’ enlighten’d earth; and then on hunting went Both hounds and all Autolycus’ descent. In whose guide did divine Ulysses go, Climb’d steep Parnassus, on whose forehead grow All sylvan offsprings round. And Soon they reach’d The concaves, whence air’s sounding vapours fetch’d Their loud descent. As soon as any sun Had from the ocean, where his waters run In silent deepness, rais’d his golden head, The early huntsmen all the hill had spread, Their hounds before them on the searching trail, They near, and ever eager to assail: Ulysses brandishing a lengthful lance, Of whose first flight he long’d to prove the chance. Then found they lodg’d a boar of bulk extreme, In such a queach as never any beam The sun shot pierc’d, nor any pass let find The moist impressions of the fiercest wind, Nor any storm the sternest winter drives, Such proof it was; yet all within lay leaves In mighty thickness; and through all this flew The hounds’ loud mouths. The sounds the tumult threw, And all together, rous’d the boar, that rush’d Amongst their thickest, all his bristles push’d From forth his rough neck, and with flaming eyes Stood close, and dar’d all. On which horrid prise Ulysses first charg’d; whom above the knee The savage struck, and rac’d it crookedly Along the skin, yet never reach’d the bone. Ulysses’ lance yet through him quite was thrown, At his right shoulder ent’ring, at his left The bright head passage to his keenness cleft, And show’d his point gilt with the gushing gore. Down in the dust fell the extended boar, And forth his life flew. To Ulysses round His uncle drew; who, woeful for his wound, With all art bound it up, and with a charm Stay’d straight the blood, went home, and, when the harm Receiv’d full cure, with gifts, and all event Of joy and love to his lov’d home they sent Their honour’d nephew; whose return his sire And rev’rend mother took with joys entire, Enquir’d all passages, all which he gave In good relation, nor of all would save His wound from utt’rance; by whose scar he came To be discover’d by this aged dame. Which when she cleansing felt, and noted well, Down from her lap into the caldron fell His weighty foot, that made the brass resound, Turn’d all aside, and on th’ embrewéd ground Spilt all the water. Joy and grief together Her breast invaded; and of weeping weather Her eyes stood full; her small voice stuck within Her part expressive; till at length his chin She took and spake to him: “O son,” said she, “Thou art Ulysses, nor canst other be; Nor could I know thee yet, till all my king I had gone over with the warméd spring.” Then look’d she for the Queen to tell her all; And yet knew nothing sure, though nought could fall In compass of all thoughts to make her doubt, Minerva that distraction struck throughout Her mind’s rapt forces that she might not tell. Ulysses, noting yet her aptness well, With one hand took her chin, and made all show Of favour to her, with the other drew Her offer’d parting closer, ask’d her why She, whose kind breast had nurs’d so tenderly His infant life, would now his age destroy, Though twenty years had held him from the joy Of his lov’d country? But, since only she, God putting her in mind, now knew ’twas he, He charg’d her silence, and to let no ear In all the court more know his being there, Lest, if God gave into his wreakful hand Th’ insulting Wooers’ lives, he did not stand On any partial respect with her, Because his nurse, and to the rest prefer Her safety therefore, but, when they should feel His punishing finger, give her equal steel. “What words,” said she, “fly your retentive pow’rs? You know you lock your counsels in your tow’rs In my firm bosom, and that I am far From those loose frailties. Like an iron bar, Or bolt of solid’st stone, I will contain; And tell you this besides; that if you gain, By God’s good aid, the Wooers’ lives in yours, What dames are here their shameless paramours; And have done most dishonour to your worth, My information well shall paint you forth.” “It shall not need,” said he, “myself will soon, While thus I mask here, set on ev’ry one My sure observance of the worst and best. Be thou then silent, and leave God the rest.” This said, the old dame for more water went, The rest was all upon the pavement spent By known Ulysses’ foot. More brought, and he Supplied beside with sweetest ointments, she His seat drew near the fire, to keep him warm, And with his piec’d rags hiding close his harm. The Queen came near, and said: “Yet, guest, afford Your further patience, till but in a word I’ll tell my woes to you; for well I know That Rest’s sweet hour her soft foot orders now, When all poor men, how much soever griev’d, Would gladly get their woe-watch’d pow’rs reliev’d. But God hath giv’n my grief a heart so great It will not down with rest, and so I set My judgment up to make it my delight. All day I mourn, yet nothing let the right I owe my charge both in my work and maids; And when the night brings rest to others’ aids I toss my bed; Distress, with twenty points, Slaught’ring the pow’rs that to my turning joints Convey the vital heat. And as all night Pandareus’ daughter, poor Edone, sings, Clad in the verdure of the yearly springs, When she for Itylus, her lovéd son, By Zethus’ issue in his madness done To cruel death, pours out her hourly moan, And draws the ears to her of ev’ry one; So flows my moan that cuts in two my mind, And here and there gives my discourse the wind, Uncertain whether I shall with my son Abide still here, the safe possession And guard of all goods, rev’rence to the bed Of my lov’d lord, and to my far-off spread Fame with the people, putting still in use, Or follow any best Greek I can chuse To his fit house, with treasure infinite, Won to his nuptials. While the infant plight And want of judgment kept my son in guide, He was not willing with my being a bride, Nor with my parting from his court; but now, Arriv’d at man’s state, he would have me vow My love to some one of my Wooers here, And leave his court; offended that their cheer Should so consume his free possessions. To settle then a choice in these my moans, Hear and expound a dream that did engrave My sleeping fancy: Twenty geese I have, All which, me thought, mine eye saw tasting wheat In water steep’d, and joy’d to see them eat; When straight a crook-beak’d eagle from a hill Stoop’d, and truss’d all their necks, and all did kill; When, all left scatter’d on the pavement there, She took her wing up to the Gods’ fair sphere. I, ev’n amid my dream, did weep and mourn To see the eagle, with so shrewd a turn, Stoop my sad turrets; when, methought, there came About my mournings many a Grecian dame, To cheer my sorrows; in whose most extreme The hawk came back, and on the prominent beam That cross’d my chamber fell, and us’d to me A human voice, that sounded horribly, And said: ‘Be confident, Icarius’ seed, This is no dream, but what shall chance indeed. The geese the Wooers are, the eagle, I, Was heretofore a fowl, but now imply Thy husband’s being, and am come to give The Wooers’ death, that on my treasure live.’ With this sleep left me, and my waking way I took, to try if any violent prey Were made of those my fowls, which well enough I, as before, found feeding at their trough Their yoted wheat.” “O woman,” he replied, “Thy dream can no interpretation bide But what the eagle made, who was your lord, And said himself would sure effect afford To what he told you; that confusion To all the Wooers should appear, and none Escape the fate and death he had decreed.” She answer’d him: “O guest, these dreams exceed The art of man t’ interpret; and appear Without all choice or form; nor ever were Perform’d to all at all parts. But there are To these light dreams, that like thin vapours fare, Two two-leav’d gates, the one of ivory, The other horn. Those dreams, that fantasy Takes from the polish’d ivory port, delude The dreamer ever, and no truth include; Those, that the glitt’ring horn-gate lets abroad, Do evermore some certain truth abode. But this my dream I hold of no such sort To fly from thence; yet, whichsoever port It had access from, it did highly please My son and me. And this my thoughts profess: That day that lights me from Ulysses’ court Shall both my infamy and curse consort. I, therefore, purpose to propose them now, In strong contention, Ulysses’ bow; Which he that eas’ly draws, and from his draft Shoots through twelve axes (as he did his shaft, All set up in a row, and from them all His stand-far-off kept firm) my fortunes shall Dispose, and take me to his house from hence, Where I was wed a maid, in confluence Of feast and riches; such a court here then As I shall ever in my dreams retain.” “Do not,” said he, “defer the gameful prize, But set to task their importunities With something else than nuptials; for your lord Will to his court and kingdom be restor’d Before they thread those steels, or draw his bow.” “O guest,” replied Penelope, “would you Thus sit and please me with your speech, mine ears Would never let mine eyelids close their spheres! But none can live without the death of sleep, Th’ Immortals in our mortal memories keep Our ends and deaths by sleep, dividing so, As by the fate and portion of our woe, Our times spent here, to let us nightly try That while we live, as much live as we die. In which use I will to my bed ascend, Which I bedew with tears, and sigh past end Through all my hours spent, since I lost my joy For vile, lewd, never-to-be-naméd, Troy, Yet there I’ll prove for sleep, which take you here, Or on the earth, if that your custom were, Or have a bed, dispos’d for warmer rest.” Thus left she with her ladies her old guest, Ascended her fair chamber, and her bed, Whose sight did ever duly make her shed Tears for her lord; which still her eyes did steep, Till Pallas shut them with delightsome sleep.