Then those who sorrow for their absent lord, And those who waste his substance, both inquire News of the king. For me, it suits me not Ever to ask for tidings, since the day When an Aetolian with a flattering tale Deceived me. He had slain a man, and came Wandering in many lands to my abode, And kindly I received him. He had seen, He said, my master with Idomeneus, Among the Cretans, putting in repair His galleys, shattered by a furious storm, And in the summer time he would be here, Or in the autumn, bringing ample wealth, And his brave comrades with him.
Seek not then, O aged sufferer, whom some deity Has guided hither, to amuse my grief With fictions that may bring back pleasant thoughts, Since not for them I minister to thee And love thee, but through reverence for Jove— The stranger’s friend—and pity for thyself.”
Ulysses, the sagacious, spake again: “Within thy bosom thou dost bear a heart Of slow