“O bold and shameless! I have taken note Of thy behavior; thou hast done a wrong For which thy head should answer. Well thou know’st, For thou hast heard me say, that I would ask The stranger in these halls if aught he knows Of my Ulysses, for whose sake I grieve.”
Then to the matron of the household turned The queen, and thus bespake Eurynomè:—
“Bring now a seat, Eurynomè, and spread A fleece upon it, where the stranger guest May sit at ease, and hear what I shall say, And answer me, for I have much to ask.”
She spake; the ancient handmaid brought with speed A polished seat, and o’er it spread a fleece. Ulysses, much-enduring chief, sat down, And thus the sage Penelope began:—
“First will I ask thee who thou art, and whence, Where is thy birthplace, and thy parents who?”
Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus: “O lady, none in all the boundless earth Can speak of thee with blame. Thy fame has reached To the great heavens. It is like the renown Of some most excellent king, of godlike sway O’er many men and mighty, who upholds Justice in all his realm. The dark-soiled earth Brings wheat and barley forth; the trees are bowed With fruit; the meadows swarm with noble herds, The sea with fish, and under his wise reign The people prosper. Therefore ask, I pray, Of other things, while I am underneath Thy palace-roof, but of my race and home Inquire not, lest thou waken in my mind Unhappy memories. I am a man Of sorrow, and it would become me ill To sit lamenting in another’s house And shedding tears. Besides, a grief indulged Doth grow in violence. Thy maids would blame, And thou perhaps, and ye would call my tears The maudlin tears of one o’ercome with wine.”
Then spake the sage Penelope again: “Stranger, such grace of feature and of form As once I had the immortals took away, What time the Argive