Then thus the prudent Eurycleia said: “What words, my son, have passed thy lips? for well Thou knowest my firm mind; it never yields. Like solid rock or steel I keep my trust. This let me tell thee, and, I pray thee, keep My words in mind. If, by the aid of God, Thou overcome the arrogant suitor-crew, Then will I name the handmaids that disgrace Thy household, and point out the innocent.”
Ulysses, the sagacious, thus rejoined: “Why name them, nurse? It needs not. I myself Shall watch them, and shall know them all. Hold thou Thy peace, and leave the issue with the gods.”
He spake; the aged woman left the place To bring a second bath, for on the floor The first was spilled. When she had bathed his feet And made them smooth with oil, Ulysses drew Close to the hearth his seat again, to take The warmth, and with his tatters hid the scar. And thus the sage Penelope began:—
“Stranger, but little longer will I yet Inquire; the hour of grateful rest is near For those who, though unhappy, can receive The balm of slumber. Yet for me some god Appoints immeasurable grief. All day In sorrows and in sighs, my solace is To oversee my maidens at their tasks Here in the palace; but when evening comes, And all betake themselves to rest, I lie Upon my couch, and sorrows thick and sharp Awake new misery in my heart. As when, In the fresh spring, the swarthy Nightingale, Daughter of Pandarus, among thick leaves Sings sweetly to the woods, and, changing oft The strain, pours forth her voice of many notes, Lamenting the beloved Itylus, Her son by royal Zethos, whom she smote Unwittingly, and slew; with such quick change My mind is tossed from thought to thought. I muse Whether to keep my place beside my son, And hold what here is mine, my dower, my maids And high-roofed halls,