me not, Since in my long-oared barque I left behind The snowy peaks of Crete. I still will lie, As I am wont through many a sleepless night, On a mean couch to wait the holy Morn Upon her car of gold. I do not like This washing of the feet. No maiden here That ministers to thee may touch my foot; But if among them be some aged dame And faithful, who has suffered in her life As I have suffered, she may touch my
And thus the sage Penelope rejoined:
“Dear guest—for never to these halls has come A stranger so discreet or better liked By me, so wisely thou dost speak, and well— I have an aged prudent dame, whose care Reared my unfortunate husband. She received The nursling when his mother brought him forth, And she, though small her strength, will wash thy feet. Rise, prudent Eurycleia, thou shalt wash The feet of one whose years must be the same As thy own master’s; such is doubtless now Ulysses, with such wrinkled feet and hands. For quickly doth misfortune make men old.”