And thus the sage Penelope rejoined:
“Stranger, if, sitting in the palace here, Thou still wouldst entertain me as thou dost, Sleep would not fall upon my lids; and yet Sleepless the race of mortals cannot be, So have the gods ordained, who measure out His lot to man upon the nourishing earth. I to the upper rooms withdraw, to take My place upon the couch which has become To me a place of sorrow and of tears Since my Ulysses went away to Troy, That fatal town which should be named no more. And I will lay me down; but thou remain Within these walls, and make the floor thy bed, Or let these maidens spread a couch for thee.”
Penelope, thus having spoken, went Up to her royal bower, but not alone; Her maids went with her. When they were within She wept for her dear husband, till at length The blue-eyed Pallas graciously distilled Upon her closing lids the balm of sleep.