Book XXIV

Thy master treats thee thus; nor is there seen Aught servile in thy aspect⁠—in thy face Or stature; thou art rather like a king; Thou seemest one who should enjoy the bath And banquet, and lie soft⁠—for this befits Old men like thee. Now say, and tell me true, Who may thy master be? whose orchard this Which thou dost tend? And, more than this, declare, For much I long to know, if I am come To Ithaca, as I just now was told By one who met me as I came⁠—a man Not overwise, who would not stop to tell What I desired to learn, nor bear to hear My questions, when I asked him if a guest Of mine were living yet in health, or dead And in the realm of Pluto. Let me speak Of him, and mark me well, I pray; I lodged Once, in my native land, a man who came Into my house, and never stranger yet More welcome was than he. He was by birth Of Ithaca, he said, Laertes’ son, And grandson of Arcesias. Him I led Beneath my roof, and hospitably lodged, And feasted in the plenty of my home, And gave such gifts as might become a host⁠— Seven talents of wrought gold, a silver cup All over rough with flowers, twelve single cloaks, Twelve mats, twelve mantles passing beautiful, And tunics twelve, and, chosen by himself, Twelve graceful damsels, skilled in household arts.”