_Eum._ Good-night, my lady. [_Exit._ _Pen._ O my son, my son; I think that years and use, which perfect others, Serve but to blunt thy reason: as a child Thou hadst a shrewder wit, and quick enough; 1870 But now, when any man to look on thee Would say that thou wert some one, thy behaviour Would blast his praise. _Tel._ Tell me what ill I have done. _Pen._ What thou hast done? My heart was full of hope; I looked for thy return as happiness, How hast thou dashed it. I had well forgot The empty tales thou broughtest me for tidings, Nor marked the fault, seeing thy zeal in love Outrun thy judgment: but when thou hast invited Thy man to be our guest, and canst not then 1880 Protect him: this is shame. _Tel._ Mother, I think To do a wrong is shame: to suffer wrong Asks not for pardon. _Pen._ Ay, but what to do? Thy guest hath been insulted: hast thou power To punish that? and of the two reproaches, To suffer it again, or to dismiss, As must be, him to whom thou offeredst shelter, I know not which is worse. _Tel._ Wilt thou dismiss The herald of such hope? _Pen._ Eumæus saith His tales are lies. _Tel._ Speak with him but thyself: 1890 Make proof thyself: if thou be not persuaded, He shall not bide the night. Nay, if he lies, Let him go starve. See, I will bring thee to him. _Pen._ If so thou wilt. (_To maids._) Maidens, begone. [_Exeunt maids._ _Tel._ Old man, The words which thou hast told me, now make good Unto my honoured mother. [_Exit._ _Pen._ Thou strange old man, whose thin and sorry rags Speak thee no friend of heaven; whose many years Find thee a wanderer in a foreign land; Who art thou, I will ask, and with what tale 1900 Winning my son, thou comest to the house Of good Ulysses, and to me his wife Pretendest tidings of my long-lost lord? _Ul._ O lady, there is none in all the world Would blame the word thou sayest, so fair thy fame: Nay, for thy spirit is gentle: yet ask me not Thus of myself, for I have seen much woe: And tears might flood my face; till thou perchance Shouldst think my temper soft, or drowned in wine. _Pen._ Whate’er my fame, stranger, it lacketh much In losing of my lord; if he were here 1911 Then I were proud. But ’tis of him we speak. Tell me then whence thou art, and what thou knowest.