_Ul._ If tell I must: there is a beauteous isle, Which men call Crete, washed by the Libyan sea: Ninety fair cities hath it, and the men Who dwell there are of various race, Achæans, Cydonians, Dorians, and Pelasgians, Beside the native Cretan. There is Gnossus, Where Minos dwelt, and took his law from Zeus: He was my grandsire, and Deucalion 1921 His son, my father, had another son Idomeneus, elder and better gifted Than I, who am callèd Æthon. Now it happed, That when not many days, Idomeneus Had sailed away for Troy, thy lord Ulysses, Bound thither too, was driven aside to Crete, And sheltered at Amnisos; and when thence He sent up heralds to the king, as one Whose welcome was assured, it fell to me 1930 To play awhile my elder brother’s part, And entertain him and his men. Twelve days He stayed, for even so long the mad North wind Abated not, but with such fury blew That far from putting out, they scarce could keep Their feet on land: but on the thirteenth day It fell, and let them forth to sail for Troy. _Pen._ Friend then, if so thou art, that courtesy Thus royal shewedst to my lord, forgive My thought to prove thee, if indeed these things 1940 Were as thou sayest. When thou sawest my lord, How was he clad, and what lords followed him? _Ul._ Lady, ’tis hard with such a time between To say—’tis twenty years; and yet, methinks, My memory shows him to me, as he was. Thy lord Ulysses wore a purple robe Of double woof, and on the golden brooch, Which two pins held, was wrought a rare device; A hound that had o’ertaken a hunted fawn, Stood on’t and gazed: and none who saw the work But marvelled, so was nature done to life. 1951 The linen too about his neck was bright, And fine in tissue as the silvery coat, Which the lithe snake among the withered grass Leaves off unrent. Ay, and his squire I see, A man round-shouldered, tanned, and curly-haired, Eurybates, that was his name; and him Ulysses loved and honoured ’bove the rest. _Pen._ Now, stranger, for the shame, which thou hast found 1959 Within my halls, shalt thou find love and honour. The garments which thou sawest are the garments I gave to him myself: the golden brooch Of rare device I chose to be his jewel, On that accursed day when he set forth For evil Ilion, never to be named. _Ul._ O honoured wife of great Laertes’ son, Waste not thy soul in weeping for thy lord! _Pen._ Hath sorrow taught thee, friend, that tears are vain? _Ul._ Love’s tokens were not given to man for nought. _Pen._ Blamest thou then a woman, if she weep Her lord’s decease? 1971