_Pen._ Be it so. Yet would I that pure Artemis Might give me an easy death in sleep this night, Even now; that I no more in sorrow of heart 2121 Should waste my life, longing for my dear lord’s Manifold excellence. _Ul._ Thy constant love Is witness that he lives. A rootless flower Blooms not so long. Be sure that he will come. _Pen._ Friend, all thy words console me: wert thou willing I could sit here by thee, nor wish for sleep. But ’tis full time I leave. I go to send One to strew bedding for thee.— _Ul._ Beseech thee, lady, I’ll lay me on this fleece and take my rest. 2130 A beggar such as I needeth no more. _Pen._ The god of sleep visit thee soon. Farewell. _Ul._ Lady, good-night. [_Exit Penelope. The firelight is failing._ Now could I weep, and from the springs of pity Forgive some wrong. Yet in the goddess’ hest, Away my softness! Surely in these things Is her hand seen. My bow! ay, from that bow The arrows were not wont to fly in vain. But now to find my son, my trust in him Hath grown with this day’s doings. 2140 _Enter in the gallery above Maids whispering and tittering._ _MAIDS._ See there he sits— Hush! hush! He talketh to the fire— ’Cause of his wandering wits.— He! he! he! he! What makes he here?— He hath come over sea With old tales of the sire.— Why who would lend him ear? He! he! 2150 How could the prince give heed?— How can our lady trust This object of disgust?— Or how hath she agreed To take him here among The wooers as her guest? Half crazed too, I’ll be bound— He! he! he! he! And treat him like the rest, So noble all and young? 2160 Hush! hush! His old bones creak! Hush! hush! He looks, he turns around, He sees us, he will speak. Hush! _Ul._ Ye miserable women, accurst of fate, Unknowing on the eve of doom ye are come To anger justice. Go! your wanton lovers Are gone; ye never shall concern them more. 2170 Nor none of them, nor ye that mock old men Shall know what ’tis to have grey hairs. Begone! For when Ulysses cometh, as men hang Bunches of grapes upon a string to dry, So shall he set you dangling in the court By your white necks. Fly to your chambers! Fly! Ulysses comes. _Maids._ Ah, ah, ah! Mercy on us! [_Exeunt._ _Ul._ Now first to find my son. If I dare call. [_Goes to_ L. Softly—Telemachus!—Telemachus! _Tel._ (_enters_ L.). Father. 2180