_Eum._ Thou art my guest, old man: and if there came A meaner even than thou, I should not stint To offer of my best. Strangers and beggars 350 Are sent from Zeus: and tho’ a poor man’s gift Be poor, a hearty welcome makes it rich. _Ul._ I pray the gods reward thee. _Eum._ Nay, there’s the meat; I’ll fetch it thee. [_Exit._ _Ul._ Was ever sound on earth So musical as the remembered voice That welcomes home? By heaven, ’twas yesterday That I was here. No change at all: this bench, This board:—the very hogs might be the same. O my good bread and wine! And here’s his loaf, The shape he ever made; and cut the same, 360 Scooped to the thumb. Hail, grape of Ithaca! Good day to thee! (_Drinks._) _Eum._ (_re-entering_). See, here is meat in plenty: Fall to and spare not. _Ul._ Thank thee, sir; I thank thee. _Eum._ Art thou of Ithaca, old man? _Ul._ Nay, sir; Indeed I am not. _Eum._ When cam’st thou then among us? _Ul._ With this day’s sun I first beheld your isle. _Eum._ Eh! hath a ship arrived so late in harbour? Whence hails she? _Ul._ From Thesprotia coasting south; But driven far out to sea in beating back Put in for water; when the notion took me 370 To leave her, and pursue my own starvation Without the risk of drowning. _Eum._ And how then Cam’st thou aboard a vessel so ill-found? _Ul._ My tale were long, sir, should I once begin: And since I have seen no food since yestermorn, Believe I’d lend thee ear rather than mouth. _Eum._ Ay, so, no fool, and I was but a churl To bid thee talk and eat: eat, sir, in peace. _Ul._ I pray thee while I eat tell of thyself, Whom here thou servest, and who rules this isle. 380 _Eum._ I am a servant, sir, that hath no master: These swine I tend are no man’s: those I kill I kill for any one; for on this isle We pay our service to a gap between A grandsire and a grandchild. Dost thou take me? _Ul._ Yes, friend: thy master is away or dead. _Eum._ Both as I think. The while, for lack of tidings, We make believe he lives. His ancient father, Decrepit and despairing, lies aloof,— We call him king no longer;—and his son, 390 The old man’s grandchild, is away on quest Of any tidings to be gleaned from those Who years agone fought with his sire at Troy. His widow keeps his house, and hath in hand Some five or six score suitors. Judge from this What hope hath beggary in Ithaca.