_Ant._ Ha! threat’st thou us? Telemachus! what next? This is’t to have been In Lacedæmon. Now may we, who ne’er Have looked upon the godlike Menelaus, Behold his mirror. Why, what game is this? Think’st thou with strength and might upon our side We bandy words? I say this ragged loon Shall not have place with us: the sight of him 1420 Hath turned my stomach. If for any bond Of blood or service thou set store by him, Thou mayst do better for his skinny bones Than stow them here. ’Twill not be many hours That he shall trouble us. _Tel._ Ay, so may be. But wouldst thou kill him, Lord Antinous, It had been better to have waylaid his ship, Or set an ambush for him in the hills. _Ant._ (_aside_). By heaven, I smart. _Eur._ Peace, peace! _Amph._ Hark, if the prince Persist, we may not say him nay. Be seated. 1430 Maybe our lady’s voice may interpose: Let us defer our grievance to the word Of sage Penelope. _Ant._ How shall I sit In presence of such insult? _Eur._ Sit thou down. _Ant._ (_aside to Ul._). Man, as thou lovest life, fly while thou mayst. _ULYSSES_ (_to Ant._). Kind sir, I am deaf. _Ant._ I’ll make thee deafer yet. _Tel._ Phemius, we listen. Sit thou there, old man. Eumæus, take him meat and wine. _Ul._ (_sitting at r. front_). I thank thee. _Ctes._ Go further off, I pray; I’m not thy friend, Thou hoary plague. _Eur._ Silence, the music sounds. 1440 (_Eumæus bears food to Ulysses, who eats and drinks during Phemius’ ode._) _PHEMIUS._ 1. Happy are the earth’s heirs: Who, that his toilsome lot And hard-won gain compares, Admires and envies not? At one time one, at another another best, Come mortal pleasures, troubling sweet content; But two above the rest Are ever of worth, Everywhere are praisèd and excellent, To live and possess the earth: 1450 And my name—ranked desire ’mong graven things— Would live with the island kings. 2. Happy Telemachus then art thou, Ithaca’s true-born lord: Rejoice and welcome him now Safe to his home restored. Shout—O well is thee! The gods in worship and joy, pray we, —And high desert uplifts the prayer— Grant thee here in plenty the good thou meritest, Nor to fall in a like snare 1461 With him from whom thou inheritest, Ulysses, Laertes’ son. 1_a._