High-sounding orator! it is thy drift To make us all odious; but the offence Lies not with us the suitors; she alone Thy mother, who in subtlety excels, And deep-wrought subterfuge, deserves the blame. It is already the third year, and soon Shall be the fourth, since with delusive art Practising on their minds, she hath deceived 120 The Greecians; message after message sent Brings hope to each, by turns, and promise fair, But she, meantime, far otherwise intends. Her other arts exhausted all, she framed This stratagem; a web of amplest size And subtlest woof beginning, thus she spake. Princes, my suitors! since the noble Chief Ulysses is no more, press not as yet My nuptials, wait till I shall finish, first, A fun'ral robe (lest all my threads decay) 130 Which for the antient Hero I prepare, Laertes, looking for the mournful hour When fate shall snatch him to eternal rest; Else I the censure dread of all my sex, Should he, so wealthy, want at last a shroud. So spake the Queen, and unsuspicious, we With her request complied. Thenceforth, all day She wove the ample web, and by the aid Of torches ravell'd it again at night. Three years by such contrivance she deceived 140 The Greecians; but when (three whole years elaps'd) The fourth arriv'd, then, conscious of the fraud, A damsel of her train told all the truth, And her we found rav'ling the beauteous work. Thus, through necessity she hath, at length, Perform'd the task, and in her own despight. Now therefore, for the information clear Of thee thyself, and of the other Greeks, We answer. Send thy mother hence, with charge That him she wed on whom her father's choice 150 Shall fall, and whom she shall, herself, approve. But if by long procrastination still She persevere wearing our patience out, Attentive only to display the gifts By Pallas so profusely dealt to her, Works of surpassing skill, ingenious thought, And subtle shifts, such as no beauteous Greek (For aught that we have heard) in antient times E'er practised, Tyro, or Alcemena fair, Or fair Mycene, of whom none in art 160 E'er match'd Penelope, although we yield To this her last invention little praise, Then know, that these her suitors will consume So long thy patrimony and thy goods, As she her present purpose shall indulge, With which the Gods inspire her. Great renown She to herself insures, but equal woe And devastation of thy wealth to thee; For neither to our proper works at home Go we, of that be sure, nor yet elsewhere, 170 Till him she wed, to whom she most inclines. Him prudent, then, answer'd Telemachus. Antinoüs! it is not possible