With baneful crafts, false Clytemnestra, slew, Close sitting by me; up my hands I threw From earth to heav’n, and tumbling on my sword Gave wretched life up; when the most abhorr’d, By all her sex’s shame, forsook the room, Nor deign’d, though then so near this heavy home, To shut my lips, or close my broken eyes. Nothing so heap’d is with impieties, As such a woman that would kill her spouse That married her a maid. When to my house I brought her, hoping of her love in heart, To children, maids, and slaves. But she (in th’ art Of only mischief hearty) not alone Cast on herself this foul aspersión, But loving dames, hereafter, to their lords Will bear, for good deeds, her bad thoughts and words.’ ‘Alas,’ said I, ‘that Jove should hate the lives Of Atreus’ seed so highly for their wives! For Menelaus’ wife a number fell, For dang’rous absence thine sent thee to hell.’ ‘For this,’ he answer’d, ‘be not thou more kind Than wise to thy wife. Never all thy mind Let words express to her. Of all she knows, Curbs for the worst still, in thyself repose. But thou by thy wife’s wiles shalt lose no blood, Exceeding wise she is, and wise in good. Icarius’ daughter, chaste Penelope, We left a young bride, when for battle we Forsook the nuptial peace, and at her breast Her first child sucking, who, by this hour, blest, Sits in the number of surviving men. And his bliss she hath, that she can contain, And her bliss thou hast, that she is so wise. For, by her wisdom, thy returnéd eyes Shall see thy son, and he shall greet his sire With fitting welcomes; when in my retire, My wife denies mine eyes my son’s dear sight, And, as from me, will take from him the light, Before she adds one just delight to life, Or her false wit one truth that fits a wife. For her sake therefore let my harms advise, That though thy wife be ne’er so chaste and wise, Yet come not home to her in open view,[7] With any ship or any personal show, But take close shore disguis’d, nor let her know, For ’tis no world to trust a woman now. But what says Fame? Doth my son yet survive, In Orchomen, or Pylos? Or doth live In Sparta with his uncle? Yet I see Divine Orestes is not here with me.’ I answer’d, asking: ‘Why doth Atreus’ son Enquire of me, who yet arriv’d where none Could give to these news any certain wings? And ’tis absurd to tell uncertain things.’ Such sad speech past us; and as thus we stood, With kind tears rend’ring unkind fortunes good, Achilles’ and Patroclus’ soul appear’d, And his soul, of whom never ill was heard, The good Antilochus, and the soul of him That all the Greeks past both for force and limb, Excepting the unmatch’d Æacides, Illustrious Ajax. But the first of these That saw, acknowledg’d, and saluted me, Was Thetis’ conqu’ring son, who (heavily His state here taking) said: ‘Unworthy breath! What act yet mightier imagineth Thy vent’rous spirit? How dost thou descend These under-regions, where the dead man’s end Is to be look’d on, and his foolish shade?’