Had left the land, then plotted they the day Of my long servitude, and took from me Both coat and cloak, and all things that might be Grace in my habit, and in place put on These tatter’d rags, which now you see upon My wretched bosom. When heav’n’s light took sea,[6] They fetch’d the field-works of fair Ithaca, And in the arm’d ship, with a well-wreath’d cord, They straitly bound me, and did all disboard To shore to supper, in contentious rout. Yet straight the Gods themselves took from about My pressed limbs the bands, with equal ease, And I, my head in rags wrapp’d, took the seas, Descending by the smooth stern, using then My hands for oars, and made from these bad men Long way in little time. At last, I fetch’d A goodly grove of oaks, whose shore I reach’d, And cast me prostrate on it. When they knew My thus-made ‘scape, about the shores they flew, But, soon not finding, held it not their best To seek me further, but return’d to rest Aboard their vessel. Me the Gods lodg’d close, Conducting me into the safe repose A good man’s stable yielded. And thus Fate This poor hour added to my living date.” “O wretch of guests,” said he, “thy tale hath stirr’d My mind to much ruth, both how thou hast err’d, And suffer’d, hearing in such good parts shown. But, what thy chang’d relation would make known About Ulysses, I hold neither true, Nor will believe. And what need’st thou pursue A lie so rashly, since he sure is so As I conceive, for which my skill shall go? The safe return my king lacks cannot be, He is so envied of each Deity, So clear, so cruelly. For not in Troy They gave him end, nor let his corpse enjoy The hands of friends (which well they might have done, He manag’d arms to such perfection, And should have had his sepulchre, and all, And all the Greeks to grace his funeral, And this had giv’n a glory to his son Through all times future) but his head is run Unseen, unhonour’d, into Harpies’ maws. For my part, I’ll not meddle with the cause, I live a separate life amongst my swine, Come at no town for any need of mine, Unless the circularly-witted queen[7] (When any far-come guest is to be seen That brings her news) commands me bring a brawn, About which (all things being in question drawn, That touch the king) they sit, and some are sad For his long absence, some again are glad To waste his goods unwreak’d, all talking still. But, as for me, I nourish’d little will T’ inquire or question of him, since the man That feign’d himself the fled Ætolian, For slaught’ring one, through many regions stray’d, In my stall, as his diversory, stay’d. Where well entreating him, he told me then, Amongst the Cretans, with king Idomen, He saw Ulysses at his ship’s repair, That had been brush’d with the enragéd air; And that in summer, or in autumn, sure, With all his brave friends and rich furniture, He would be here; and nothing so, nor so. But thou, an old man, taught with so much woe As thou hast suffer’d, to be season’d true,