Your mother, first in craft, is first in cause. Three years are past, and near the fourth now draws, Since first she mock’d the peers Achaian. All she made hope, and promis’d ev’ry man, Sent for us ever, left love’s show in nought, But in her heart conceal’d another thought. Besides, as curious in her craft, her loom She with a web charg’d, hard to overcome, And thus bespake us: ‘Youths, that seek my bed, Since my divine spouse rests amongst the dead, Hold on your suits but till I end, at most, This funeral weed, lest what is done be lost. Besides, I purpose, that when th’ austere fate Of bitter death shall take into his state Laertes the heroë, it shall deck His royal corse, since I should suffer check In ill report of ev’ry common dame, If one so rich should show in death his shame.’ This speech she us’d; and this did soon persuade Our gentle minds. But this a work she made So hugely long, undoing still in night, By torches, all she did by day’s broad light, That three years her deceit div’d past our view, And made us think that all she feign’d was true. But when the fourth year came, and those sly hours That still surprise at length dames’ craftiest powers, One of her women, that knew all, disclos’d The secret to us, that she still unloos’d Her whole day’s fair affair in depth of night. And then no further she could force her sleight, But, of necessity, her work gave end. And thus, by me, doth ev’ry other friend, Professing love to her, reply to thee; That ev’n thyself, and all Greeks else, may see, That we offend not in our stay, but she. To free thy house then, send her to her sire, Commanding that her choice be left entire To his election, and one settled will. Nor let her vex with her illusions still Her friends that woo her, standing on her wit, Because wise Pallas hath giv’n wills to it So full of art, and made her understand All works in fair skill of a lady’s hand. But (for her working mind) we read of none Of all the old world, in which Greece hath shown Her rarest pieces, that could equal her: Tyro, Alcmena, and Mycena were To hold comparison in no degree, For solid brain, with wise Penelope. And yet, in her delays of us, she shows No prophet’s skill with all the wit she owes; For all this time thy goods and victuals go To utter ruin; and shall ever so, While thus the Gods her glorious mind dispose. Glory herself may gain, but thou shalt lose Thy longings ev’n for necessary food, For we will never go where lies our good, Nor any other where, till this delay She puts on all she quits with th’ endless stay Of some one of us, that to all the rest May give free farewell with his nuptial feast.” The wise young prince replied: “Antinous! I may by no means turn out of my house Her that hath brought me forth and nourish’d me. Besides, if quick or dead my father be In any region, yet abides in doubt; And ’twill go hard, my means being so run out, To tender to Icarius again, If he again my mother must maintain