As would for three months serve his far-off way
From troubling your house with more cause of stay.’
This said, he took a stool up, that did rest,
Beneath the board, his spangled feet at feast,
And offer’d at him; but the rest gave all,
And fill’d his fulsome scrip with festival.
And so Ulysses for the present was,
And for the future, furnish’d, and his pass
Bent to the door to eat – yet could not leave
Antinous so, but said: ‘Do you too give,
Lov’d lord; your presence makes a show to me
As you not worst were of the company,
But best, and so much that you seem the king,
And therefore you should give some better thing
Than bread, like others. I will spread your praise
Through all the wide world, that have in my days
Kept house myself, and trod the wealthy ways
Of other men even to the title Blest;
And often have I giv’n an erring guest
(How mean soever) to the utmost gain
Of what he wanted, kept whole troops of men,
And had all other comings in, with which
Men live so well, and gain the fame of rich.
Yet Jove consum’d all; he would have it so;
To which, his mean was this: he made me go
Far off, for Egypt, in the rude consort
Of all-ways-wand’ring pirates; where, in port,
I bade my lov’d men draw their ships ashore,
And dwell amongst them; sent out some t’ explore
Up to the mountains, who, intemperate,
And their inflam’d bloods bent to satiate,
Forag’d the rich fields, hal’d the women thence,
And unwean’d children, with the foul expence
Both of their fames and bloods. The cry then flew
Straight to the city, and the great fields grew
With horse and foot, and flam’d with iron arms;
When Jove (that breaks the thunder in alarms)
An ill flight cast amongst my men, not one
Inspir’d with spirit to stand, and turn upon
The fierce pursuing foe; and therefore stood
Their ill fate thick about them, some in blood,
And some in bondage, toils led by constraint
Fast’ning upon them. Me along they sent
To Cyprus with a stranger prince they met,
Dmetor Iasides, who th’ imperial seat
Of that sweet island sway’d in strong command.
And thus feel I here need’s contemned hand.’
‘And what god sent,’ said he, ‘this suffering bane
To vex our banquet? Stand off, nor profane
My board so boldly, lest I show thee here
Cyprus and Egypt made more sour than there.
You are a saucy set-faced vagabond.
About with all you go, and they, beyond
Discretion, give thee, since they find not here
The least proportion set down to their cheer.
But every fountain hath his under-floods.
It is no bounty to give others’ goods.’
‘O gods,’ replied Ulysses, ‘I see now,
You bear no soul in this your goodly show.
Beggars at your board, I perceive, should get
Scarce salt from your hands, if themselves brought meat,
Since sitting where another’s board is spread,
That flows with feast, not to the broken bread
Will your allowance reach.’ ‘Nay then,’ said he,
And look’d austerely, ‘if so saucy be
Your suffer’d language, I suppose that clear
You shall not ’scape without some broken cheer.’
Thus rapt he up a stool, with which he smit
The king’s right shoulder, ’twixt his neck and it.
He stood him like a rock. Antinous’ dart
Not stirr’d Ulysses; who in his great heart
Deep ills projected, which, for time yet, close
He bound in silence, shook his head, and went
Out to the entry, where he then gave vent
To his full scrip, sat on the earth, and eat,
And talk’d still to the wooers: ‘Hear me yet,
Ye wooers of the queen. It never grieves
A man to take blows, where for sheep, or beeves,
Or other main possessions, a man fights;
But for his harmful belly this man smites,
Whose love to many a man breeds many a woe.
And if the poor have gods, and furies too,
Before Antinous wear his nuptial wreath,
He shall be worn upon the dart of death.’
‘Harsh guest,’ said he, ‘sit silent at your meat,
Or seek your desperate plight some safer seat,
Lest by the hands or heels youths drag your years,
And rend your rotten rags about your ears.’
This made the rest as highly hate his folly,
As he had violated something holy.
When one, ev’n of the proudest, thus began:
‘Thou dost not nobly, thus to play the man
On such an errant wretch. O, ill dispos’d!
Perhaps some sacred godhead goes enclos’d
Even in his abject outside; for the gods
Have often visited these rich abodes
Like such poor stranger pilgrims, since their pow’rs
(Being always shapeful) glide through towns and tow’rs,
Observing, as they pass still, who they be
That piety love, and who impiety.’
This all men said, but he held sayings cheap.
And all this time Telemachus did heap
Sorrow on sorrow on his beating heart,
To see his father stricken; yet let part
No tear to earth, but shook his head, and thought
As deep as those ills that were after wrought.
The queen now, hearing of her poor guest’s stroke,
Said to her maid (as to her wooer she spoke),
‘I wish the famous-for-his-bow, the Sun,
Would strike thy heart so.’ Her wish, thus begun,
Her lady, fair Eurynome, pursu’d
Her execration, and did thus conclude:
‘So may our vows call down from heav’n his end,
And let no one life of the rest extend
His life till morning.’ ‘O Eurynome,’
Replied the queen, ‘may all gods speak in thee,
For all the wooers we should rate as foes,
Since all their weals they place in others’ woes!
But this Antinous we past all should hate,
As one resembling black and cruel fate.
A poor strange wretch begg’d here, compell’d by need,
Ask’d all, and every one gave in his deed,
Fill’d his sad scrip, and eas’d his heavy wants;
Only this man bestow’d unmanly taunts,
And with a cruel blow, his force let fly,
’Twixt neck and shoulders show’d his charity.’
These minds, above, she and her maids did show,
While, at his scrip, Ulysses sat below.
In which time she Eumaeus call’d, and said:
‘Go, good Eumaeus, and see soon convey’d
The stranger to me; bid him come and take
My salutations for his welcome’s sake,
And my desire serve, if he hath not heard
Or seen distress’d Ulysses, who hath err’d
Like such a man, and therefore chance may fall
He hath by him been met and spoke withal?’
‘O queen,’ said he, ‘I wish to heav’n your ear
Were quit of this unreverend noise you hear
From these rude wooers, when I bring the guest;
Such words your ear would let into your breast
As would delight it to your very heart.
Three nights and days I did my roof impart
To his fruition (for he came to me
The first of all men since he fled the sea)
And yet he had not given a perfect end
To his relation of what woes did spend
The spite of fate on him; but as you see
A singer, breathing out of deity
Love-kindling lines, when all men seated near
Are rapt with endless thirst to ever hear:
So sweeten’d he my bosom at my meat,
Affirming that Ulysses was in Crete,
Where first the memories of Minos were,
A guest to him there dwelling then, as dear
As his true father; and from thence came he
Tired on with sorrows, toss’d from sea to sea,
To cast himself in dust, and tumble here,
At wooers’ feet, for blows and broken cheer.
But of Ulysses, where the Thesprots dwell,
A wealthy people, Fame, he says, did tell
The still survival; who his native light
Was bound for now, with treasure infinite.’
‘Call him,’ said she, ‘that he himself may say
This over to me. We shall soon have way
Giv’n by the wooers; they, as well at gate
As set within doors, use to recreate
Their high-fed spirits. As their humours lead
They follow – and may well, for still they tread
Uncharg’d ways here, their own wealth lying unwasted
In poor-kept houses, only something tasted
Their bread and wine is by their household swains,
But they themselves let loose continual reins
To our expenses, making slaughter still
Of sheep, goats, oxen, feeding past their fill,
And vainly lavishing our richest wine –
All these extending past the sacred line,
For here lives no man like Ulysses now
To curb these ruins. But should he once show
His country light his presence, he and his
Would soon revenge these wooers’ injuries.’
This said, about the house, in echoes round,
Her son’s strange sneezings made a horrid sound;
At which the queen yet laugh’d, and said: ‘Go call
The stranger to me. Heard’st thou not, to all
My words last utter’d, what a sneezing brake
From my Telemachus? From whence I make
This sure conclusion: that the death and fate
Of every wooer here is near his date.
Call, then, the guest, and if he tell as true
What I shall ask him, coat, cloak, all things new,
These hands shall yield him.’ This said, down he went,
And told Ulysses, that the queen had sent
To call him to her, that she might enquire
About her husband what her sad desire
Urg’d her to ask; and, if she found him true,
Both coat and cassock (which he needed) new
Her hands would put on him; and that the bread,
Which now he begg’d amongst the common tread,
Should freely feed his hunger now from her,
Who all he wish’d would to his wants prefer.’
His answer was: ‘I will with fit speed tell
The whole truth to the queen; for passing well
I know her lord, since he and I have shar’d
In equal sorrows. But I much am scar’d
With this rude multitude of wooers here,
The rage of whose pride smites heav’n’s brazen sphere.
Of whose rout when one struck me for no fault,
Telemachus nor none else turn’d th’ assault
From my poor shoulders. Therefore, though she haste,
Beseech the queen her patience will see past
The day’s broad light, and then may she enquire.
’Tis but my closer pressing to the fire
In th’ evening’s cold, because my weeds, you know,
Are passing thin; for I made bold to show
Their bracks to you, and pray’d your kind supply.’
He heard, and hasted; and met instantly
The queen upon the pavement in his way,
Who ask’d: ‘What! Bring’st thou not? What cause of stay
Find his austere supposes? Takes he fear
Of th’ unjust wooers? Or thus hard doth bear
On any other doubt the house objects?
He does me wrong, and gives too nice respects
To his fear’d safety.’ ‘He does right,’ said he,
‘And what he fears should move the policy
Of any wise one, taking care to shun
The violent wooers. He bids bide, till sun
Hath hid his broad light. And, believe it, queen,
’Twill make your best course, since you two, unseen,
May pass th’ encounter – you to speak more free,
And he your ear gain less distractedly.’
‘The guest is wise,’ said she, ‘and well doth give
The right thought use. Of all the men that live,
Life serves none such as these proud wooers are,
To give a good man cause to use his care.’
Thus, all agreed, amongst the wooers goes
Eumaeus to the prince, and, whisp’ring close,
Said: ‘Now, my love, my charge shall take up me
(Your goods and mine). What here is, you must see
In fit protection. But, in chief, regard
Your own dear safeguard; whose state study hard,
Lest suf
f
’
rance seize you. Many a wicked thought
Conceal these wooers; whom just Jove see brought
To utter ruin, ere it touch at us.’
‘So chance it, friend,’ replied Telemachus,
‘Your bever taken, go. In first of day
Come, and bring sacrifice the best you may.
To me and to th’ immortals be the care
Of whatsoever here the safeties are.’
This said, he sat in his elaborate throne.
Eumaeus (fed to satisfaction)
Went to his charge, left both the court and walls
Full of secure and fatal festivals,
In which the wooers’ pleasures still would sway.
And now begun the ev’n’s near-ending day.
The end of the seventeenth book
Book 18
The Argument
Ulysses and rogue Irus fight.
Penelope vouchsafes her sight
To all her wooers; who present
Gifts to her, ravish’d with content.
A certain parlé then we sing
Betwixt a wooer and the king.
Another Argument
Sigma
The beggar’s glee,
The king’s high fame.
Gifts giv’n to see
A virtuous dame.
Book 18
T
h
ere
ca
m
e a common beggar to the court,
Who in the city begg’d of all resort,
Excell’d in madness of the gut, drunk, ate
Past intermission, was most hugely great,
Yet had no fibres in him nor no force,
In sight a man, in mind a living corse.
His true name was Arnaeus, for his mother
Impos’d it from his birth, and yet another
The city youth would give him (from the course
He after took, deriv’d out of the force
That need held on him, which was up and down
To run on all men’s errands through the town),
Which sounded Irus. When whose gut was come,
He needs would bar Ulysses his own home,
And fell to chiding him: ‘Old man,’ said he,
‘Your way out of the entry quickly see
Be with fair language taken, lest your stay
But little longer see you dragg’d away.
See, sir, observe you not how all these make
Direct signs at me, charging me to take
Your heels, and drag you out? But I take shame.
Rise yet, y’ are best, lest we two play a game
At cuffs together.’ He bent brows, and said:
‘Wretch! I do thee no ill, nor once upbraid
Thy presence with a word, nor, what mine eye
By all hands sees thee giv’n, one thought envy.
Nor shouldst thou envy others. Thou may’st see
The place will hold us both, and seem’st to me
A beggar like myself; which who can mend?
The gods give most to whom they least are friend.
The chief goods gods give, is in good to end.
But to the hands’ strife, of which y’ are so free,
Provoke me not, for fear you anger me,
And lest the old man, on whose scorn you stood,
Your lips and bosom make shake hands in blood.
I love my quiet well, and more will love
Tomorrow than to day. But if you move
My peace beyond my right, the war you make
Will never after give you will to take
Ulysses’ house into your begging walk.’
‘O gods,’ said he, ‘how volubly doth talk
This eating gulf! And how his fume breaks out,
As from an old crack’d ov’n! Whom I will clout
So bitterly, and so with both hands mall
His chaps together, that his teeth shall fall
As plain seen on the earth as any sow’s,
That ruts the cornfields, or devours the mows.
Come, close we now, that all may see what wrong
An old man tempts that takes at cuffs a young.’
Thus in the entry of those lofty tow’rs
These two, with all spleen, spent their jarring pow’rs.
Antinous took it, laugh’d, and said: ‘O friends,
We never had such sport! This guest contends
With this vast beggar at the buffets’ fight.
Come, join we hands, and screw up all their spite.’
All rose in laughters, and about them bore
All the ragg’d rout of beggars at the door.
Then moved Antinous the victor’s hire
To all the wooers thus: ‘There are now at fire
Two breasts of goat; both which let law set down
Before the man that wins the day’s renown,
With all their fat and gravy. And of both
The glorious victor shall prefer his tooth,
To which he makes his choice of, from us all,
And ever after banquet in our hall,
With what our boards yield; not a beggar more
Allow’d to share, but all keep out at door.’
This he proposed; and this they all approv’d.
To which Ulysses answer’d: ‘O most lov’d,
By no means should an old man, and one old
In chief with sorrows, be so over-bold
To combat with his younger; but, alas,
Man’s own-ill-working belly needs will pass
This work upon me, and enforce me, too,
To beat this fellow. But then, you must do
My age no wrong, to take my younger’s part,
And play me foul play, making your strokes’ smart
Help his to conquer; for you easily may
With your strengths crush me. Do then right, and lay
Your honours on it in your oaths, to yield
His part no aid, but equal leave the field.’
All swore his will. But then Telemachus
His father’s scoffs with comforts serious
Could not but answer, and made this reply:
‘Guest! If thine own pow’rs cheer thy victory,
Fear no man’s else that will not pass it free.
He fights with many that shall touch but thee.
I’ll see thy guest-right paid. Thou here art come
In my protection; and to this the sum
Of all these wooers (which Antinous are
And King Eurymachus) conjoin their care.’
Both vow’d it; when Ulysses, laying by
His upper weed, his inner beggary
Near show’d his shame, which he with rags prevented
Pluck’d from about his thighs, and so presented
Their goodly sight, which were so white and great,
And his large shoulders were to view so set
By his bare rags, his arms, his breast and all,
So broad and brawny – their grace natural
Being kept by Pallas, ever standing near –
That all the wooers his admirers were
Beyond all measure, mutual whispers driv’n
Through all their cluster, saying: ‘Sure as heav’n
Poor Irus pull’d upon him bitter blows.
Through his thin garment what a thigh he shows!’
They said; but Irus felt. His coward mind
Was mov’d at root. But now he needs must find
Facts to his brags; and forth at all parts fit
The servants brought him, all his arteries smit
With fears and tremblings. Which Antinous saw,
And said: ‘Nay, now too late comes fear. No law
Thou shouldst at first have giv’n thy braggart vein,
Nor should it so have swell’d, if terrors strain
Thy spirits to this pass, for a man so old,
And worn with penuries that still lay hold
On his ragg’d person. Howsoever, take
This vow from me for firm: that if he make
Thy forces stoop, and prove his own supreme,
I’ll put thee in a ship, and down the stream
Send thee ashore where King Echetus reigns
(The roughest tyrant that the world contains),
And he will slit thy nostrils, crop each ear,
Thy shame cut off, and give it dogs to tear.’
This shook his nerves the more. But both were now
Brought to the lists, and up did either throw
His heavy fists – Ulysses in suspense,
To strike so home that he should fright from thence
His coward soul, his trunk laid prostrate there,
Or let him take more leisure to his fear,
And stoop him by degrees. The last show’d best,
To strike him slightly, out of fear the rest
Would else discover him. But, peace now broke,
On his right shoulder Irus laid his stroke.
Ulysses struck him just beneath the ear,
His jawbone broke, and made the blood appear;
When straight he strew’d the dust, and made his cry
Stand for himself; with whom his teeth did lie,
Spit with his blood out; and against the ground
His heels lay sprawling. Up the hands went round
Of all the wooers, all at point to die
With violent laughters. Then the king did ply
The beggar’s feet, and dragg’d him forth the hall,
Along the entry, to the gates and wall;
Where leaving him, he put into his hand
A staff, and bade him there use his command
On swine and dogs, and not presume to be
Lord of the guests, or of the beggary,
Since he of all men was the scum and curse;
And so bade please with that, or fare yet worse.
Then cast he on his scrip, all patch’d and rent,
Hung by a rotten cord, and back he went
To greet the entry’s threshold with his seat.
The wooers throng’d to him, and did entreat
With gentle words his conquest, laughing still,
Pray’d Jove and all the gods to give his will
What most it wish’d him and would joy him most,
Since he so happily had clear’d their coast
Of that unsavoury morsel; whom they vow’d
To see with all their utmost haste bestow’d
Aboard a ship, and for Epirus sent
To King Echetus, on whose throne was spent
The worst man’s seat that breath’d. And thus was grac’d
Divine Ulysses, who with joy embrac’d
Ev’n that poor conquest. Then was set to him
The goodly goat’s breast promis’d (that did swim
In fat and gravy) by Antinous.
And from a basket, by Amphinomus,
Were two breads giv’n him; who, besides, renown’d
His banquet with a golden goblet crown’d,
And this high salutation: ‘Frolic, guest,
And be those riches that you first possest
Restored again with full as many joys,
As in your poor state I see now annoys.’
‘Amphinomus,’ said he, ‘you seem to me
Exceeding wise, as being the progeny
Of such a father as authentic fame
Hath told me was so, one of honour’d name,
And great revenues in Dulichius,
His fair name Nisus. He is blazon’d thus,
And you to be his son, his wisdom heiring,
As well as wealth, his state in nought impairing.
To prove which, always, let me tell you this
(As warning you to shun the miseries
That follow full states, if they be not held
With wisdom still at full, and so compell’d
To courses that abode not in their brows,
By too much swing, their sudden overthrows):
Of all things breathing, or that creep on earth,
Nought is more wretched than a human birth.
Bless’d men think never they can cursed be,
While any power lasts to move a knee.
But when the bless’d gods make them feel that smart,
That fled their faith so, as they had no heart
They bear their suf
f
’
rings, and, what well they might
Have clearly shunn’d, they then meet in despite.
The mind of man flies still out of his way,
Unless god guide and prompt it every day.
I thought me once a blessed man with men,
And fashion’d me to all so counted then,
Did all injustice like them, what for lust
Or any pleasure never so unjust,
I could by pow’r or violence obtain,
And gave them both in all their pow’rs the rein,
Bold of my fathers and my brothers still;
While which held good, my arts seem’d never ill.
And thus is none held simply good or bad,
But as his will is either miss’d or had.
All goods god’s gifts man calls, howe’er he gets them,
And so takes all, what price soe’er god sets them,
Says nought how ill they come, nor will control
That ravine in him, though it cost his soul.
And these parts here I see these wooers play,
Take all that falls, and all dishonours lay
On that man’s queen, that, tell your friends, doth bear
No long time’s absence, but is passing near.
Let god then guide thee home, lest he may meet
In his return thy undeparted feet;
For when he enters, and sees men so rude,
The quarrel cannot but in blood conclude.’
This said, he sacrific’d, then drunk, and then
Referr’d the giv’n bowl to the guide of men;
Who walk’d away, afflicted at his heart,
Shook head, and fear’d that these facts would convert
To ill in th’ end; yet had not grace to fly –
Minerva stay’d him, being ordain’d to die
Upon the lance of young Ulyssides.
So down he sat; and then did Pallas please
T’ incline the queen’s affections to appear
To all the wooers, to extend their cheer
To th’ utmost lightning that still ushers death,
And made her put on as the painted sheath,
That might both set her wooers’ fancies high,
And get her greater honour in the eye
Ev’n of her son and sovereign than before.
Who laughing yet, to show her humour bore
No serious appetite to that light show,
She told Eurynome, that not till now
She ever knew her entertain desire
To please her wooers’ eyes, but oft on fire
She set their hate, in keeping from them still;
Yet now she pleased t’ appear, though from no will
To do them honour, vowing she would tell
Her son that of them that should fit him well
To make use of; which was, not to converse
Too freely with their pride, nor to disperse
His thoughts amongst them, since they us’d to give
Good words, but through them ill intents did drive.
Eurynome replied: ‘With good advise
You vow his counsel, and your open guise.
Go then, advise your son, nor keep more close
Your cheeks, still drown’d in your eyes’ overflows,
But bathe your body, and with balms make clear
Your thicken’d count’nance. Uncomposed cheer,
And ever mourning, will the marrow wear.
Nor have you cause to mourn; your son hath now
Put on that virtue which in chief your vow
Wish’d, as your blessing at his birth, might deck
His blood and person.’ ‘But forbear to speak
Of baths, or balmings, or of beauty, now,’
The queen replied, ‘lest, urging comforts, you
Discomfort much, because the gods have won
The spoil of my looks since my lord was gone.
But these must serve. Call hither then to me
Hippodamia and Autonoë,
That those our train additions may supply
Our own deserts. And yet, besides, not I,
With all my age, have learn’d the boldness yet
T’ expose myself to men, unless I get
Some other gracers.’ This said, forth she went
To call the ladies, and much spirit spent