THE Twentieth Book OF Homer’S Odysseys
THE Argument

Ulysses, in the Wooers’ beds,
Resolving first to kill the maids.
That sentence giving off, his care
For other objects doth prepare.

Another Argument
ψ.

Jove’s thunder chides,
But cheers the King,
The Wooers’ prides
Discomfiting.

Ulysses in the entry laid his head,
And under him an ox-hide newly-flay’d,
Above him sheep-fells store; and over those
Eurynomé cast mantles. His repose
Would bring no sleep yet, studying the ill
He wish’d the Wooers; who came by him still
With all their wenches, laughing, wantoning,
In mutual lightness; which his heart did sting,
Contending two ways, if, all patience fled,
He should rush up and strike those strumpets dead,
Or let that night be last, and take th’ extreme
Of those proud Wooers, that were so supreme
In pleasure of their high-fed fantasies.
His heart did bark within him to surprise
Their sports with spoils; no fell she-mastiff can,
Amongst her whelps, fly eag’rer on a man
She doth not know, yet scents him something near,
And fain would come to please her tooth, and tear,
Than his disdain, to see his roof so fil’d
With those foul fashions, grew within him wild
To be in blood of them. But, finding best
In his free judgment to let passion rest,
He chid his angry spirit, and beat his breast,
And said: “Forbear, my mind, and think on this:
There hath been time when bitter agonies
Have tried thy patience. Call to mind the day
In which the Cyclop, which pass’d manly sway
Of violent strength, devour’d thy friends; thou then
Stood’st firmly bold, till from that hellish den
Thy wisdom brought thee off, when nought but death
Thy thoughts resolv’d on.” This discourse did breathe
The fiery boundings of his heart, that still
Lay in that æsture, without end his ill
Yet manly suff’ring. But from side to side
It made him toss apace. You have not tried
A fellow roasting of a pig before
A hasty fire, his belly yielding store
Of fat and blood, turn faster, labour more
To have it roast, and would not have it burn,
Than this and that way his unrest made turn
His thoughts and body, would not quench the fire,
And yet not have it heighten his desire
Past his discretion, and the fit enough
Of haste and speed, that went to all the proof
His well-laid plots, and his exploits requir’d,
Since he, but one, to all their deaths aspir’d.
In this contention Pallas stoop’d from heav’n,
Stood over him, and had her presence giv’n
A woman’s form, who sternly thus began:
“Why, thou most sour and wretched-fated man
Of all that breathe, yet liest thou thus awake?
The house in which thy cares so toss and take
Thy quiet up is thine; thy wife is there;
And such a son, as if thy wishes were
To be suffic’d with one they could not mend.”
“Goddess,” said he, “’tis true; but I contend
To right their wrongs, and, though I be but one,
To lay unhelp’d and wreakful hand upon
This whole resort of impudents, that here
Their rude assemblies never will forbear.
And yet a greater doubt employs my care,
That if their slaughters in my reaches are,
And I perform them, Jove and you not pleas’d,
How shall I fly their friends? And would stand seis’d
Of counsel to resolve this care in me.”
“Wretch,” she replied, “a friend of worse degree
Might win thy credence, that a mortal were, I
And us’d to second thee, though nothing near
So pow’rful in performance nor in care;
Yet I, a Goddess, that have still had share
In thy achievements, and thy person’s guard,
Must still be doubted by thy brain, so hard
To credit anything above thy pow’r;
And that must come from heav’n; if ev’ry hour
There be not personal appearance made,
And aid direct giv’n, that may sense invade.
I’ll tell thee, therefore, clearly: If there were
Of divers-languag’d men an army here
Of fifty companies, all driving hence
Thy sheep and oxen, and with violence
Offer’d to charge us, and besiege us round,
Thou shouldst their prey reprise, and them confound.
Let sleep then seize thee. To keep watch all night
Consumes the spirits, and makes dull the sight.”
Thus pour’d the Goddess sleep into his eyes,
And reascended the Olympian skies.
When care-and-lineament-resolving sleep
Had laid his temples in his golden steep,
His-wise-in-chaste-wit-worthy wife did rise,
First sitting up in her soft bed, her eyes
Open’d with tears, in care of her estate,
Which now her friends resolv’d to terminate
To more delays, and make her marry one.
Her silent tears then ceas’d, her orison
This Queen of women to Diana made:
“Rev’rend Diana, let thy darts invade
My woeful bosom, and my life deprive,
Now at this instant, or soon after drive
My soul with tempests forth, and give it way
To those far-off dark vaults, where never day
Hath pow’r to shine, and let them cast it down
Where refluent Oceanus doth crown
His curléd head, where Pluto’s orchard is,
And entrance to our after miseries.
As such stern whirlwinds ravish’d to that stream
Pandareus’ daughters, when the Gods to them
Had reft their parents, and them left alone,
Poor orphan children, in their mansion;
Whose desolate life did Love’s sweet Queen incline
To nurse with presséd milk and sweetest wine;
Whom Juno deck’d beyond all other dames
With wisdom’s light, and beauty’s moving flames;
Whom Phœbe goodliness of stature render’d;
And to whose fair hands wise Minerva tender’d
The loom and needle in their utmost skill;
And while Love’s Empress scal’d th’ Olympian hill
To beg of lightning-loving Jove (since he
The means to all things knows, and doth decree
Fortunes, infortunes, to the mortal race)
For those poor virgins, the accomplish’d grace
Of sweetest nuptials, the fierce Harpies prey’d
On ev’ry good and miserable maid,
And to the hateful Furies gave them all
In horrid service; yet, may such fate fall
From steep Olympus on my loathéd head,
Or fair-chair’d Phœbe strike me instant dead,
That I may undergo the gloomy shore
To visit great Ulysses’ soul, before
I soothe my idle blood and wed a worse.
And yet, beneath how desperate a curse
Do I live now! It is an ill that may
Be well endur’d, to mourn the whole long day,
So night’s sweet sleeps, that make a man forget
Both bad and good, in some degree would let
My thoughts leave grieving; but, both day and night,
Some cruel God gives my sad memory sight.
This night, methought, Ulysses grac’d my bed
In all the goodly state with which he led
The Grecian army; which gave joys extreme
To my distress, esteeming it no dream,
But true indeed; and that conceit I had,
That when I saw it false I might be mad.
Such cruel fates command in my life’s guide.”
By this the morning’s orient dews had dyed
The earth in all her colours; when the King,
In his sweet sleep, suppos’d the sorrowing
That she us’d waking in her plaintive bed
To be her mourning, standing by his head,
As having known him there; who straight arose,
And did again within the hall dispose
The carpets and the cushions, where before
They serv’d the seats. The hide without the door
He carried back, and then, with held-up hands,
He pray’d to Him that heav’n and earth commands:
“O Father Jove, if through the moist and dry
You, willing, brought me home, when misery
Had punish’d me enough by your free dooms,
Let some of these within those inner rooms,
Startled with horror of some strange ostent,
Come here, and tell me that great Jove hath bent
Threat’nings without at some lewd men within.”
To this his pray’r Jove shook his sable chin,
And thunder’d from those pure clouds that, above
The breathing air, in bright Olympus move.
Divine Ulysses joy’d to hear it roar.
Report of which a woman-miller bore
Straight to his ears; for near to him there ground
Mills for his corn, that twice six women found
Continual motion, grinding barley-meal,
And wheat, man’s marrow. Sleep the eyes did seal
Of all the other women, having done
Their usual task; which yet this dame alone
Had scarce giv’n end to, being, of all the rest,
Least fit for labour. But when these sounds prest
Her ears, above the rumbling of her mill,
She let that stand, look’d out, and heav’n’s steep hill
Saw clear and temp’rate; which made her (unware
Of giving any comfort to his care
In that strange sign he pray’d for) thus, invoke:
“O King of men and Gods, a mighty stroke
Thy thund’ring hand laid on the cope of stars,
No cloud in all the air; and therefore wars
Thou bidst to some men in thy sure ostent!
Perform to me, poor wretch, the main event,
And make this day the last, and most extreme,
In which the Wooers’ pride shall solace them
With whorish banquets in Ulysses’ roof,
That, with sad toil to grind them meal enough,
Have quite dissolv’d my knees. Vouchsafe, then, now
Thy thunders may their latest feast foreshow.”
This was the boon Ulysses begg’d of Jove,1
Which, with his thunder, through his bosom drove
A joy, that this vaunt breath’d: “Why now these men,
Despite their pride, will Jove make pay me pain.”
By this had other maids, than those that lay
Mix’d with the Wooers, made a fire like day
Amidst the hearth of the illustrious hall;
And then the Prince, like a Celestial,
Rose from his bed, to his embalm’d feet tied
Fair shoes, his sword about his breast applied,
Took to his hand his sharp-pil’d lance, and met,
Amidst the entry, his old nurse, that set
His haste at sudden stand; to whom he said:
“O, my lov’d nurse, with what grace have you laid
And fed my guest here? Could you so neglect
His age, to lodge him thus? Though all respect
I give my mother’s wisdom, I must yet
Affirm it fail’d in this; for she hath set
At much more price a man of much less worth,
Without his person’s note, and yet casts forth
With ignominious hands, for his form sake,
A man much better.” “Do not faulty make,
Good son, the faultless. He was giv’n his seat
Close to her side, and food till he would eat,
Wine till his wish was serv’d; for she requir’d
His wants, and will’d him all things he desir’d;
Commanded her chief maids to make his bed,
But he, as one whom sorrow only fed
And all infortune, would not take his rest
In bed, and cov’rings fit for any guest,
But in the entry, on an ox’s hide
Never at tanner’s, his old limbs implied,
In warm sheep-fells; yet over all we cast
A mantle, fitting for a man more grac’d.”
He took her answer, left the house, and went,
Attended with his dogs, to sift th’ event
Of private plots, betwixt him and his sire
In common counsel. Then the crew entire
Of all the household maids Euryclea bad
Bestir them through the house, and see it clad
In all best form; gave all their parts; and one
She set to furnish ev’ry seat and throne
With needle works, and purple clothes of state;
Another set to scour and cleanse the plate;
Another all the tables to make proud
With porous sponges; others she bestow’d
In all speed to the spring, to fetch from thence
Fit store of water; all at all expence
Of pains she will’d to be; for this to all
Should be a day of common festival,
And not a Wooer now should seek his home,
Elsewhere than there, but all were bid to come
Exceeding early, and be rais’d to heav’n
With all the entertainment could be giv’n.
They heard with greedy ears, and ev’rything
Put straight in practice. Twenty to the spring
Made speed for water; many in the house
Took pains; and all were both laborious
And skill’d in labour; many fell to fell
And cleave their wood; and all did more than well.
Then troop’d the lusty Wooers in; and then
Came all from spring; at their heels loaded men
With slaughter’d brawns, of all the herd the prize,
That had been long fed-up in sev’ral styes;
Eumæus and his men convey’d them there,
He, seeing now the king, began to cheer,
And thus saluted him: “How now, my guest?
Have yet your virtues found more interest
In these great Wooers’ good respects? Or still
Pursue they you with all their wonted ill?”
“I would to heav’n, Eumæus,” he replied,
“The Deities once would take in hand their pride,
That such unseemly fashions put in frame
In others’ roofs, as show no spark of shame.”
Thus these; and to these came Melanthius,
Great guardian of the most egregious
Rich Wooers’ herds, consisting all of goats;
Which he, with two more, drave, and made their cotes
The sounding porticos of that fair court.
Melanthius, seeing the king, this former sort
Of upland language gave: “What? Still stay here,
And dull these Wooers with thy wretched cheer?
Not gone for ever yet? Why now I see
This strife of cuffs betwixt the beggary,
That yesterday assay’d to get thee gone,
And thy more roguery, needs will fall upon
My hands to arbitrate. Thou wilt not hence
Till I set on thee; thy ragg’d impudence
Is so fast-footed. Are there not beside
Other great banquetants, but you must tide
At anchor still with us?” He nothing said,
But thought of ill enough, and shook his head.
Then came Philœtius, a chief of men,
That to the Wooers’ all-devouring den
A barren steer drave, and fat goats; for they
In custom were with traffickers by sea,
That who they would sent, and had utt’rance there.
And for these likewise the fair porches were
Hurdles and sheep-pens, as in any fair.
Philœtius took note in his repair
Of seen Ulysses, being a man as well
Giv’n to his mind’s use as to buy and sell,
Or do the drudg’ry that the blood desir’d,
And, standing near Eumæus, this enquir’d:
“What guest is this that makes our house of late
His entertainer? Whence claims he the state
His birth in this life holds? What nation?
What race? What country stands his speech upon?
O’er hardly portion’d by the terrible Fates.
The structure of his lineaments relates
A king’s resemblance in his pomp of reign
Ev’n thus in these rags. But poor erring men,
That have no firm home, but range here and there
As need compels, God keeps in this earth’s sphere,
As under water, and this tune he sings,
When he is spinning ev’n the cares of kings.”
Thus coming to him, with a kind of fear
He took his hand, and, touch’d exceeding near
With mere imagination of his worth,
This salutation he sent loudly forth:
“Health! Father stranger! In another world
Be rich and happy, though thou here art hurl’d
At feet of never such insulting Need.
O Jove, there lives no one God of thy seed
More ill to man than thou. Thou tak’st no ruth—
When thou thyself hast got him in most truth—
To wrap him in the straits of most distress,
And in the curse of others’ wickedness.
My brows have swet to see it, and mine eyes
Broke all in tears, when this being still the guise
Of worthiest men, I have but only thought,
That down to these ills was Ulysses wrought,
And that, thus clad, ev’n he is error-driv’n,
If yet he live and sees the light of heav’n.
But, if now dead, and in the house of hell,
O me! O good Ulysses! That my weal
Did ever wish, and when, but half a man
Amongst the people Cephallenian,
His bounty to his oxen’s charge preferr’d
One in that youth; which now is grown a herd
Unspeakable for number, and feed there
With their broad heads, as thick as of his ear
A field of corn is to a man. Yet these
Some men advise me with this noted prease
Of Wooers may devour, and wish me drive
Up to their feasts with them, that neither give
His son respect, though in his own free roof,
Nor have the wit to fear th’ infallible proof
Of Heav’nly vengeance, but make offer now
The long-lack’d King’s possessions to bestow
In their self-shares. Methinks the mind in me
Doth turn as fast, as in a flood or sea
A raging whirlpit doth, to gather in
To fishy death those swimmers in their sin;
Or feeds a motion as circular
To drive my herds away. But while the son
Bears up with life, ’twere heinous wrong to run
To other people with them, and to trust
Men of another earth. And yet more just
It were to venture their laws, the main right
Made still their masters, than at home lose quite
Their right and them, and sit and grieve to see
The wrong authoriz’d by their gluttony.
And I had long since fled, and tried th’ event
With other proud kings, since more insolent
These are than can be borne, but that ev’n still
I had a hope that this, though born to ill,
Would one day come from some coast, and their last
In his roofs strew with ruins red and vast.”
“Herdsman,” said he, “because thou art in show
Nor lewd nor indiscreet, and that I know
There rules in thee an understanding soul,
I’ll take an oath, that in thee shall control
All doubt of what I swear: Be witness, Jove,
That sway’st the first seat of the thron’d above,
This hospitable table, and this house,
That still hold title for the strenuous
Son of Laertes, that, if so you please,
Your eyes shall witness Laertiades
Arriv’d at home, and all these men that reign
In such excesses here shall here lie slain!”
He answer’d: “Stranger! Would just Jove would sign
What you have sworn! In your eyes’ beams should shine
What pow’rs I manage, and how these my hands
Would rise and follow where he first commands.”
So said Eumæus, praying all the Sky
That wise Ulysses might arrive and try.
Thus while they vow’d, the Wooers sat as hard
On his son’s death, but had their counsels scar’d,
For on their left hand did an eagle soar,
And in her seres a fearful pigeon bore.
Which seen, Amphinomus presag’d: “O friends,
Our counsels never will receive their ends
In this man’s slaughter. Let us therefore ply
Our bloody feast, and make his oxen die.”
Thus came they in, cast off on seats their cloaks,
And fell to giving sacrificing strokes
Of sheep and goats, the chiefly fat and great,
Slew fed-up swine, and from the herd a neat.
The inwards roasted they dispos’d bewixt
Their then observers, wine in flagons mixt.
The bowls Eumæus brought, Philœtius bread,
Melanthius fill’d the wine. Thus drank and fed
The feastful Wooers. Then the prince, in grace
Of his close project, did his father place
Amidst the pavéd entry, in a seat
Seemless and abject, a small board and meat
Of th’ only inwards; in a cup of gold
Yet sent him wine, and bade him now drink bold,
All his approaches he himself would free
’Gainst all the Wooers, since he would not see
His court made popular, but that his sire
Built it to his use. Therefore all the fire
Blown in the Wooers’ spleens he bade suppress,
And that in hands nor words they should digress
From that set peace his speech did then proclaim.
They bit their lips and wonder’d at his aim
In that brave language; when Antinous said:
“Though this speech, Grecians, be a mere upbraid,
Yet this time give it pass. The will of Jove
Forbids the violence of our hands to move,
But of our tongues we keep the motion free,
And, therefore, if his further jollity
Tempt our encounter with his braves, let’s check
His growing insolence, though pride to speak
Fly passing high with him.” The wise prince made
No more spring of his speech, but let it fade.
And now the heralds bore about the town
The sacred hecatomb; to whose renown
The fair-hair’d Greeks assembled, and beneath
Apollo’s shady wood the holy death
They put to fire; which, made enough, they drew,
Divided all, that did in th’ end accrue
To glorious satisfaction. Those that were
Disposers of the feast did equal cheer
Bestow on wretched Laertiades,
With all the Wooers’ souls; it so did please
Telemachus to charge them. And for these
Minerva would not see the malices
The Wooers bore too much contain’d, that so
Ulysses’ mov’d heart yet might higher flow
In wreakful anguish. There was wooing there,
Amongst the rest, a gallant that did bear
The name of one well-learn’d in jests profane,
His name Ctesippus, born a Samian;
Who, proud because his father was so rich,
Had so much confidence as did bewitch
His heart with hope to wed Ulysses’ wife;
And this man said: “Hear me, my lords, in strife
For this great widow. This her guest did share
Even feast with us, with very comely care
Of him that order’d it; for ’tis not good
Nor equal to deprive guests of their food,
And specially whatever guest makes way
To that house where Telemachus doth sway;
And therefore I will add to his receit
A gift of very hospitable weight,
Which he may give again to any maid
That bathes his grave feet, and her pains see paid,
Or any servant else that the divine
Ulysses’ lofty battlements confine.”
Thus snatch’d he with a valiant hand, from out
The poor folks’ common basket, a neat’s foot,
And threw it at Ulysses; who his head
Shrunk quietly aside, and let it shed
His malice on the wall; the suff’ring man
A laughter raising most Sardinian,
With scorn and wrath mix’d, at the Samian.
Whom thus the prince reprov’d: “Your valour wan
Much grace, Ctesippus, and hath eas’d your mind
With mighty profit, yet you see it find
No mark it aim’d at; the poor stranger’s part
Himself made good enough, to ’scape your dart.
But should I serve thee worthily, my lance
Should strike thy heart through, and, in place t’ advance
Thyself in nuptials with his wealth, thy sire
Should make thy tomb here; that the foolish fire
Of all such valours may not dare to show
These foul indecencies to me. I now
Have years to understand my strength, and know
The good and bad of things, and am no more
At your large suff’rance, to behold my store
Consum’d with patience, see my cattle slain,
My wine exhausted, and my bread in vain
Spent on your license; for to one then young
So many enemies were match too strong.
But let me never more be witness to
Your hostile minds, nor those base deeds ye do;
For, should ye kill me in my offer’d wreak,
I wish it rather, and my death would speak
Much more good of me, than to live and see
Indignity upon indignity,
My guests provok’d with bitter words and blows,
My women-servants dragg’d about my house
To lust and rapture.” This made silence seize
The house throughout; till Damastorides
At length the calm brake, and said: “Friend, forbear
To give a just speech a disdainful ear;
The guest no more touch, nor no servant here.
Myself will to the Prince and Queen commend
A motion grateful, if they please to lend
Grateful receipt. As long as any hope
Left wise Ulysses any passage ope
To his return in our conceits, so long
The Queen’s delays to our demands stood strong
In cause and reason, and our quarrels thus
With guests, the Queen, or her Telemachus,
Set never foot amongst our lib’ral feast;
For should the King return, though thought deceas’d,
It had been gain to us, in finding him,
To lose his wife. But now, since nothing dim
The days break out that show he never more
Shall reach the dear touch of his country-shore,
Sit by your mother, in persuasion
That now it stands her honour much upon
To choose the best of us, and, who gives most,
To go with him home. For so, all things lost
In sticking on our haunt so, you shall clear
Recover in our no more concourse here,
Possess your birth-right wholly, eat and drink,
And never more on our disgraces think.”
“By Jove, no, Agelaus! For I swear
By all my father’s sorrows, who doth err
Far off from Ithaca, or rests in death,
I am so far from spending but my breath
To make my mother any more defer
Her wishéd nuptials, that I’ll counsel her
To make her free choice; and besides will give
Large gifts to move her. But I fear to drive
Or charge her hence; for God will not give way
To any such course, if I should assay.”
At this, Minerva made for foolish joy
The Wooers mad, and rous’d their late annoy
To such a laughter as would never down.
They laugh’d with others’ cheeks, ate meat o’erflown
With their own bloods, their eyes stood full of tears
For violent joys; their souls yet thought of fears,
Which Theoclymenus express’d, and said:
“O wretches! Why sustain ye, well apaid,
Your imminent ill? A night, with which death sees,
Your heads and faces hides beneath your knees;
Shrieks burn about you; your eyes thrust out tears;
These fixéd walls, and that main beam that bears
The whole house up, in bloody torrents fall;
The entry full of ghosts stands; full the hall
Of passengers to hell; and under all
The dismal shades; the sun sinks from the poles;
And troubled air pours bane about your souls.”
They sweetly laughed at this. Eurymachus
To mocks dispos’d, and said: “This new-come-t’-us
Is surely mad, conduct him forth to light
In th’ open market-place; he thinks ’tis night
Within the house.” “Eurymachus,” said he,
“I will not ask for any guide of thee,
I both my feet enjoy, have ears and eyes,
And no mad soul within me; and with these
Will I go forth the doors, because I know
That imminent mischief must abide with you,
Which not a man of all the Wooers here
Shall fly or ’scape. Ye all too highly bear
Your uncurb’d heads. Impieties ye commit,
And ev’ry man affect with forms unfit.”
This said, he left the house, and took his way
Home to Piræus; who, as free as day,
Was of his welcome. When the Wooers’ eyes
Chang’d looks with one another, and, their guise
Of laughters still held on, still eas’d their breasts
Of will to set the Prince against his guests,
Affirming that of all the men alive
He worst luck had, and prov’d it worst to give
Guests entertainment; for he had one there
A wand’ring hunter-out of provender,
An errant beggar ev’ry way, yet thought
(He was so hungry) that he needed nought
But wine and victuals, nor knew how to do,
Nor had a spirit to put a knowledge to,
But liv’d an idle burthen to the earth.
Another then stepp’d up, and would lay forth
His lips in prophecy, thus: “But, would he hear
His friends’ persuasions, he should find it were
More profit for him to put both aboard
For the Sicilian people, that afford
These feet of men good price; and this would bring2
Good means for better guests.” These, words made wing
To his ears idly, who had still his eye
Upon his father, looking fervently
When he would lay his long-withholding hand
On those proud Wooers. And, within command
Of all this speech that pass’d, Icarius’ heir,
The wise Penelope, her royal chair
Had plac’d of purpose. Their high dinner then
With all-pleas’d palates these ridiculous men
Fell sweetly to, as joying they had slain
Such store of banquet. But there did not reign
A bitterer banquet-planet in all heav’n
Than that which Pallas had to that day driv’n,
And, with her able friend now, meant t’ appose,
Since they till then were in deserts so gross.
THE END OF THE Twentieth Book OF Homer’S Odysseys.

1 Viz. That some from within might issue, and witness in his hearing some wreakful ostent to his enemies from heaven.
2 These feet of men, etc. ἀνδραποδισταί.