The swain replied:  “It never was our guise
To slight the poor, or aught humane despise: 
For Jove unfold our hospitable door,
’Tis Jove that sends the stranger and the poor,
Little, alas! is all the good I can
A man oppress’d, dependent, yet a man: 
Accept such treatment as a swain affords,
Slave to the insolence of youthful lords! 
Far hence is by unequal gods removed
That man of bounties, loving and beloved! 
To whom whate’er his slave enjoys is owed,
And more, had Fate allow’d, had been bestow’d: 
But Fate condemn’d him to a foreign shore;
Much have I sorrow’d, but my Master more. 
Now cold he lies, to death’s embrace resign’d: 
Ah, perish Helen! perish all her kind! 
For whose cursed cause, in Agamemnon’s name,
He trod so fatally the paths of fame.”

His vest succinct then girding round his waist,
Forth rush’d the swain with hospitable haste. 
Straight to the lodgments of his herd he run,
Where the fat porkers slept beneath the sun;
Of two, his cutlass launch’d the spouting blood;
These quarter’d, singed, and fix’d on forks of wood,
All hasty on the hissing coals he threw;
And smoking, back the tasteful viands drew. 
Broachers and all then an the board display’d
The ready meal, before Ulysses laid
With flour imbrown’d; next mingled wine yet new,
And luscious as the bees’ nectareous dew: 
Then sate, companion of the friendly feast,
With open look; and thus bespoke his guest: 
“Take with free welcome what our hands prepare,
Such food as falls to simple servants’ share;
The best our lords consume; those thoughtless peers,
Rich without bounty, guilty without fears;
Yet sure the gods their impious acts detest,
And honour justice and the righteous breast. 
Pirates and conquerors of harden’d mind,
The foes of peace, and scourges of mankind,
To whom offending men are made a prey
When Jove in vengeance gives a land away;
E’en these, when of their ill-got spoils possess’d,
Find sure tormentors in the guilty breast: 
Some voice of God close whispering from within,
‘Wretch! this is villainy, and this is sin.’ 
But these, no doubt, some oracle explore,
That tells, the great Ulysses is no more. 
Hence springs their confidence, and from our sighs
Their rapine strengthens, and their riots rise: 
Constant as Jove the night and day bestows,
Bleeds a whole hecatomb, a vintage flows. 
None match’d this hero’s wealth, of all who reign
O’er the fair islands of the neighbouring main. 
Nor all the monarchs whose far-dreaded sway
The wide-extended continents obey: 
First, on the main land, of Ulysses’ breed
Twelve herds, twelve flocks, on ocean’s margin feed;
As many stalls for shaggy goats are rear’d;
As many lodgments for the tusky herd;
Two foreign keepers guard:  and here are seen
Twelve herds of goats that graze our utmost green;