“Be calm (replies the sire); to none impart,
But oft revolve the vision in thy heart: 
Celestials, mantled in excess of light,
Can visit unapproach’d by mortal sight. 
Seek thou repose:  whilst here I sole remain,
To explore the conduct of the female train: 
The pensive queen, perchance, desires to know
The series of my toils, to soothe her woe.”

With tapers flaming day his train attends,
His bright alcove the obsequious youth ascends: 
Soft slumberous shades his drooping eyelids close,
Till on her eastern throne Aurora glows.

Whilst, forming plans of death, Ulysses stay’d,
In counsel secret with the martial maid,
Attendant nymphs in beauteous order wait
The queen, descending from her bower of state. 
Her cheeks the warmer blush of Venus wear,
Chasten’d with coy Diana’s pensive air. 
An ivory seat with silver ringlets graced,
By famed Icmalius wrought, the menials placed: 
With ivory silver’d thick the footstool shone,
O’er which the panther’s various hide was thrown. 
The sovereign seat with graceful air she press’d;
To different tasks their toil the nymphs address’d: 
The golden goblets some, and some restored
From stains of luxury the polish’d board: 
These to remove the expiring embers came,
While those with unctuous fir foment the flame.

’Twas then Melantho with imperious mien
Renew’d the attack, incontinent of spleen: 
“Avaunt (she cried), offensive to my sight! 
Deem not in ambush here to lurk by night,
Into the woman-state asquint to pry;
A day-devourer, and an evening spy! 
Vagrant, begone! before this blazing brand
Shall urge”—­and waved it hissing in her hand.

The insulted hero rolls his wrathful eyes
And “Why so turbulent of soul? (he cries;)
Can these lean shrivell’d limbs, unnerved with age,
These poor but honest rags, enkindle rage? 
In crowds, we wear the badge of hungry fate: 
And beg, degraded from superior state! 
Constrain’d a rent-charge on the rich I live;
Reduced to crave the good I once could give: 
A palace, wealth, and slaves, I late possess’d,
And all that makes the great be call’d the bless’d: 
My gate, an emblem of my open soul,
Embraced the poor, and dealt a bounteous dole. 
Scorn not the sad reverse, injurious maid! 
’Tis Jove’s high will, and be his will obey’d! 
Nor think thyself exempt:  that rosy prime
Must share the general doom of withering time: 
To some new channel soon the changeful tide
Of royal grace the offended queen may guide;
And her loved lord unplume thy towering pride. 
Or, were he dead, ’tis wisdom to beware: 
Sweet blooms the prince beneath Apollo’s care;
Your deeds with quick impartial eye surveys,
Potent to punish what he cannot praise.”