Your other task, ye menial train forbear: 
Now wash the stranger, and the bed prepare: 
With splendid palls the downy fleece adorn: 
Uprising early with the purple morn. 
His sinews, shrunk with age, and stiff with toil,
In the warm bath foment with fragrant oil. 
Then with Telemachus the social feast
Partaking free, my soul invited guest;
Whoe’er neglects to pay distinction due,
The breach of hospitable right may rue. 
The vulgar of my sex I most exceed
In real fame, when most humane my deed;
And vainly to the praise of queen aspire,
If, stranger!  I permit that mean attire
Beneath the feastful bower.  A narrow space
Confines the circle of our destin’d race;
’Tis ours with good the scanty round to grace. 
Those who to cruel wrong their state abuse,
Dreaded in life the mutter’d curse pursues;
By death disrobed of all their savage powers,
Then, licensed rage her hateful prey devours. 
But he whose inborn worth his acts commend,
Of gentle soul, to human race a friend;
The wretched he relieves diffuse his fame,
And distant tongues extol the patron-name.”

“Princess? (he cried) in vain your bounties flow
On me, confirm’d and obstinate in woe. 
When my loved Crete received my final view,
And from my weeping eyes her cliffs withdrew;
These tatter’d weeds (my decent robes resign’d)
I chose, the livery of a woful mind! 
Nor will my heart-corroding care abate
With splendid palls, and canopies of state: 
Low-couch’d on earth, the gift of sleep I scorn,
And catch the glances of the waking morn. 
The delicacy of your courtly train
To wash a wretched wanderer would disdain;
But if, in tract of long experience tried,
And sad similitude of woes allied,
Some wretch reluctant views aerial light,
To her mean hand assign the friendly rite.”

Pleased with his wise reply, the queen rejoin’d: 
“Such gentle manners, and so sage a mind,
In all who graced this hospitable bower
I ne’er discerned, before this social hour. 
Such servant as your humble choice requires,
To light received the lord of my desires,
New from the birth; and with a mother’s hand
His tender bloom to manly growth sustain’d: 
Of matchless prudence, and a duteous mind;
Though now to life’s extremest verge declined,
Of strength superior to the toil design’d—­
Rise, Euryclea! with officious care
For the poor friend the cleansing bath prepare: 
This debt his correspondent fortunes claim,
Too like Ulysses, and perhaps the same! 
Thus old with woes my fancy paints him now! 
For age untimely marks the careful brow.”

Instant, obsequious to the mild command,
Sad Euryclea rose:  with trembling hand
She veils the torrent of her tearful eyes;
And thus impassion’d to herself replies: