Volume I Part 77 (1/2)

TELEMACHUS.

Sir, my father Ulysses doth him commend To you most heartily, and here he hath you send Of his mind a letter, Which show you better Everything shall, Than I can make rehearsal.

[_Here he must deliver him the letter_.

THERSITES.

Lo, friends, ye may see What great men write to me.

[_Here he must read the letter_.

As entirely as heart can think, Or scrivener can write with ink, I send you loving greeting, Thersites, my own sweeting!

I am very sorry, When I cast in memory The great unkindness And also the blindness, That hath be in my breast Against you ever prest: I have be prompt and diligent Ever to make you shent, To appal your good name, And to 'minish your fame: In that I was to blame; But well all this is gone, And remedy there is none, But only repentance Of all my old grievance, With which I did you molest, And gave you sorry rest: The cause was thereof truly Nothing but very envy; Wherefore now, gentle esquire, Forgive me, I you desire, And help, I you beseech, Telemachus to a leech, That him may wisely charm From the worms that do him harm; In that ye may do me pleasure, For he is my chief treasure.

I have heard men say, That come by the way, That better charmer is no other, Than is your own dear mother.

I pray you of her obtain To charm away his pain.

Fare ye well, and come to my house To drink wine and eat a piece of souse; And we will have minstrelsy, That shall pipe _Hankin boby_.

My wife Penelope Doth greet you well by me.

Writing at my house on Candlemas-day, Midsummer month, the Calends of May, By me, Ulysses, being very glad That the victory of late of the monster ye had.

Ah, sirrah, quoth he? how say you, friends all, Ulysses is glad for my favour to call.

Well, though we oft have swerved, And he small love deserved, Yet I am well content, Seeing he doth repent, To let old matters go, And to take him no more so, As I have done hitherto, For my mortal foe.

Come go with me, Telemachus; I will thee bring Unto my mother to have her charming.

I doubt not, but by that time that she hath done, Thou shalt be the better seven years agone.

[_Then Thersites goeth to his mother, saying_: Mother, Christ thee save and see, Ulysses hath send his son to thee, That thou shouldst him charm From the worms that him harm.

MATER.

Son, ye be wise, keep ye warm!

Why should I for Ulysses do, That never was kind us to?

He was ready in war Ever thee, son, to mar; Then had been all my joy Exiled clean away.

THERSITES.

Well, mother, all that is past; Wrath may not always last, And seeing we be mortal all, Let not our wrath be immortal.

MATER.

Charm that charm will, he shall not be charmed of me.

THERSITES.

Charm, or, by the ma.s.s, with my club I will charm thee.