To good Ulysses’ house, I’ll e’en be gone.
Food must be there in plenty: I make no doubt
To beg a meal till I may serve for hire.
Eum. Why, man, what put this folly in thy head?
’Twere the short way to end thy days, to go
Among that insolent and godless herd,
To tempt their violence. Not such as thou
Their servants are: they that attend on them
Are young and gaily clad and fair of face:
And though the polished tables lack not food,