Winning my son, thou comest to the house
Of good Ulysses, and to me his wife
Pretendest tidings of my long-lost lord?
Ul. O lady, there is none in all the world
Would blame the word thou sayest, so fair thy fame:
Nay, for thy spirit is gentle: yet ask me not
Thus of myself, for I have seen much woe:
And tears might flood my face; till thou perchance
Shouldst think my temper soft, or drowned in wine.
Pen. Whate’er my fame, stranger, it lacketh much