[Then cometh in Telemachus, bringing a letter from his father Ulysses, and Thersites saith:
What, little Telemachus!
What makest thou here among us?
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.