What gain were mine if I should anchor cast
And soothe my senses with these songs divine
When I had wearied of the sweet repast,
What gain were mine?
Save for my skill, ye yet were Circe’s swine,
And barking Scylla safe I led you past—
And past Charybdis, ambushed in the brine.
Then faithful comrades bind, and bind me fast—
My lips are fain for kisses and for wine;
But so I fail of Ithaca at last,