The good old men and timorous maids are stricken with admiration and the eager wife hangs upon her husband's tongue as he relates. The matrons present grateful gifts for the safe return of their husbands they in their turn sing the fate of Troy, constrained to yield to their better fortune. The Grecian chiefs have returned our altars smoke and the spoils of the barbarians are offered up to our gods. But the righteous gods had regard to my chaste flame my husband lives, and Troy is reduced to ashes. In fine, as often as any fell in the Grecian camp, my fond heart was chilled with icy fear. Tlepolemus had stained the Lycian spear with his blood, my anxiety was renewed by the catastrophè of Tlepolemus. If any one informed me that Antilochus had been slain by that hero, the fate of Antilochus proved the cause of fresh disquiet to me or, if informed that Patroclus had fallen in counterfeit armour, I lamented that this stratagem should fail of success. I often fancied you to myself assaulted by furious Trojans and on hearing the name of Hector always turned pale.
#SRWARE IRON CREADOR FULL#
How often has my apprehension magnified your dangers? Love is a passion full of anxiety and fear. Oh, how I wish that the infamous adulterer, when he sailed for Lacedæmon with his fleet, had been swallowed up by the raging seas! I had not then lain cold in a solitary bed, nor thus forlorn complained of the tedious days the pendulous web would not then have tired my tender hands, while by such means I sought to elude the lingering nights. Troy is no more, that city so justly odious to the Grecian dames: scarcely were Priam and all his kingdom worth such a mighty stir.
DEAR Ulysses, your Penelope sends this epistle to you, so slow in your return home write not any answer, but come yourself.
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