Then wise Penelope spoke: Antinous, it is neither fair nor just to deny the guests of Telemachus whoever comes to this house. Do you think that if the stranger strings Odysseus's great bow he will lead me home and make me his wife? He himself has no such hope. Let none of you on that account sit grieving at dinner. Eurymachus answered: Daughter of Icarius, we do not think this man will lead you home — but we are ashamed of what men and women will say. Some lesser Achaean may say: Far worse men are wooing the wife of a blameless man; they cannot even string his polished bow, yet a beggar who came wandering strung it easily and shot through the iron. So they will speak, and that would be a disgrace for us.
Penelope answered: Eurymachus, there can be no fair fame in the land for men who dishonor and devour a prince's house. Why count this as shame? The stranger is tall and well-built; he claims to be of a good father. So give him the polished bow and let us see. I tell you this, and it will be done: if he strings it and Apollo grants him glory, I will clothe him in cloak and tunic, give him a sharp spear and a two-edged sword and sandals, and send him wherever his heart bids. Then thoughtful Telemachus spoke: Mother, as for the bow, no Achaean has more right than I to give or refuse it to whoever I will. Go to your room and see to your own work, the loom and the distaff, and bid your maids go about their business. The bow shall be men's care — all men's, and mine above all; for mine is the authority in the house.
She wondered and went back to her room, taking to heart her son's wise word. She climbed to her upper chamber with her women and wept for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids. The swineherd took the curved bow and carried it. All the suitors in the hall shouted at him; one of the proud young men would say: Where are you taking the curved bow, wretched swineherd? Soon the dogs you reared will eat you among your pigs if Apollo is gracious to us. So they spoke, and he set the bow down where he was, afraid. Telemachus called from the other side with a threat: Keep carrying the bow, old man — or you will soon wish you had not obeyed all men. Take care I do not chase you to the country with stones, young as I am. If only I were as much stronger than all the suitors in the house, I would soon send some of them on a bitter journey out of our land.
So he spoke, and all the suitors laughed pleasantly at him and let go the sharp anger against Telemachus. The swineherd carried the bow through the hall, came up to wise Odysseus, and put it in his hands. Then he called nurse Euryclea aside: Thoughtful Telemachus bids you bar the close-fitting doors of the women's room. If any hears groaning or noise of men within our walls, let her not come out, but stay where she is in silence at her work. So he spoke, and she barred the doors. Philoetius slipped out in silence, barred the gates of the well-fenced courtyard, and tied them with a ship's rope that lay under the portico. Then he went in and sat down, looking at Odysseus.
Odysseus was already handling the bow, turning it this way and that, trying it in every part, lest worms had eaten the horn while the master was away. Looking at him, one would say to his neighbor: He is a dealer in bows, or else he has such a one of his own at home. Another of the proud young men would say: May he gain as much profit as he will ever be able to string this. But Odysseus of many wiles, as soon as he had lifted the great bow and looked it all over, did as a man well skilled in the lyre and in song easily stretches a string about a new peg — so without effort Odysseus strung the great bow. He took it in his right hand and tried the string; it sang sweetly under his touch, like the voice of a swallow.
Great grief came on the suitors, and all their faces changed. Zeus thundered loud, showing signs; and much-enduring Odysseus was glad that the son of Cronus had sent him an omen. He took a swift arrow that lay beside him on the table, bare — the others were still inside the hollow quiver, which the Achaeans would soon taste. He set it on the bridge, drew the string and the notched arrow back from the chair where he sat, and aimed straight ahead. He did not miss any of the axes, from the first handle on; the bronze-weighted arrow went clean through and out. Then he spoke to Telemachus: Telemachus, the stranger sitting in your halls does not shame you. I did not miss the mark, nor did I labor long to string the bow. My strength is still firm — not as the suitors scornfully say. But now it is time to make a meal for the Achaeans, while there is still light; and afterward amuse ourselves in another way, with song and with the lyre; for these things go with a feast. As he spoke he made a sign with his eyebrows. Telemachus girded on his sharp sword, grasped his spear, and stood by his chair beside his father, armed with gleaming bronze.