Siren. COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,   Possess these shores with me: The winds and seas are troublesome,   And here we may be free. Here may we sit and view their toil   That travail in the deep, And joy the day in mirth the while,   And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were   To be attain'd with ease, Then would I come and rest me there,   And leave such toils as these. But here it dwells, and here must I   With danger seek it forth: To spend the time luxuriously   Becomes not men of worth.

Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived   With that unreal name; This honour is a thing conceived,   And rests on others' fame: Begotten only to molest   Our peace, and to beguile The best thing of our life—our rest,   And give us up to toil.

Ulysses. Delicious Nymph, suppose there were   No honour nor report, Yet manliness would scorn to wear   The time in idle sport: For toil doth give a better touch   To make us feel our joy, And ease finds tediousness as much   As labour yields annoy.

Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore   Whereto tends all your toil, Which you forgo to make it more,   And perish oft the while. Who may disport them diversely   Find never tedious day, And ease may have variety   As well as action may.

Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frame   These toils and dangers please; And they take comfort in the same   As much as you in ease; And with the thought of actions past   Are recreated still: When Pleasure leaves a touch at last   To show that it was ill.

Siren. That doth Opinion only cause   That 's out of Custom bred, Which makes us many other laws   Than ever Nature did. No widows wail for our delights,   Our sports are without blood; The world we see by warlike wights   Receives more hurt than good.

Ulysses. But yet the state of things require   These motions of unrest: And these great Spirits of high desire   Seem born to turn them best: To purge the mischiefs that increase   And all good order mar: For oft we see a wicked peace   To be well changed for war.

Siren. Well, well, Ulysses, then I see   I shall not have thee here: And therefore I will come to thee,   And take my fortune there. I must be won, that cannot win,   Yet lost were I not won; For beauty hath created been   T' undo, or be undone.