Home. I must, I will go home.
And leave this island, and fair Kalypso?
Aye, and return to my marriage-bed, and wife, and son.
The bed grown cold, the wife—never a beauty—grown withered, and the son grown a man without a father. What a welcome you will get.
From a beloved wife, a devoted son? A great welcome, and a joyous return.
And will you then throw immortality away, like so many rags?
I want it not.
And must you leave?
Aye. This island grows too small, and other lands there are, too, before Ithaca is reached.