Then Hector, son of Priam, measur’d out, With sage Ulysses join’d, th’ allotted space; Next, in the brass-bound helmet cast the lots, Which of the two the first should throw the spear. The crowd, with hands uplifted, to the Gods, Trojans and Greeks alike, address’d their pray’r: “O Father Jove! who rul’st from Ida’s height, Most great! most glorious! grant that whosoe’er On both our armies hath this turmoil brought May undergo the doom of death, and we, The rest, firm peace and lasting friendship swear.” Thus they; great Hector of the glancing helm, With eyes averted, shook the casque; and forth Was cast the lot of Paris; on the ground The rest lay down by ranks, where near to each Were rang’d his active steeds, and glitt’ring arms. Then o’er his shoulders fair-hair’d Helen’s Lord, The godlike Paris, donn’d his armour bright: First on his legs the well-wrought greaves he fix’d, Fasten’d with silver clasps; his ample chest A breastplate guarded, by Lycaon lent, His brother, but which fitted well his form. Around his shoulders slung, his sword he bore, Brass-bladed, silver-studded; then his shield Weighty and strong; and on his firm-set head A helm he wore, well wrought, with horsehair plume That nodded, fearful, o’er his brow; his hand Grasp’d the firm spear, familiar to his hold. Prepar’d alike the adverse warrior stood. They, from the crowd apart their armour donn’d, Came forth: and each, with eyes of mutual hate, Regarded each: admiring wonder seiz’d The Trojan warriors and the well-greav’d Greeks, As in the centre of the measur’d ground They stood oppos’d, and pois’d their quiv’ring spears. First Paris threw his weighty spear, and struck Fair in the midst Atrides’ buckler round, But broke not through; upon the stubborn targe Was bent the lance’s point; then thus to Jove, His weapon hurling, Menelaus pray’d: “Great King, on him who wrought me causeless wrong, On Paris, grant that retribution due My arm may bring; that men in days to come May fear their host to injure, and repay With treach’rous wile his hospitable cares.” He said, and poising, hurl’d his weighty spear: Full in the midst it struck the buckler round; Right through the buckler pass’d the sturdy spear, And through the gorgeous breastplate, and within Cut through the linen vest; but Paris, back Inclining, stoop’d, and shunn’d the doom of death.