The shaft Atrides’ curets strook; and far away did glance. Atrides’ dart of Helenus the thrust out bow-hand strook, And, through the hand, stuck in the bow. Agenor’s hand did pluck From forth the nailéd prisoner the jav’lin quickly out; And fairly, with a little wool, enwrapping round about The wounded hand, within a scarf he bore it, which his squire Had ready for him. Yet the wound would needs he should retire. Pisander, to revenge his hurt, right on the king ran he. A bloody fate suggested him to let him run on thee, O Menelaus, that he might, by thee, in dang’rous war Be done to death. Both coming on, Atrides’ lance did err. Pisander strook Atrides’ shield, that brake at point the dart Not running through; yet he rejoic’d as playing a victor’s part. Atrides, drawing his fair sword, upon Pisander flew; Pisander, from beneath his shield, his goodly weapon drew, Two-edg’d, with right sharp steel, and long, the handle olive-tree, Well-polish’d; and to blows they go. Upon the top strook he Atrides’ horse-hair’d-feather’d helm; Atrides on his brow, Above th’ extreme part of his nose, laid such a heavy blow That all the bones crash’d under it, and out his eyes did drop Before his feet in bloody dust; he after, and shrunk up His dying body, which the foot of his triumphing foe Open’d, and stood upon his breast, and off his arms did go, This insultation us’d the while: “At length forsake our fleet, Thus ye false Trojans, to whom war never enough is sweet. Nor want ye more impieties, with which ye have abus’d Me, ye bold dogs, that your chief friends so honourably us’d. Nor fear you hospitable Jove, that lets such thunders go. But build upon’t, he will unbuild your tow’rs that clamber so, For ravishing my goods, and wife, in flow’r of all her years, And without cause; nay, when that fair and lib’ral hand of hers Had us’d you so most lovingly. And now again ye would Cast fire into our fleet, and kill our princes if ye could. Go to, one day you will be curb’d, though never so ye thirst Rude war, by war. O father Jove, they say thou art the first In wisdom of all Gods and men, yet all this comes from thee, And still thou gratifiest these men, how lewd so e’er they be, Though never they be cloy’d with sins, nor can be satiate, As good men should, with this vile war. Satiety of state, Satiety of sleep and love, satiety of ease, Of music, dancing, can find place; yet harsh war still must please Past all these pleasures, ev’n past these. They will be cloy’d with these Before their war joys. Never war gives Troy satieties.” This said, the bloody arms were oft; and to his soldiers thrown, He mixing in first fight again. And then Harpalion, Kind king Pylæmen’s son, gave charge; who to those wars of Troy His lovéd father followéd, nor ever did enjoy His country’s sight again. He strook the targe of Atreus’ son Full in the midst; his jav’lin’s steel yet had no pow’r to run The target through; nor had himself the heart to fetch his lance,