Bids fair-hair’d Helen’s husband arm; who first makes fast his greaves With silver buckles to his legs; then on his breast receives The curets that Lycaon wore (his brother) but made fit For his fair body; next his sword he took, and fasten’d it, All damask’d, underneath his arm; his shield then grave and great His shoulders wore; and on his head his glorious helm he set, Topp’d with a plume of horse’s hair, that horribly did dance, And seem’d to threaten as he mov’d; at last he takes his lance, Exceeding big, and full of weight, which he with ease could use. In like sort, Sparta’s warlike king himself with arms indues. Thus arm’d at either army both, they both stood bravely in, Possessing both hosts with amaze, they came so chin to chin, And, with such horrible aspécts, each other did salute. A fair large field was made for them; where wraths, for hugeness mute, And mutual, made them mutually at either shake their darts Before they threw. Then Paris first with his long jav’lin parts; It smote Atrides’ orby targe, but ran not through the brass, For in it (arming well the shield) the head reflected was. Then did the second combatant apply him to his spear, Which ere he threw, he thus besought almighty Jupiter: “O Jove! Vouchsafe me now revenge, and that my enemy, For doing wrong so undeserv’d, may pay deservedly The pains he forfeited; and let these hands inflict those pains, By conqu’ring, ay, by conqu’ring dead, him on whom life complains; That any now, or anyone of all the brood of men To live hereafter, may with fear from all offence abstain, Much more from all such foul offence to him that was his host, And entertain’d him as the man whom he affected most.” This said, he shook and threw his lance; which strook through Paris’ shield, And, with the strength he gave to it, it made the curets yield, His coat of mail, his breast, and all, and drove his entrails in, In that low region where the guts in three small parts begin; Yet he, in bowing of his breast, prevented sable death. This taint he follow’d with his sword, drawn from a silver sheath, Which lifting high, he strook his helm full where his plume did stand, On which it piecemeal brake, and fell from his unhappy hand. At which he sighing stood, and star’d upon the ample sky, And said: “O Jove, there is no God giv’n more illiberally To those that serve thee than thyself, why have I pray’d in vain? I hop’d my hand should have reveng’d, the wrongs I still sustain, On him that did them, and still dares their foul defence pursue; And now my lance hath miss’d his end, my sword in shivers flew, And he ’scapes all.” With this, again he rush’d upon his guest, And caught him by the horse-hair plume, that dangled on his crest, With thought to drag him to the Greeks; which he had surely done, And so, besides the victory, had wondrous glory won, (Because the needle-painted lace, with which his helm was tied Beneath his chin, and so about his dainty throat implied,