710 To give his pointed lance its rapid course, And one, to start his arrow from the nerve.  The arrow of the son of Priam struck Atrides’ hollow corselet, but the reed Glanced wide.  As vetches or as swarthy beans 715 Leap from the van and fly athwart the floor, By sharp winds driven, and by the winnower’s force, So from the corselet of the glorious Greek Wide-wandering flew the bitter shaft away.  But Menelaus the left-hand transpierced 720 Of Helenus, and with the lance’s point Fasten’d it to his bow; shunning a stroke More fatal, Helenus into his band Retired, his arm dependent at his side, And trailing, as he went, the ashen beam; 725 There, bold Agenor from his hand the lance Drew forth, then folded it with softest wool Around, sling-wool, and borrow’d from the sling Which his attendant into battle bore.  Then sprang Pisander on the glorious Chief 730 The son of Atreus, but his evil fate Beckon’d him to his death in conflict fierce, Oh Menelaus, mighty Chief! with thee.  And now they met, small interval between.  Atrides hurl’d his weapon, and it err’d. 735 Pisander with his spear struck full the shield Of glorious Menelaus, but his force Resisted by the stubborn buckler broad Fail’d to transpierce it, and the weapon fell Snapp’d at the neck.  Yet, when he struck, the heart 740 Rebounded of Pisander, full of hope.  But Menelaus, drawing his bright blade, Sprang on him, while Pisander from behind His buckler drew a brazen battle-axe By its long haft of polish’d olive-wood, 745 And both Chiefs struck together.  He the crest That crown’d the shaggy casque of Atreus’ son Hew’d from its base, but Menelaus him In his swift onset smote full on the front Above his nose; sounded the shatter’d bone, 750 And his eyes both fell bloody at his feet.  Convolved with pain he lay; then, on his breast Atrides setting fast his heel, tore off His armor, and exulting thus began. 
  So shall ye leave at length the Grecian fleet, 755
Traitors, and never satisfied with war!  Nor want ye other guilt, dogs and profane!  But me have injured also, and defied The hot displeasure of high-thundering Jove The hospitable, who shall waste in time, 760 And level with the dust your lofty Troy.  I wrong’d not you, yet bore ye far away My youthful bride who welcomed you, and stole My treasures also, and ye now are bent To burn Achaia’s gallant fleet with fire 765 And slay her heroes; but your furious thirst Of battle shall hereafter meet a check.  Oh, Father Jove!  Thee wisest we account In heaven or earth, yet from thyself proceed All these calamities, who favor show’st 770 To this flagitious race the Trojans, strong In wickedness alone, and whose delight In war and bloodshed never can be cloy’d.  All pleasures breed satiety, sweet sleep, Soft dalliance, music, and the graceful