The Duel between Menelaos and Paris

Striking a stand in the duelling-ground just cleared
they brandished spears at each other, tense with fury.
Suddenly Paris hurled - his spear's long shadow flew
and the shaft hit Menelaos' round shield, full center -
not pounding through, the brazen point bent back
in the tough armour.
                                   But his turn next - Menelaos
reared with a bronze lance and a prayer to Father Zeus:
"Zeus, King, give me revenge, he wronged me first!
Illustrious Paris - crush him under my hand!
So even among the men to come a man may shrink
from wounding the host who showers him with kindness."
Shaking his spear, he hurled and its long shadow flew
and the shaft hit Paris' round shield, hit full center -
straight through the gleaming hide the heavy weapon drove,
ripping down and in through the breastplate finely worked,
tearing the war-shirt, close by Paris' flank it jabbed
but the Trojan swerved aside and dodged black death.
So now Menelaos drew his sword with silver studs
and hoisting the weapon high, brought it crashing down
on the helmet ridge but the blade smashed where it struck
jagged shatters flying - it dropped from Atrides' hand
and the hero cried out, scanning the blank skies,
"Father Zeus! No god more destructive than you!
Here I thought I'd punish Paris for all his outrage -
now my sword is shattered, right in my hands, look,
my spear flew from my grip for nothing-I never hit him!"
Lunging at Paris, he grabbed his horsehair crest,
swung him round, started to drag him into Argive lines
and now the braided chin-strap holding his helmet tight
was gouging his soft throat - Paris was choking, strangling.
Now he'd have hauled him off and won undying glory
but Aphrodite, Zeus's daughter quick to the mark,
snapped the rawhide strap, cut from a bludgeoned ox,
and the helmet came off empty in Menelaos' fist.
Whirling it round the fighter sent it flying
into his Argives scrambling fast to retrieve it -
back at his man he sprang, enraged with brazen spear,
mad for the kill but Aphrodite snatched Paris away,
easy work for a god, wrapped him in swirls of mist
and set him down in his bedroom filled with scent.