“O Father Jove, who rulest from the top Of Ida, mightiest one and most august! Whichever of these twain has done the wrong, Grant that he pass to Pluto’s dwelling, slain, While friendship and a faithful league are ours.”

So spake they. Hector of the beamy helm Looked back and shook the lots. Forth leaped at once The lot of Paris. Then they took their seats In ranks beside their rapid steeds, and where Lay their rich armor. Paris the divine, Husband of bright-haired Helen, there put on His shining panoply⁠—upon his legs Fair greaves, with silver clasps, and on his breast His brother’s mail, Lycaon’s, fitting well His form. Around his shoulders then he hung His silver-studded sword, and stout, broad shield, And gave his glorious brows the dreadful helm, Dark with its horse-hair plume. A massive spear Filled his right hand. Meantime the warlike son Of Atreus clad himself in like array.