He spake, and, rushing forward, seized the helm Of Paris by its horse-hair crest, and turned And dragged him toward the well-armed Greeks. Beneath His tender throat the embroidered band that held The helmet to the chin was choking him. And now had Menelaus dragged him thence, And earned great glory, if the child of Jove, Venus, had not perceived his plight in time. She broke the ox-hide band; an empty helm Followed the powerful hand; the hero saw, Swung it aloft and hurled it toward the Greeks, And there his comrades seized it. He again Rushed with his brazen spear to slay his foe. But Venus⁠—for a goddess easily Can work such marvels⁠—rescued him, and, wrapped In a thick shadow, bore him from the field And placed him in his chamber, where the air Was sweet with perfumes. Then she took her way To summon Helen. On the lofty tower She found her, midst a throng of Trojan dames, And plucked her perfumed robe. She took the form And features of a spinner of the fleece, An aged dame, who used to comb for her The fair white wool in Lacedaemon’s halls,