Yet, Menelaus, then the blessed gods, The deathless ones, forgot thee not; and first, Jove’s daughter, gatherer of spoil, who stood Before thee, turned aside the deadly shaft. As when a mother, while her child is wrapped In a sweet slumber, scares away the fly, So Pallas turned the weapon from thy breast, And guided it to where the golden clasps Made fast the belt, and where the corselet’s mail Was doubled. There the bitter arrow struck The belt, and through its close contexture passed, And fixed within the well-wrought corselet stood, Yet reached the plated quilt which next his skin The hero wore⁠—his surest guard against The weapon’s force⁠—and broke through that alike; And there the arrow gashed the part below, And the dark blood came gushing from the wound. As when some Carian or Maeonian dame Tinges with purple the white ivory, To form a trapping for the cheeks of steeds⁠— And many a horseman covets it, yet still It lies within her chamber, to become The ornament of some great monarch’s steed And make its rider proud⁠—thy shapely thighs,