His foe's pride strook down with thy shaft, and he himself ascendThe flaming heap of funeral. Come, shoot him, princely friend;
But first invoke the God of Light, that in thy land was born,
And is in archers' art the best that ever sheaf hath worn,
To whom a hundred first-ew'd lambs vow thou in holy fire,
When safe to sacred Zelia's tow'rs thy zealous steps retire."
With this the mad gift-greedy man Minerva did persuade,
Who instantly drew forth a bow, most admirably made
Of th' antler of a jumping goat bred in a steep upland,
Which archer-like (as long before he took his hidden stand,
The evicke skipping from a rock) into the breast he smote,
And headlong fell'd him from his cliff. The forehead of the goat
Held out a wondrous goodly palm, that sixteen branches brought;
Of all which join'd, an useful bow a skilful bowyer wrought,
Which pick'd and polish'd, both the ends he hid with horns of gold.
And this bow, bent, he close laid down, and bad his soldiers hold
Their shields before him, lest the Greeks, discerning him, should
rise
In tumults ere the Spartan king could be his arrow's prise.
Mean space, with all his care he choos'd, and from his quiver drew,
An arrow, feather'd best for flight and yet that never flew,
Strong headed, and most apt to pierce; then took he up his bow,
And nock'd his shaft, the ground whence all their future grief did
grow.
When, praying to his God the Sun, that was in Lycia bred,
And king of archers, promising that he the blood would shed
Of full an hundred first-fall'n lambs, all offer'd to his name,
When to Zelia's sacred walls from rescu'd Troy he came,
He took his arrow by the nock, and to his bended breast [1]
The oxy sinew close he drew, ev'n till the pile did rest
Upon the bosom of the bow; and as that savage prise
His strength constrain'd into an orb, as if the wind did rise
The coming of it made a noise, the sinew-forgéd string
Did give a mighty twang, and forth the eager shaft did sing,
Affecting speediness of flight, amongst the Achive throng.
Nor were the blesséd Heav'nly Pow'rs unmindful of thy wrong,
O Menelaus, but, in chief, Jove's seed: the Pillager,
Stood close before, and slack'd the force the arrow did confer,
With as much care and little hurt, as doth a mother use,
And keep off from her babe, when sleep doth through his pow'rs
diffuse
His golden humour, and th' assaults of rude and busy flies
She still checks with her careful hand; for so the shaft she plies
That on the buttons made of gold, which made his girdle fast,
And where his curets double were, the fall of it she plac'd.
And thus much proof she put it to: the buckle made of gold;
The belt it fast'ned, bravely wrought; his curets' double fold;
And last, the charméd plate he wore, which help'd him more than
all,
And, 'gainst all darts and shafts bestow'd, was to his life a wall;
So, through all these, the upper skin the head did only race;
Yet forth the blood flow'd, which did much his royal person grace,
And show'd upon his ivory skin, as doth a purple dye
Laid, by a dame of Caïra, or lovely Mæony,
On ivory, wrought in ornaments to deck the cheeks of horse;
Which in her marriage room must lie; whose beauties have such force
That they are wish'd of many knights, but are such precious things,
That they are kept for horse that draw the chariots of kings,
Which horse, so deck'd, the charioteer esteems a grace to him;
Like these, in grace, the blood upon thy solid thighs did swim,
O Menelaus, down by calves and ankles to the ground.
For nothing decks a soldier so, as doth an honour'd wound.
Yet, fearing he had far'd much worse, the hair stood up on end
On Agamemnon, when he saw so much black blood descend.
And stiff'ned with the like dismay was Menelaus too,
But seeing th' arrow's stale without, and that the head did go
No further than it might be seen, he call'd his spirits again;
Which Agamemnon marking not but thinking he was slain,
He grip'd his brother by the hand, and sigh'd as he would break,
Which sigh the whole host took from him, who thus at last did
speak:
"O dearest brother, is't for this, that thy death must be wrought,
Wrought I this truce? For this has thou the single combat fought
For all the army of the Greeks? For this hath Ilion sworn,
And trod all faith beneath their feet? Yet all this hath not worn
The right we challeng'd out of force; this cannot render vain
Our stricken right hands, sacred wine, nor all our off'rings slain;
For though Olympius be not quick in making good our ill,
He will be sure as he is slow, and sharplier prove his will.
Their own hands shall be ministers of those plagues they despise,
