Leaving his foe, he, facing Brava's lord, Thrust at the collar of his shirt of mail, All else beside the flesh the faulchion bored;
To pierce through which would every labour fail.
At the same time descends Orlando's sword, (Where Balisarda bites no spells avail)
Shears helmet, cuirass, shield, and all below, And cleaves whate'er it rakes with headlong blow;