The Greks under the holinesse Anon with alle besinesse 1130 Here Hors of Bras let faire dihte, Which was to sen a wonder sihte; For it was trapped of himselve, And hadde of smale whieles twelve, Upon the whiche men ynowe With craft toward the toun it drowe, And goth glistrende ayein the Sunne. Tho was ther joie ynowh begunne, For Troie in gret devocioun Cam also with processioun 1140 Ayein this noble Sacrifise With gret honour, and in this wise Unto the gates thei it broghte. Bot of here entre whan thei soghte, The gates weren al to smale; And therupon was many a tale, Bot for the worschipe of Minerve, To whom thei comen forto serve, Thei of the toun, whiche understode That al this thing was do for goode, 1150 For pes, wherof that thei ben glade, The gates that Neptunus made A thousend wynter ther tofore, Thei have anon tobroke and tore; The stronge walles doun thei bete, So that in to the large strete This Hors with gret solempnite Was broght withinne the Cite, And offred with gret reverence, Which was to Troie an evidence 1160 Of love and pes for everemo. The Gregois token leve tho With al the hole felaschipe, And forth thei wenten into Schipe And crossen seil and made hem yare, Anon as thogh thei wolden fare: Bot whan the blake wynter nyht Withoute Mone or Sterre lyht Bederked hath the water Stronde, Al prively thei gon to londe 1170 Ful armed out of the navie. Synon, which mad was here aspie Withinne Troie, as was conspired, Whan time was a tokne hath fired; And thei with that here weie holden, And comen in riht as thei wolden, Ther as the gate was tobroke. The pourpos was full take and spoke: Er eny man may take kepe, Whil that the Cite was aslepe, 1180 Thei slowen al that was withinne, And token what thei myhten wynne Of such good as was sufficant, And brenden up the remenant. And thus cam out the tricherie, Which under fals Ypocrisie Was hid, and thei that wende pees Tho myhten finde no reles Of thilke swerd which al devoureth. Fulofte and thus the swete soureth, 1190 Whan it is knowe to the tast: He spilleth many a word in wast That schal with such a poeple trete; For whan he weneth most beyete, Thanne is he schape most to lese. And riht so if a womman chese Upon the wordes that sche hiereth Som man, whan he most trewe appiereth, Thanne is he forthest fro the trowthe: Bot yit fulofte, and that is rowthe, 1200 Thei speden that ben most untrewe And loven every day a newe, Wherof the lief is after loth And love hath cause to be wroth. Bot what man that his lust desireth Of love, and therupon conspireth With wordes feigned to deceive, He schal noght faile to receive His peine, as it is ofte sene.