And, at that point, Laocoön came running, With a great throng at his heels, down from the hilltop As fast as ever he could, and before he reached us, Cried in alarm: ‘Are you crazy, wretched people? Do you think they have gone, the foe? Do you think that any Gifts of the Greeks lack treachery? Ulysses,-- What was his reputation? Let me tell you, Either the Greeks are hiding in this monster, Or it’s some trick of war, a spy, or engine, To come down on the city. Tricky business Is hiding in it. Do not trust it, Trojans, Do not believe this horse. Whatever it may be, I fear the Greeks, even when bringing presents.’ With that, he hurled the great spear at the side With all the strength he had. It fastened, trembling, And the struck womb rang hollow, a moaning sound. He had driven us, almost, to let the light in With the point of the steel, to probe, to tear, but something Got in his way, the gods, or fate, or counsel, Ill-omened, in our hearts; or Troy would be standing And Priam’s lofty citadel unshaken. Meanwhile, some Trojan shepherds, pulling and hauling, Had a young fellow, with his hands behind him, Tied up, and they were dragging him to Priam. He had let himself be taken so, on purpose, To open Troy to the Greeks, a stranger, ready For death or shifty cunning, a cool intriguer, Let come what may. They crowd around to see him, Take turns in making fun of him, that captive. Listen, and learn Greek trickiness; learn all Their crimes from one. He stopped in the middle, frightened and defenceless, Looked at the Trojan ranks,--‘What land, what waters, Can take me now?’ he cried, ‘There is nothing, nothing Left for me any more, no place with the Greeks, And here are the Trojans howling for my blood!’ Our mood was changed. We pitied him, poor fellow, Sobbing his heart out. We bade him tell his story, His lineage, his news: what can he count on, The captive that he is? His fear had gone As he began: ‘O King, whatever happens, I will tell the truth, tell all of it; to start with, I own I am a Greek. Sinon is wretched, Fortune has made him so, but she will never Make him a liar. You may perhaps have heard Rumors of Palamedes, son of Belus, A man of glorious fame. But the Greeks killed him,-- He was against the war, and so they killed him, An innocent man, by perjury and lying False witness. Now that he is dead they mourn him. My father, his poor relative, had sent me To soldier in his company; I was then Scarcely beyond my boyhood. Palamedes Held, for some time, some influence and standing In royal councils, and we shared his glory, But, and all men know this, Ulysses’ hatred, His cunning malice, pulled him down; thereafter I lived in darkness, dragging out a lifetime In sorrow for my innocent lord, and anger,